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The Greatest Escape [MrAdam]

Robin...

Did anyone call him that any more? Not often. He had taken against it as a nickname as he'd moved into the second half of his teenage years. Perhaps it was when the truth dawned on him that talk of him being Duke 'some day' was not idle. He was growing up, and his father was growing older. And although in good health, there was no denying that he was older and his hair was greyer than the portraits of the warrior-duke with the flowing chestnut mane. It was one thing knowing that there would come a time - one day - when his father would no longer be around, but it was another knowing it. One day he would rule, and that day was no longer so far in the future as not to concern him. Or perhaps he was just going through a phase where he took himself far too seriously, thought himself an adult in all but name, and insisted that everyone call him 'Robert'. His friends had gradually fallen into line, and he was far from the only one among his fellows who wanted to shed a childhood name.

Soon after he was anointed Duke, he planned to carry out a mini-purge of those who might remember too much about 'Robin'. Master Pointon was already dead. Others in the household quietly retired on receipt of the customary bequests in the will of the former Duke. Robert wanted Maybell gone, but had been frustrated in his attempts by his mother, who stressed a need for continuity amidst so much change in the household. In spite of all of his threats, scrawled in his notebook, it was less a sense of personal animus towards her, more that she just knew and remembered too much. Overall, he had to grudgingly admit that she had done a difficult job well, or at least to the best of her abilities. But he needed to urgently reinvent himself, having not had the time he had hoped for a longer apprenticeship, and she was in the way.

His mother had followed his adolescent insistence on being 'Robert' as best she could, reserving 'Robin' for personal matters or when she had a particular point to make. He didn't think she had called him 'Robin' since her husband died. His sisters, Catherine and Elizabeth - and especially Elizabeth who still lived in the palace - used the name 'Robin' as a weapon to undercut his authority. His so-called authority. He had given Elizabeth more latitude in the question of her own marriage than their father would have done - their mother even said so - and yet she railed more against her brother than he ever would her father. But, as their mother asked Robert... how would you react if one of your sisters had a say in your marriage? There was a particular horror to that idea, and he tried to empathise. He'd not even bothered suggesting anyone she might regard as one of his friends or confidantes as a match, and his worry now was that his sister might set her sights on someone unsuitable to spite him.

It is said that every young person looks back with contempt and shame on their previous stage of development, only to develop a fondness and a nostalgia for it once another stage has passed and serves as a buffer. Perhaps Robert was now of an age where remembrance of his childhood and adolescent antics need not make him cringe and be a source of shame. Perhaps he should just decline to be embarrassed by anything he might have said or done before he was fully formed. Since Estelle returned - granted, less than an hour ago - he found his reminiscences more enjoyable than excruciating.

When Estelle called him Robin, he hesitated just for a moment. He almost spoke to correct her, but decided not to. Would it be so bad? Might it even be a good thing? And he was more interested in what she had to say than pedantry. And... he'd been calling her 'Leafy', had he not?

A slow smile of comprehension crossed his face, followed by a broad grin at the mention of her once-infuriating nickname for him. A reminder that he'd been called more demeaning names than 'Robin' in his time.

"Power corrupts. Absolute power corrupts absolutely. You wanted to see what time and power have done to me. I'm pleased that I've passed your test and you approve of what you find. Although... I'm not sure I've behaved entirely properly this evening... but neither have you! I'm still chirping, Leafy... more often and more loudly than ever, I'd say. And you're right about everything you've said - there are expectations on me, pressures, not all of which are realistic or compatible. I do feel it... the responsibility, the doubts, the balancing act. But the only thing worse than being the Duke is not being the Duke."

"You said I was yours until I had the sense to send you away. Right now, Leafy, I don't feel minded to send you away. And not just because the temptation to kiss you is starting to become overwhelming. Also because perhaps I need people around me to remind me that I am just a man, and that I'm flawed. You seem to have special talents in that area, and a lot of practice. Some accounts say that the Roman Emperors had someone to whisper, 'remember that you are mortal' in their ears. Perhaps you could do that for me. I've tried to forget being Robin... purging that from the record, seeing it as weakness, memories of me before I became me. Now I wonder if I need to be reminded."
 
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew they were running out of time. At some point, Robin had to show his face again and attend to his many duties that didn't disappear merely because he was hosting a party. She was aware of how precious the time he was giving her had to be, and yet that only made her want to cling all the more tightly to it. Being in his arms felt so natural, so refreshing after all the games she'd played with noblemen just like him. Measuring every look, touching only when it would provide the greatest effect — speaking of which, admitting out loud that he wanted to kiss her was torture she surely didn't deserve.

But she knew why he held back. If she kissed him now, her body hot with lust and indecent thoughts, she wouldn't be able to stop. It didn't matter that they were in a dim stairwell, or that a servant was certain to walk in on them. After all she'd experienced, what did it matter if her first coupling with him was in a ditch or a bed of rose petals?

There was no need to push him so far. He'd already invited him to his suite and made it clear he wanted to have her around. The form that would take wasn't quite clear — he spoke to her like the old friend she was, but a man and woman her age would never be seen as just friends. The desire between them was clear, the prospect of being a lover mutually beneficial with very little to lose.

Yet she couldn't quite make out what he thought of her. Oh, he'd made his opinion about common blood and a troubled past clear, but he still didn't know her circumstances. Somewhere in that fair head of his, was he toying with the idea of courtship? It had to be her pride and a demented sense of reality that would even make her consider it, but the woman before him now was undeniably a lady. She clearly had experience that a lady shouldn't, and that was one of many signs that he ought to trade carefully, but still! Part of her was desperate to imagine a world where, just for a moment, she could be his equally matched partner, a potential wife more than a temptation to be indulged like a snack.

Am I truly not past such nonsense? Quite what is this place going to dredge up from me? Estelle took a deep, slow breath, focusing on the rhythm of her breathing to calm herself. Relax.

"It's unkind to call my actions a test, but…" She pressed her guilty smile into his hair, unable to keep from getting distracted one again by him. Both of them were quite blond, but the distinct differences between them were obvious. His hair was luscious and thick, a shiny mane that could catch the light just right to become an almost strawberry tinted gold. Her own hair was much too fine (and easy to hold curls because of it), and in her youth it tended to fray with frustrating regularity. Under the same light, it was pale and downy, a murmur of moonlight against the bright reflection of the sun.

Was it wrong to be jealous of something so pedantic as his hair? She had to resist the urge to ruffle it, simply toying with the delightfully soft strands before smoothing it over again.

"A-anyway, I suppose it was something of the sort. But my overtures are nothing so grand as you make them out to be. I'm not a tyrant tamer, nor could I begin to pretend that I am qualified to guide anyone else's moral compass. I'm a selfish human being, a woman as much as you are a man, who saw the opportunity to put myself in your path and…" No, no, she couldn't speak of love. It was much too soon, too immature.

Truly, she was glad for her mask and for the fact that she was still cradling him against the slender curve of her neck and shoulder. "Well, let's just say that Robin was worth coming back for, and I certainly hope you aren't too harsh with him. I was a terrible maid indeed, but he was always a kind master, the sort I could devote my heart to. I was… very happy to be his comfort and his help. If I could be that again, I… is that something I can even ask?"

Estelle started to fidget in his arms, ruining the moment with prudence. "More importantly, you promised me tea."
 
A kind master. Words that resonated.

Not with reality. Robert doubted whether the Leafy of his recollection would ever have described him that way. Perhaps for a brief time when she had sat next to him after the picnic, too scared to eat any of the delicacies he was sharing from 'his' plate. But within the time it took to munch a macaron, she was calling him Sir-Chirps-a-Lot, and Twelve Gods knows what other avian epithets or plumaged puns. He pictured her mocking him in response to any suggestion that Robin might have mad that he was her master, telling him that he couldn't be her master if he couldn't win a wrestling match against her. And then she'd probably have called him by the most preposterous, overblown titles she could imagine for the rest of the day. Grand High Poohbah of all Creation. Chief King Robin, Uber Ultimate Emperor-of-Emperors.

Of course, how it seemed to him might not have been how it seemed to her. And how it seemed then might not be how it seemed now. Ultimately, Robert now knew, their friendship was at his discretion. He had 'summoned' her, so he could have dismissed her. Not from her job, perhaps, but from his friendship. But if he had been her master back them, he took comfort from the fact that she called him 'kind'. He hoped he had been... he hoped that he was capable of that when he was Robin, and hoped he would continue to be capable of that now he was Duke.

But those words... kind master... also resonated with fantasy.

Robin the bookworm had unfettered access to the library, and that included stories and histories and legends from all over the known world. He was encouraged to read widely, especially about kings and emperors and rulers and power. He couldn't help be fascinated by stories from the East. Tales of Caliphs and Viziers, magic, genies... and harems of beautiful, obliging young women. That particular detail did not escape Robin's adolescent imagination. His imaginings start to drift from thoughts about who he might marry, to who he'd have in his harem... that depended on how many he could have, obviously. If he permitted himself too many, it would be too easy to choose, and that was no fun.

His fantasy shortlists included daughters from all ranks of the nobility and cute servant girls alike. He started thinking about who was prettiest, but he found his criteria shifting after a slight (real or imagined) from a slightly older girl he thought had sneered at him. True, on looks alone she might not have made the cut, but it would be such fun to make her kneel before him, make her wear whatever scandalously skimpy outfit he chose for her, punishing her if she displeased him. He imagined making noblewomen who mistreated their pretty serving maids (with, say, a slipper or a riding crop) suffering similarly humiliating indignities at his avenging hands, while the maid watched approvingly... and adoringly. Estelle never made any of the lists... she was gone by this time, and he tended to try not to think about her in general. His thoughts never drifted to her, not because she hadn't been pretty, but because it felt wrong. Leafy was in a different category of girls, and not just because she - or at least his remembrance of her - was too young.

Of course, all this was just fantasy. In reality, the moment a Roman Emperor started helping himself to the wives and daughters of the rich and powerful, their sands of time were already running short. Also... a ruler must be focused, must be attentive. If he lost himself to alcohol, herbal intoxicants, pleasures of the flesh, he could not rule effectively. Just as importantly... fantasy was one thing, but Real Life Robin was not cruel. If presented with a gorgeous freshly bathed-and-scented virgin each night, like some of the emperors in the stories, anything less than enthusiastic, passionate participation and Emperor al-Robin bin Reynaux would never have forced the issue.

Robin was not in the least bit surprised to discover that some of the thoughts prompted by his reading were not unique to him. It made sense that it was a common fantasy... perhaps more so for those who were not, unlike him, rich, powerful, and considered passably handsome. Tales about exotic harems seemed fairly common, which indicated an avid readership. What was more surprising was when he learned that some women liked those ideas and stories too, liked to imagine themselves as beautiful slavegirls, sometimes enchanting and seducing the all-powerful emperor, sometimes living as his beloved pet, sometimes incurring his wrath. Or sometimes just elements of those stories to be brought into the bedchamber in isolation. All this had puzzled him a little, but at the time, he just added it to the long list of things that he found puzzling about women.

He had no idea whether that word master resonated with her in the same way, but between her previous promise of all the ways in which she could delight him, and being his comfort and help... well, it sounded like it was going to be a lot of fun finding out.

Robert was glad of Estelle's sudden conversational veer away from the question she couldn't quite bring herself to ask, because he wasn't entirely sure what she was asking, or how he should answer. She gave him the excuse to hide behind flippancy for a moment or two.

"One moment you're offering to be... what was it... 'comfort and help'... and the next you're demanding drinks from like I was your servant! Outrageous! Worst maid ever!" he grinned. "But we should leave this stairwell at some point. Refreshments will be served the moment it becomes discreet to do so, I have no doubt. Hopefully your tea will still be warm, though if we're here much longer, it may not be! Come with me to my balcony. It's an amazing view, and we can sit in comfort for a few moments at least before people will ask to join us. And some of them, eventually, I'll have to admit to my Ducal presence."

Sure enough, as soon as they set foot on the balcony, Connor arrived with drinks, which he served with a flourish and a bow and was gone within moments.

"You remember my sister, Elizabeth? The younger one? That's her, there" said Robert, indicating a striking young brunette, dressed in a sumptuous black-and-lilac dress with a matching mask. She was surrounded by young men (and two young women) holding court, each trying to outdo the other in wit and flattery and sparkling conversation. One scored a minor victory by making her - and the others - laugh at something he said.

"She'll refuse all offers to dance for a while yet. Treat them mean, and so on. The other girls with her are Rebecca and Amelia, her closest friends. The poor boys will need to impress them too to stand any chance. Oh look, there's my cousin Fabian - I told you about him and my open-ended promise. The girl he's with, that's Chantal. I don't think you ever met Fabian... I think he was only around more regularly after you... later."

Robert continued with a running commentary on the people and spectacle below. Every so often, someone would look up, there would be nudges and whispers. People trying to catch his eye in the hope of a wave of invitation that affected not to see.

"That question you were wondering if you could even ask" he said, suddenly, quietly. Almost a whisper, even though it was still only the two of them. "You can ask. When you're ready. But not here. And not while wearing a mask. That's not the kind of question you can ask or answer while wearing a mask."
 
Stepping back into the sparkling, near overwhelming light of the ballroom felt like crossing the threshold of a different world entirely. The elegant walls with their goldleaf accents, the magnificently arched ceiling, the pastel-hued flowers cut fresh for Spring-themed arrangements — she knew they hadn't changed, but everything felt brighter, louder, more oppressively opulent. Looking at it all from above, the fancy nobles seemed smaller and less important, drowned in the wealth and splendor of their host. Suddenly it was easy to see how a man could get carried away with himself, lording over such an estate.

A different kind of nervousness made her heart beat a little faster, her head a touch dizzy as she took it all in. The last time she'd been up in the duke's nest, she'd felt safe in her smallness, hidden away from adult troubles and responsibilities so she could simply look on at all the finery in awe. Perhaps it was here, when she'd watched a gentleman take his lady's hand and draw her close, that she'd started fantasizing about what it might feel like to be spun around the dancefloor with Robin.

It was still a bit hard to believe: how had that boy who made such faces at the idea of merely being in the same room as a group of girls turned into such a suave and worldly gentleman? What lucky young woman had introduced him to the pleasures of flirting and intimacy? Had he been dragged into courtship kicking and screaming, or did he find a taste for it on his own?

Thinking about him in such a way helped to calm her nerves, but she had to be careful. Complacency was a death sentence for a would-be mistress. Once the mystery died and the thrill of the chase had reached its climax, a man's attention was easily diverted to the next pretty thing. She didn't like the idea of putting Robin in that same category of genteel patrons, but the simple truth was that their attraction was still new and fleeting. Fresh in her mind was the image of Robert dancing with Charlotte, the woman innocently blushing while he beamed and chatted away.

Just when she resolved herself to do anything and everything to keep Robert's attention, however, the tea arrived. Nostalgia at the mere sight of that familiar porcelain struck her as if she were a young girl being reacquainted with her favorite baby blanket.

After all, not a servant in the duke's household knew the estate's teaware better than her. In her youth, she'd been struck by the exceptional beauty of the pieces, finding joy and girlish fascination in the same way children strike a tender fancy for dolls and figurines. Wonder grew into curiosity, and that had led her into the family's library where she could find books about tea culture and the incredible firing process that created such shiny, flawless pieces of art.

Where many found such things to be stuffy and bothersome, Estelle found a whole world to escape to. While it was true that the noble ladies were happy to exchange barbs over the pretense of teatime, she had always loved watching the Duchess among her peers. The woman had excellent taste and understood the joy of playing hostess, of ensuring every little detail was in place so others could feel important and at ease. Without her presence to soften and enhance the image of the former duke, he surely wouldn't have won the favor he'd needed to manage so much territory.

And now that memory was quite literally in her hands. Estelle handled her teacup on its saucer with something akin to reverence, tilting her head as she admired its delicate veins of flowers fired into a deep, glossy blue. This was soft-paste porcelain, delicate as a lady's glove and undoubtedly imported from abroad. Ah, and the aroma rising from the cup!

It was like a summer garden, notes of roses floating above the sumptuous, full-bodied scent of ripe cherries and raspberries. And then there was more! She couldn't recognize it, but there was something sweet and almost nutty, a temptation so great that she simply had to steal a sip.

The perfect mix of sweetness and fruity tartness hit her tongue, and for a moment, she quite forgot herself. Even the pleasant sound of Robert's voice was lost to her first swallow, and before she knew it, the cup was already half empty. She blinked, remembered to keep her posture straight, and demurely crossed one ankle behind the other before tucking her feet ever-so-slightly underneath the sofa. Back in the day, she'd once called such form 'the sitting mermaid,' which young Robin had insisted was silly. His mother's friends were peacocks and hens, not sirens from storybooks.

She was happy to merely listen, absorbing his observations and introductions. It should have been surreal, having such public attention from Robert himself, but his company was so comfortable. Seeing the world through his eyes was even more fascinating now that he'd matured and honed his keen insight even further. She took ample note of how he spoke about his sister, in on the games she played and how her friends were a part of it. He easily picked out his friend from the crowd and knew the name of the woman the man fancied — truly, even without his title, his attentiveness would have put him head and shoulders above the men she acquainted herself with among luxurious gentlemen's clubs.

And then, quite out of nowhere, he mentioned that little tidbit of a question she'd begun to pose earlier. Her cheeks warmed, and she reflexively dipped her chin as she answered him in kind. "Those are reasonable enough terms, I suppose. When you are ready, I will reveal anything of myself you desire."

Her tone became playful as she leaned a little closer. "After all, I don't believe we ever came to an agreement about a suitable punishment. I did mention that I'm not sorry in the least about tripping you up, didn't I? The gossip would have been much more entertaining if you'd fallen flat on your face."
 
I will reveal anything of myself you desire.

Robert knew that she probably meant that she would answer any questions he had, but his mind bypassed that interpretation and instead went to undressing at his command. The mask would be the first thing to, but definitely not the last. Unless... he bade her keep the mask on and leave it on until all her other garments had been shed. That would be all kinds of hot in general terms, but not with Estelle, or at least not this time. He certainly desired to gaze upon her naked form, but he also wanted to see her face too. Perhaps he could present it as a preference for postponing pleasure, but it also felt about objectifying, as if who she was didn't matter. But this was Leafy, so it did. Perhaps one for another time, when he had a greater sense of how transgressive he could be.

It was entirely possible... probable even... that she had meant the double meaning, especially as the next topic of conversation was her punishment for tripping him up. Or was it for declining a second dance? It was hard to keep up with the various pretexts and pretences flying around, especially when the truth that they... well... masked... was so enticing.

"I am not sorry you tripped me up, either" he answered, "As I said, I was wondering why you chose that somewhat obtuse angle of approach, but as a strategy to discern what kind of tyrant I had turned into... well, I have to respect the quality of the subterfuge. If I had had fallen... well, I'd have to hope that my personal guard did not consider it an attempt on my life. Masked balls make them nervous, you understand. Otherwise, I would probably have taken the fault upon myself, castigated my own clumsiness and lack of attention, and apologised profusely to you. I imagine the wits would talk of how the Duke had 'fallen' for a glamorous-but-mysterious masked stranger. The might speculate if I were 'head over heels' in love. I dare say that the wits of the court - and the half-wits - would have their sport. And I'd smile ruefully and grin, and because I don't take myself too seriously, I can just decline to be embarrassed."

"Or" he continued, smiling, "I could just have had you seized and quietly escorted to the dungeon and done unspeakable things to you, until you begged me not to stop. But the fact remains, you've been a very naughty girl, in addition to being a terrible maid. Whether that means you get to agree to your punishment, well, that's an open question. These things aren't usually negotiations. But for a first and serendipitous offence, I might be willing to make an exception and let you tell me what you think you deserve. If you're nice to me, of course."

A subtle clearing of the throat announced Connor's return. Connor cut an unusual figure. Although he could only be between five and ten years Robert's senior, he had the stillness, presence, mannerisms and the diction of a much older man. He was something of a young fogey. Service to the de Reynaux family was a tradition in Connor's. Robert liked him for his keen intelligence, subtle manner, and sly wit, and had promoted him in the reshuffle following his father's passing and the retirement of many of his personal retainers, including Connor's father.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, your grace" he said, addressing Robert, "...my lady" he continued, bowing to Estelle, "Only... Lady Beatrice is one of a number of noble... and dare I say formidable... ladies... who are anxious to know whether your grace intends to.... grace the dance further with your presence, or whether you intend merely to observe proceedings. A number of other ladies and gentlemen of the court, visitors, honoured guests, are desirous of the honour of conversing with you on..... a diverse range of matters of varying degrees of importance and urgency. I thought you might also want to know that Sir Fabien and Lady Chantal would like an audience. I know the noble knight is not foremost in the formal ranking of the nobility, but I dare to say may be so in your affections, your Grace."

"Various prospective mothers-in-law and would-be future brides want me to dance with or near them, and want to know whether that's going to happen, or whether they should lower their sights or go home. Some of my guests who have travelled to be here feel snubbed, and that my entertainment isn't entertaining enough without me personally entertaining them. And my cousin has some news for me. Is that a fair summary?"

"More or less, your grace" said Connor, deadpan, "it is not my place to say, but in the interests of full disclosure, I believe there to be a number of would-be mistresses also, your grace."
"Surely not?" Robert asked, mock-outraged, "I'll have no such immorality in my court. Outrageous."
"Indeed so, your grace."

"Tell the harpies that I will be dancing later... in half an hour, perhaps. Show Fabien and Chantal up to the balcony via the side stairs in a few minutes, I'll see them both, but tell Fabien that I'm too busy taking his advice to spare him much time. He'll understand. Indicate to my honoured guests that I can meet them to discuss weighty matters from tomorrow afternoon and the following day. I can meet them to discuss frivolous matters once I've met with Fabien and Chantal. We'll open up the balcony after that."
"As you wish, your grace."

Connor turned to depart. Robert noticed that his wine glass had been refilled without him noticing Connor doing it. That man moves in mysterious ways, he thought.

"We have a little longer, just the two of us. I should very much like you to stay with me, but I may not be able to pay you as much attention as I'd like. At least until after the ball, and then I'm literally all yours."
 
Estelle was surprised as much as delighted by Robert's reaction to her confession — he was so eloquent, using humor to dilute the fright of being seized by a guard and recognizing the thrill of his small downfall in a way that only made his theoretic sacrifice more noble. Hidden somewhere in her jibe was a touch of unrepentant meanness: part of her had seen his winsomeness, his excellent fortune, and childishly wanted him to have just a sliver of misfortune. Had he proven to be a pompous, overbearing man, she could have celebrated a small victory, but now that she was basking in Robin's ever-chivalric warmth, what lingered instead was guilt.

And then he had to go and incite her imagination all over again. Iron manacles simply wouldn't do! She imagined herself in delicate silver chains, her arms suspended above her head while the vengeful duke toyed with her slender, naked curves. Perhaps he'd abuse her flexibility, hiking one of her legs so far up her ankle rested atop his shoulder. Then he'd lean closer, a velvety whisper in her ear as his fingers shamelessly dug into her vulnerable sex. Perhaps he'd wonder aloud how many marbles he might fit into such a tight space, or tell her she'd be free to go if only she didn't succumb to the pleasure of his fingertips grazing her delicate little pearl.

For the second time that evening, she was startled by the forceful excitement the mere thought of him could conjure. Beside him on the sofa, her knee slid just far enough to graze his. Her hand was even more subtle, hidden between the two of them as her fingers curled against the side of his thigh, catching against those immaculately white trousers.

She saw his answer to her talk of punishment for what it was, an open invitation to feel out at least one of her intimate desires. What would she confess for the reward of having him do it to her? She was uncharacteristically nervous at the idea of sharing any of her fantasies, quite unaccustomed to such attentions. When one of her patrons wanted her, they simply took as they desired and she answered them with a price.

Before she could awkwardly begin explaining herself, however, Connor thankfully interrupted them. Estelle reflexively leaned back, hands innocently clasped in her lap as Robert transitioned seamlessly from pleasure to business.

His father would be proud, she decided, more than satisfied with his son's decisive, sensible nature. He had so many people to please in many different ways, but such matters seemed to be well in hand. What she found hard to bear, however, was the way he continually expressed concern for her while he divided his attention. He may very well not care about her bastardized lineage, but the rest of the court certainly did. On top of that, the means by which she'd arrived there at his side… could it truly be dismissed as a necessary sort of devilry?

Regardless of how he would react, the proverbial eleventh hour had arrived for Estelle. She was certain that the rumor of Baron Lineham's distant cousin had spread well beyond containment. Everyone loved a good gossip, and who wanted the spotlight more than the pariahs he'd introduced her to? They'd share every juicy detail and add even more spice to the pot. Imagine, the duke stealing the baron's only option for marriage! The poor country wench was certain to get her heart broken before crawling back into the baron's generous arms.

What were the chances that Robert's friend hadn't heard at least some of it? He might very well be on the verge of inadvertently revealing the duplicity to Robert, who would then be obliged to either lie to his friend or press Estelle for the truth. And once the truth was slipped out to the court at large, what then? Her little lie wouldn't remain white for long, dragging Robert down to the level of Madame Désirée, the fool who thought she could pretend to be a noble without being incriminated. Even worse, what would happen if her alter ego was finally connected to Estelle, the bastard daughter of a count?

This was the price of her pride. If she'd approached Robert in private, if she'd explained everything up front instead of courting him as this strange mix of being his equal and his maid of the past, she could have avoided such complications entirely.

But then she wouldn't be sitting beside him being doted upon in the vibrant airs of the ballroom. Surely, she never would have entertained the idea of being introduced to Robert's noble friends, speaking fondly of the old days and laughing over all the things their generous duke surely wanted to forget. Now that the dream had finally started to split at the seams, what would she do? The truth, or rather, the lie, was about to be exposed one way or another. When she looked to Robert, his gentle, inviting smile, it came to her in an instant.

"How could I complain when you offer me the choicest part of your evening?" She forced one of her perfect, plastic smiles. "I'll forgive you, however, if you end up changing your mind. When the timing is perhaps a little better, I'll tell you what I think I deserve."

Without warning or leave, she set aside her precious teacup and stood. "For now, I think the time has come for me to make myself scarce. It's for the best that I make no introductions and that you forget Estelle. Just… until the end of the ball. It's really quite important, perhaps even moreso for your sake."
 
Robert thought he noticed Estelle shift a little next to him in response to all this talk of dungeons and punishments, but it could have been his imagination. And even if it wasn't, it might not have meant what he thought it might mean. Having said that, he'd threatened her with a spanking earlier, and she'd... well, she'd bantered with him about it, rather than fleeing or slapping his cheek. The image of Estelle draped over his knee, skirts in disarray, getting a good hard spanking, had popped into his head before he knew she was Estelle, and the fact that she was Estelle didn't appear to have shifted it. Except add the detail that he'd probably need that slipper.

When she stood to leave, Robert opened his mouth to object, to protest, to insist that she did not leave his side. And then he closed it again.

Unfortunately, she was right. It was best that she left his side. For now. How would he introduce Estelle? Explain her? There would have been nothing wrong or even especially unusual about him having a beautiful girl by his side during a ball or social event, someone who'd caught his eye and whose company he was enjoying. This would inevitably provoke gossip and comment and speculation. That was fine. Or it would have been fine if the girl wasn't - largely - a mystery. He knew who she had been, but he wasn't entirely sure who she was now.

He could hardly introduce her as his former kitchen maid. And for some reason, he didn't feel like he wanted to introduce her just as a long-lost friend from his childhood, and obfuscate the details. That felt like something secret and precious, just for them, and not a morsel to be thrown into the ravenous maw of gossip for everyone and anyone to chew over. If, rather than being Leafy, the girl who'd caught his eye had been the second daughter of Baron Thingy of Wossname, that might have been different. Even those unacquainted with Thingy and unable to locate Wossname on a map would have something of answer about her identity and pedigree. That would have been enough of an answer for some, and for others it would be enough to start rooting out more truffles of information. Robert did not have the luxury of making vague claims about childhood friends, since a great many people knew about his childhood friends - at least from his teenage years - or knew who to ask about them. Robert doubted there was space for a mystery friend who no-one remembered.

It would also make it much, much easier for Robert to fulfil his duties. It would be taken ill if he was seen to be snubbing his guests, and it would be taken ill if he was seen as unwilling to meet - and dance with - the daughters of the nobility. It wasn't even that they were all being paraded before him as marriage-bait or even had hopes in that direction. His mother had once explained to him that for ladies from 'backwater' nobility and the higher ranks of the gentry, the story of the time they/their daughter danced with the dashing Duke would be told and retold. In some circles, a few crumbs of conversation from his table would be enough for a feast. Evidence of his approval or favour could increase their marriage prospects... though Robert was never quite sure how. When he was younger he had once expressed a preference for spending much of the ball in one of the balconies with Fabien and others of his inner set, spending the evening eating, drinking, talking and laughing. His mother had shamed him out of his intention by painting a picture of disappointed young women having to travel all the way back home... sad, glum faces on a long, uncomfortable journey, and the story spreading the Duke's heir was too high and mighty and spoilt to spare even a moment of his time. Never neglect the provinces, his father had always said, the price of attention is low and the cost of neglect is high.

There was also the family story about how his mother had at first thought his father to be just another uncultured, oafish sword-noble after an advantageous marriage into the Imperial family. Until she saw him dancing with a young noblewoman who had a number of prominent birthmarks or blemishes on her face, arms, neck, and presumably elsewhere too. There were enough proper gentlemen around such that she was never entirely neglected at balls, but his father had been one of a relative few who danced with her properly. Giving her his full attention, rather than treating her as a charity case, looking over her shoulder for a better prospect for next time. And his mother had noticed. Give your dance partner your full attention, no matter who they are, as they deserve nothing less. And you never know might be watching, his mother always said. His father - for his part - used to annoy her when the story was retold by saying that he found the girl very comely. When Robert was Robin, it would be her eyes or her smile or voice he'd complement. When Robert was older and the story was retold, he instead just mimed an hourglass shape and winked at him, muttering something about fireplaces and mantelpieces.... to Robert's absolute horror.

Dancing was serious business.

Estelle was right about her departure making things easier for him. He felt relieved that she'd offered, because he wouldn't have been able to bring himself to send her away. Nevertheless... the prospect of her absence filled him with a strange kind of worry. Might she vanish again? Be whisked away from him? Change her mind or lose her nerve about the whole thing? He wasn't sure that these were entirely rational fears... she'd said that there was no-one waiting for her... no, she'd said no-one significant, which wasn't the same thing at all.

"I... I think you're probably right, I'm sorry to say. Only... don't just vanish on me again, okay?" he said. Robert intended that to be a light-hearted comment, teasing or joking, but it came out sounding much more earnest than he'd intended. As if he was genuinely worried about that possibility... which he was. He cleared his throat and tried again, and this time his words and tone were more cooperative at carrying his intentions. It occurred to him that, if she really had no-one of significance waiting for her and if he was her goal all along, she might not want to return to the ball to be by herself. Especially with her mother and her sister around.

"You're still my guest, of course. Please feel free to enjoy the Ball... or if you'd rather somewhere quieter to hide from the harpies, Connor can arrange it. I'm sure he can find someone to open up the library if that would be preferable. If you can't find me when the Ball is at an end, find Connor or ask another servant for him. I'll try to find you myself as soon as I can, but I might be waylaid. Connor will escort you to my chambers."

Robert stood, took Estelle's hand in his and kissed it, bowing his best courtly bow, his manner and tone formal, but with a grin on his face.
"It's a great pleasure to make your re-acquaintance, Lady Estelle."
 
"The pleasure is mine, Your Grace. I very rarely say this, but your company surpasses even the delight of such excellent tea." Estelle couldn't help but smile — a real, tenderly happy curve to her lips as he kissed her hand. He was a vision when playing the role of Good Duke, and so very dear when he was nothing more than Robin.

She, however, was a devil and would greedily take everything he gave her. Rather than removing her hand from his, she slid her fingers further up, taking hold of his wrist. With a simple little twist, she flipped his hand over as she curtseyed, knowing full well with her back to the rest of the room that no one would see her indecency. As she dipped forward, ever the graceful woman of mystery, she pressed a decadent kiss into the center of his warm, open palm. She let her lips linger, going so far as to place a feather-light kiss upon his wrist before she straightened at last.

He'd hesitated to let her leave, that was obvious, and she wanted to believe everything that had passed between them, spoken and unspoken. He was a sensible man, a protective friend, and surely wouldn't be quick to think the worst of her. If nothing else, he'd give her the chance to explain herself. She had to believe that much or stepping away would be impossible.

Daintily plucking up part of her long, gossamer skirt, she turned around and headed for the balcony's exit. She couldn't quite help turning back around at the last moment, the cascading curls of her bun bouncing over her shoulder as she did. "I won't vanish again, you have my word. I could never forgive myself if I didn't stay long enough to enjoy House de Reynaux's hors d'oeuvres."

True to her word, it wasn't long before Estelle appeared on one of the ballroom's terraces. It seemed wiser to avoid the dance floor for a time, particularly since she'd spotted the baron down there not so long ago. To keep her mind off the panic starting to build the moment she left Robert's side, why not indulge in those excellent treats? She dearly hoped the eclairs were as she remembered, forged from the ovens of the duchy's finest pâtissiers.
 
Robert let Estelle turn his hand over, intrigued. As she kissed his palm and then his wrist, he raised an eyebrow and grinned. Nice move.

He had a scandal-hiding-in-plain sight move of his own. He'd not only kiss the hand of a certain fair maiden, he'd also give it a quick lick. It was over and done so quickly that often the lucky recipient would still be trying to work out if he'd really done it, or whether it was their imagination. Which Robert would either then answer with an angelic expression as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, or raise an eyebrow, or with a quick wink. But Lady Estelle deserved the proper, respectful treatment. He admired her move, though, and filed it away for potential future use himself. Don't release the fingers, turn the hand over... nice move.

Estelle turned around to make her parting comment to find Robert watching her intently, his eyes flicking up to hers a microsecond too late.
"That's funny" he said, "I don't remember you enjoying any House de Reynaux h'orhders when last you were here!"

It was a terrible stretch of a pun, the kind so strained you could pull or sprain something while making it. But it seemed a safe enough note on which to part company. For now. And Robert always liked puns.

Now alone, Robert reached for his drink and slumped back into the sofa with a long sigh, resting his feet on a low table. His mother hated it when he did that, but he was Duke now, and he had a few precious moments alone. He took a sip and sunk further in the luxurious cushions, and tipped his head right back, closing his eyes. He could hear the music and the happy hum of conversation from the ballroom below, but right now, he was alone, and from the seat he'd chosen was more than partially hidden to prying eyes below.

What to make of what had just happened? It was a delight to see Leafy again, and a delight to meet the woman she'd grown up into. A woman who had offered to delight him in every way she could. He had a lot of questions... where she'd been, why she was back now, what she wanted. He had fragments of answers... that she wanted to return, to be with him again, to be whatever he wanted or needed. Robert remembered two pieces of wisdom that Master Pointon had taught him. First, anything that seems too good to be true, is too good to be true. Second, don't rush to judgement on the basis of incomplete information, unless a rushed judgement is necessary. A rushed judgement did not feel necessary. He thought it unlikely that Estelle had just woken up one day and decided to return, or at least return to see what kind of man Robin had become. No. Something had happened.

Two things were clear. First, on the basis of their former friendship, he owed her a debt of gratitude of some sort. Secondly... mask or no mask, she was beautiful, and he wanted her. Or at least, one part of his brain did. The other was still getting used to the idea... the idea of Leafy would need mental refiling from the childhood friend category to current crush category to current paramour, and that transfer might take a bit of time to go through the cerebral bureaucracy. But... incomplete information. No need to rush to a judgement. One piece of information was his own reaction... he felt joy at seeing her. And excitement about seeing more of her, literally and metaphorically. He remembered what Fabien had said.

And then remembered that duty called.

* * * * * *

Robert was amused to notice that there was a gap of a few minutes between the time that he saw Conner leading Fabien and Chantal towards the spiral staircase and Fabien and Chantal appearing at the top of said staircase. And when they did appear, there was something of a flush about them. They were practically glowing. As if they had just become a couple - in their own heads, at least - in the last few hours. Which was because they had. Fabien was seldom if ever lost for words, but it looks as if learning just how much his intended had been repressing her feelings for him had been a bit of a revelation. Chantal, on the other hand, could barely stop talking. A blush of pleasure on her pixie-cute features and a gleam in her eyes.

Robert had been romantically linked with Chantal by the court gossips on a number of occasions, though more through speculation than any actual evidence or rumour. For Robert, though, there was no advantage of any kind with an alliance with the de Marboux family, other than the fact that their ambitions for preferment and influence after any marriage could not be that high. Lady Chantal was one of a number of very pretty sisters, but suitable male heirs were at something of a premium among the extended de Marboux clan. The connection would enable her sisters and cousins to marry well, but they were already in high demand. But it would have been a perfectly satisfactory 'internal' marriage for Robert that would have left him stronger. But although Chantal ticked a lot of boxes - she was beautiful, funny, sweet natured, smart, wise, good company - Robert had just never been attracted to her for reasons he couldn't quite explain, and he was pretty sure that feeling was mutual. He would have said she was more like a sister, but he had sisters, and she wasn't like them at all.

Chantal was almost bubbling over with gratitude and pleasure and excitement. Robert had to make quite some effort to bring her back towards hailing distance with reality. He explained - with a twinkle in his eye - that his cousin Fabien was a wastrel and scoundrel, and she could do much better. And that therefore while he would be willing to be generous when it came to wedding gifts and so on, there were limits to what he could give Fabien now. And that her father needs to understand this and be reasonable with his expectations. Tell him not to get greedy, he said. Chantal agreed, and seemed confident that Robert's favour alone would go a long way. Especially, she said, if he would be his cousin's best man. She said she could persuade her father, and that he was a reasonable and sensible man. Robert knew Count de Marboux as a stern man, stubborn, but movable by argument and pragmatism. But he wouldn't be the first man of iron who was wrapped around the little finger of one or more of his daughters. But, Robert insisted, Fabien still needed to speak to him first.

Robert dismissed the couple by warning them not to abuse the hospitality of his stairwell for kissing and canoodling for too long on the way down, as he was expecting more guests soon. They had the decency to look a little sheepish before taking their leave, Chantal more than Fabien.

Alone once more, Robert felt a peculiar cocktail of emotions. He was happy for his friends. He was... jealous was the wrong word, because he didn't want Chantal for himself, and because he begrudged neither of them an iota of their happiness. Perhaps it reminded him of Lucie, and how - fleetingly and wrongly - he'd felt about her. Or how someone he'd used to be felt about her... it was hard to imagine himself back into that state of mind where wishful thinking had blinded him to so much. But, he reminded himself, he had his own pleasures to look forward to... these two may be head over heels in love, but there was something to be said for being head over heels in lust, too. Fabien and Chantal would have to steal kisses where they could, but unless they were astonishingly reckless, they'd be sleeping alone. Which Robert was not anticipating doing.

The issue of Fabien and Chantal's marriage was something that Robert had felt especially ill-prepared for. His father's death had been sudden and unexpected, and although Robert had been educated, trained, and groomed for power, that training was not complete. But whereas Robert had felt more confident in the impersonal aspects of ruling - dispute resolution, awarding high offices, developing the legal code, trying to get his academy project off the ground, his road improvement programme, balancing the books - it felt odd to have so much power and influence over his friends' happiness. Fabien were more or less of an age, Chantal a year younger. And yet here he was, sitting in judgement, arbitrating - or trying to - making offers, giving instructions. He doubted this would be over without a more or less difficult conversation with Count de Marboux, a man as old as his father had been, his senior in age and experience. A man who, not so very long ago, he would have found deeply intimidating. And now he would talk to him as an equal... more than that, as Duke, Robert was technically his liege lord.

It was all so odd, so surreal. He ought to be much more nervous of that encounter than he was. And yet, he was discovering that he acted like a Duke, people treated him like one.
 
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Estelle was amid the strangest sort of limbo, torn between the heaven that was delicious treats and the promise of Robin's company and the hell of waiting for what his judgment would ultimately turn out to be. While she had her fill of creamy fig bites, lemon-mushroom crostini, strawberry cream trifles, and so many more little treasures, she kept glancing toward the balcony, wondering what it was Robert might be discussing. He seemed quite at ease, but then he was always smiling and at ease. She didn't doubt that some found him weak for such outward emotion, but she also didn't doubt they were even more puzzled than she was when it came to figuring out what was going through his mind and what he was inclined to do next.

Like Robert, however, her quiet interlude was doomed to be quickly interrupted. As she was eyeing a plate of macarons, one of the older women approached her. She had the incredible quality of smiling while still scowling with her eyes, and her intent was obvious. Clearly, someone had to put the mystery of Miss Lineham to bed before actual damage was done to the marriageable prospects of all the daughters present.

"Miss Lineham, I presume? I cannot help but notice that your chaperone is not present. It must be a frightening thing indeed, to be so suddenly introduced to the palace and its court without a proper guide."

Estelle all but beamed at the woman's harsh tone, taking a moment to decide how she wanted to address the situation — clearly, it was a faux pas to abandon the baron so she might find herself in the path of other gentleman. In truth, she was still a little drunk on all the grandeur, of being beautiful and spoiled with every good thing. She could be anything she wanted, say anything she liked, for this would be the first and last time she ever got to make a public appearance among the nobility she had always been denied.

"Oh, my good lady, I am too full of delight and wonder to be afraid. With such watchful eyes upon me, I shall only be my best self, you may rest assured." Estelle dipped into a small curtsey, the picture of countryside innocence despite the stunning dress she wore. "You must forgive my ignorance, being so new to all of this, but I fear you are more familiar with me than I am you."

The woman bristled, annoyed that the subtlety of her barbs should find such barren ground. "I am Lady Edeva Fernsby, a name you should remember well. It was my daughter His Grace was about to dance with before he so unfortunately tumbled over you."

"It was terrifying!" Estelle grasped at her necklace, the perfect veneer of worry upon her lips. "I'm so sorry to have come between anyone, but he insisted that he dance with me as an apology for quite nearly knocking me off my feet. I couldn't refuse, but I daresay the delight of his dancing and the goodness of his company more than made up for it all. It escapes me entirely how he is yet unmarried. Surely there are many dance partners of his caliber, at the very least!"

Lady Fernsby narrowed her gaze, not taking well to Estelle's implications. "Do not be drawn in by that gentle, winsome smile of his. He has always been amicable to the ladies of the court, but he has always kept himself distant. Sharing a dance and a private audience with him is nothing more than a gesture of politeness."

Estelle was immediately reminded of a good, hard spanking and had to keep her smile in check. "Is that so? He seemed a little more than polite to me."

The woman's eyes quite bulged — she'd achieved the perfect level of vagueness, allowing the woman to fill in the gaps with anything she pleased. What did 'more than polite' mean between a man and a woman when left alone for just a few minutes? "Precisely what part of Lineham's negligible estate have you been hiding away in? The timing of your appearance, just as His Grace is finally starting to move past the departure of Lady Lucie and take over the dukedom… it's all quite fortuitous."

"Is it? He made no mention of Lady Lucie, so I cannot speak toward his feelings on the matter." Estelle let Lady Fensby's insult go unaddressed — why, it was really quite a compliment, being suspicious that a woman like herself could have anything at all to do with Lineham. She was much more interested in digging into this Lady Lucie, and nothing baited an old, crotchety woman like gossip.

"Oh, they were practically on the verge of marrying. He was obviously smitten with her, so much so not a single other woman seemed to exist to the man. It was an incredible match, too, a foreign dignitary with Imperial blood vying for the hand of the kingdom's strongest duke. One day she appeared with much fanfare and elegance, and the next she was gone with rumors of her handsome knights turning her relationship with the duke sour. One might be inclined to believe that His Grace is better off with established, trustworthy bloodlines the court is familiar with."

Established, trustworthy, and familiar to the right people — all the things the Linehams were not. Estelle had to agree, truth be told. No one of any sense would link their family to a man with such poor manners, middling wealth, and terrible gambling habits. Countryside Estelle, however, knew nothing of her husband-to-be's bad habits, and was only just now exploring her options. She was too new to it all to know better, having faith that anyone of noble birth with a good heart could be worthy of the duke.

"I could never presume when it comes to love. His loss is a cruel one, and I think the court as a whole should be happy to see him smile again — regardless of who or what brings out that tenderness." Estelle flashed another wholesome smile, satisfied when the other woman was left stumbling over her own pettiness. Few battles were harder to fight than those against optimistic ignorance.

Where one harpy was bound to attack, others were sure to follow. It wasn't long before Estelle started to regret not secreting herself away in Robert's library. Everyone wanted to know her secrets, every detail of her relation to Lineham and how she had captured the duke's attention. It should have been frightening, overwhelming, but countryside Estelle was a breath of fresh air. Her sweet mannerisms dulled the insults lobbied against her, and her innocent curiosity invited others to speak in her stead. She heard all about the time Robert presented a rose to a young lady who'd injured her foot while dancing, and he'd even taken the time to sit with her until she was laughing at an awful shoe pun.

Countryside Estelle also had plenty to exchange about fashion, giggling at the idea of her ensemble being far too risqué for the ballroom. She was careful about her critiques in turn, gently turning Miss Blakely away from the idea of more gold necklaces — the woman's skin was not complimented by the extra red the coloring tended to draw out. Miss Dalton was shyer and insecure, and all she needed was a nudge toward some red or purple fabric with extra attention on her waist, not her bustline to bring out the full curves of her figure.

It wasn't so bad, really, dealing with the ladies amid lovely food and music. They shared the same pain over how hard it was to eat elegantly and how fickle the attentions of gentlemen were. Were it not for the continual barbs trying to shove her beneath their high status and expectations, it would have been a lovely time reminiscent of dinners and card games spent among her fellow dancers and performers.

Perhaps it had only been a matter of time before the baron would find her. She'd been hoping that he'd catch wind of the situation and cut his losses — she was obviously aiming to become the duke's mistress and had quite successfully stolen his full attention. There was nothing more to be said or done on his part, surely, except perhaps to drink off the loss. He could easily find some other poor woman who only wished to avoid the workhouse if he was truly so desperate for an heir.

But no, the man had far too much pride. She watched him approach from afar, an unsightly glower on his face. The women promptly made way for him, eyes keen to see the drama of a spurned man unfold. Before he could speak or lay a hand upon her, she promptly spoke.

"Ah, dear Mr. Lineham. We simply cannot cease speaking about you, it would seem. Perhaps we ought to take a turn around the ballroom?"

The man's scowl only deepened, not liking her taking charge in the least. "Yes, we should. I'm quite put out by your disappearance. Quite put out."
 
"Won't you do the honour of one more waltz, darling?" Fabien asked his somewhat breathless beau.
"No!" laughed Chantal, "I told you already! I need to catch my breath!"
"We'll have to work on your stamina" answered Fabien, raising an eyebrow.
Chantal laughed and swatted at him. "Nothing wrong with my stamina, Sir Knight. You try waltzing in these shoes and in this dress and see how you get on!"
"I'm thinking of you waltzing without that dress now, Chanty"
She swatted him again. "You're such a pig!"
Then, leaning close, sultry, into his ear. "Black and silky, in case you're wondering"
"What?"
Her only answer was a grin, a wink, and a downward glance at her dress.
The penny dropped, but she'd spun away, laughing, delighted by her own daring and the look on his face.

That movement carried her away from the ballroom floor itself and towards areas set aside for refreshment and more sedate mingling. Chantal took a tall glass of sharbat from a servant and took a gulp while Fabien had to move a little further to track down an ale. With practised ease, Chantal avoided eye contact - without seeming to do so deliberately - with two young men who would doubtless have wanted to dance. Instead, she threw in her lot with a small group of young women of similar age of her acquaintance, greeting those she knew, intending to use them as cover. By the time Fabien returned to her side, one of her friends had started telling a genuinely interesting story about someone who may or may not have deliberately stumbled into the Duke's path and nearly tripped him up. The story had clearly become exaggerated to the point at which it sounded more like she had physically tackled him off his feet.

Although the story held Chantal's attention, Fabien's gaze was instead drawn to another woman, wearing an extremely elegant light blue dress, which hugged a figure that could more than stand up to the scrutiny. A translucent skirt gave a tantalising suggestion of shapely thigh. He knew her from somewhere, but couldn't place her. And the mask, of course, didn't help. She was confidently holding court. He was perplexed that he couldn't place her... he prided himself on a more than passable working knowledge of beautiful young women at court. And her place in the conversation made him think she was unlikely to be from the distant provinces.

"Hey!" pouted Chantal, digging him in the ribs with her elbow. Looking round, Fabien saw that the temporary coterie was fracturing, beaus and would-be beaus rejoining or pouncing. He'd missed something. "Take me dancing before Sir Creepy comes over! Even respectfully declining him is icky!"
She took his arm to claim him, and to claim him claiming her for the next dance.

Chantal's gaze followed the direction he'd been looking.
"Heyy!!" she repeated, again, accusatory, but only half serious.
"Who's that? I think I recognise her, but I'm not sure... she looks familiar, but I can't place her" Fabien added hurriedly.
Sceptical, Chantal glanced over. "No, I don't know her" she was forced to admit, "Don't think I've seen her before".

Oh. Oh. Lady... ah. Oh dear.

Fabien had seen her before. Or someone very like her. He wasn't sure what she'd be doing here, at the Duke's ball. But he was sure that he needed to change the subject before too many questions could be asked... questions which he feared may not present him in the best of lights.

"Time to save my darling from Sir Creepy's clutches. Especially if you're wearing-"
"Shhh!" hushed Chantal, though no-one could hear, swatting him again.

* * * * * * * * *

"You will forgive me, your grace, if I break your injunction on all but frivolous matters", said the Count de Marboux, half growling. It was a statement, not a question.
Duke Robert nodded gravely, "Of course, my dear Count. Shall we?"
He indicated a quieter corner of the balcony with some easy chairs that - by convention - formed the inner sanctum. The Count nodded and stepped that way, but remained standing, his arms folded.

The Count looked out onto the ballroom, and caught sight of his daughter dancing with the scoundrel. He growled again.
"You know what this is about?" he demanded.
"I try never to make assumptions, but I presume this pertains to your second daughter and my cousin."
"You presume correctly. There has been altogether too much presuming going on, if I may speak frankly."
"You may do me that honour, if you will grant me the same privilege"
"Of course. I am led to believe that you are encouraging the potential match"
"I am"
"May I ask why?" the Count demanded.
"They are fond of each other. Very fond. I'm honoured to count them both as friends. I think they would be a good match and forge a strong and happy union. I take it you have ... reservations?"
"My daughter Chantal is one of the most beautiful and accomplished women at court..."
"She is" interjected Robert, hands raised as if in surrender.
"Your cousin is a scoundrel and a wastrel who presumes on your good name and favour."
"He is. He has" Robert confirmed, smiling.

This appeared to throw the Count, who was expecting disagreement.
"So..."
"He's my favourite cousin. I am likewise fond of Chantal. When it comes to wedding gifts, I am likely to be minded to be generous"

The Count shook his head, offended
"Do you think that is what this is about?" he demanded, "Money? Land? Titles?". He belatedly realised that he was talking too loudly, and lowered his volume and moderated his tone.
"No. If Fabien was the eldest son of the Emperor himself, I'd be saying the same thing."
"But then, why-"
"He does not deserve my daughter's hand."
"Ah, but who does?"
"You."
"What?"
"If anyone does, it's you."
Robert looked confused. "No, I.... I don't follow"
"Are you pushing for this marriage to spare your own feelings? Out of some misplaced sense of loyalty to your cousin? Don't be a fool. Let me say no. I will play the villain of the piece. Your cousin will be similarly fixated on someone else next week. Chantal will get over it in time, and then you can marry her."

Robert blinked. "Genuinely, I...."
The Count watched Robert's puzzled expression gradually turn into surprise and a little alarm.
"I mean... I'm honoured, but.... but no, that's not what's happening here."
"You said-"
"I know what I said about her, and I meant every word."
"But-"
"In spite of her many virtues, I don't wish to marry your daughter. If that's your reason for objecting to-"
"No. I told you" replied the Count, irritated and a little embarrassed. "It's a question of his character."

"I agree that there is much in Sir Fabien Essling's previous conduct to justify your reservations. But he is young. Were my father standing here, he would perhaps remind you of a story of your mutual youthful indiscretions."
Robert smiled, but a note of sadness was obvious.
"Your father would-" The Count realised the ill-advisedness of claiming knowledge of what the late Duke might or might not have said or done while speaking to his son, and stopped short.
"Has Fabien come to see you?"
"No. Instead, he-" The Count indicated the ballroom with a sweep of his hand.
"I have told him to come and talk to you"
"I have no doubt."
"I will say this in his defence. Fabien has only just found out his feelings are reciprocated."
"Are they indeed?" he growled.

"Fabien..." began Robert, changing the subject, "has a lot more potential than he lets on. He lacks focus. He lacks ambition, because his prospects have never been such that ambition would have suited him. He lacks direction. He succeeded in his childhood aim of becoming a Knight of the Realm, but in the absence of wars, where does he go from there? He's stuck. He's got all he ever wanted, and the next move isn't clear. Chantal, on the other hand, is energetic and ambitious. She can help focus his energies, give him direction, help him. And Chantal, I think, will become bored with a husband who restricts her sphere of influence to soft furnishings and the children. Not a chance that Fabien would get away with restricting her like that. Not a chance. She'll want a say in everything, and with him, she'll get it."

In spite of himself, Count de Marboux smiled in recognition.
"It is not the job of a wife to fix their husband's deficiencies" he said.
"Not in your family, maybe" Robert answered, grinning, "You met my parents, right?"
The Count smiled, in spite of himself, a little flattered by the informality of the last remark.
"I... must confess that my wife might make a similar point"

Robert sensed an advantage.
"Let me be absolutely clear about this. You can say no to this match. You can. And it will not affect your standing or your interests one iota. I am not pressuring you. I know my limitations in terms of my age and therefore my wisdom. I am not seeking to substitute my judgement for yours about Chantal's best interests. I ask only this: let the boy talk to you. Listen to what he has to say with an open mind. Give him a chance. That is all I ask. Long engagement. Long courtship. Whatever rules you think appropriate. If he can impress you through a long courtship, great. Lay down the law to him. To both of them."

The Count frowned, thinking it over.

"I am telling you that I believe there is more to Sir Fabien Essling than the world yet knows" continued Robert, "I may be wrong, but I don't think I am. If I didn't believe he was worthy of Chantal, I'd have warned him off, and I'd have warned her off. I could have told Fabien that his suit was hopeless and not to bother. Told him to go and get drunk and get... drunker. I could have dropped dark hints to Chantal about elements of Fabien's character and conduct that she's not aware of. Ask Chantal if she thinks I'd throw her to the lions."

"If I completely forbid it" said the Count, starting to rationalise the decision, "it may push them together. If I insist on a long courtship, he may get bored. She may get bored. But just so as we're clear... if that boy brings even a hint of scandal or shame to my door, I'll break his legs. Not metaphorically. Literally."

Robert nodded, deadpan.
"If he does, I'll hold him down for you while you do it."

The Count smiled, the tension broken.
"I'm still not happy about this"
"I don't expect you to be. Yet. Do we have an understanding?"
"I believe we do. I'll listen to what the boy has to say?"
"Will you take my hand, my dear Count?"
"Gladly, your Grace."
 
"Miserable wench! Are you trying to humiliate me in front of the whole court?" Lineham didn't even wait before they'd left the ballroom to start laying into Estelle. Though she still avoided his grasp, she was still forced to walk alongside him as he hissed under his breath and glared. With his big, oily nose and narrowed eyes, she couldn't help but be reminded of a squealing swine.

"Humiliate you? I thought I held my own quite well." Her smile remained carefree and gentle, as if she found her would-be husband cute when he was wroth with jealousy.

"You know precisely what I speak of! If you were found out, you cannot imagine the shame that would be inflicted on me. Me, the man who has shown you such generosity!"

Her shoulders shook with repressed laughter, the perfect mask for her utter disgust. "You've done nothing more than what we agreed upon, my lord. Suckling your cock was worth all this and more, was it not?"

"H-H-How dare you!" He turned bright red, shouting loud enough to turn more than a few heads. Estelle merely gazed evenly back at him, allowing him the moment he needed to remember quite where he was. He all but plowed forward, heading straight for the ballroom's exit — surely he was eager to be miles away where he could scream his lungs out.

Naturally, there was no way she was following him back to his carriage. At the last moment, she suddenly grasped his arm, leading him toward an empty sitting room. While she hadn't asked permission, she was certain Robert wouldn't mind her borrowing the space for a moment. None of the servants had prepared the area, so she had to draw the curtains open to let some moonlight in. If they kept the matches in the same drawer she remembered —

"The hells are you doing, girl? This is no time for a tryst!" Oh, he was angry, but she had to admit she was quite annoyed by the note of hope in his voice. Did he think she was going to pounce him by way of apology?

"Oh, it most certainly is not. But we are both so very concerned about your image among your fellow nobles. This should be sufficiently private." Estelle slid the curtains back and smiled, rather distracted by the view of the palace's garden. It was so very strange, knowing so much time had passed, yet seeing everything nearly exactly the same as it was. The same carefully trimmed roses and sprawling beds of white cosmos, all of it interspersed with pastel sprigs of lavender — yes, she'd used to gather those same blossoms with Maybell to make floral satchels. Whether it was tablecloths, dresses, or seat cushions, everything had to smell and look fresh no matter the season.

"Explain yourself, then! There's no need to dally here when my carriage awaits." Impatient as ever, Lineham approached her, finally managing to grasp at her wrist.

For once, she actually allowed herself to recoil, stepping back as she promptly slid her arm away from him. "Do I truly need to lay it all out for you? My intentions seemed clear enough to the whole of the court."

He growled. "Don't test me, wench. Yes, I saw you with the duke, and for your own sake, you'd better have conducted yourself with some degree of subtlety. The moment anyone finds out the manner of trash you are, you'll be tossed out like the dogshit you are."

Deep breaths, Estelle. She knew better than to react to such a base insult. After having heard over and over again how awful, how depraved a creature she was, one would expect it to sting a little less. Her smile remained intact, her shoulders relaxed as she turned away from him to search for a match. "You truly must have been in agony during my absence, to speak so crassly to me now. It reminds me that the consequences for being 'recognized for what I am' are far more bearable than the humiliation that should fall upon you. Have you considered that I might tell the duke myself solely for my amusement?"

"You wouldn—"

"Wouldn't I?" Estelle's coyly spoken threat was accentuated by the hiss of a match she'd borrowed from that drawer she'd spotted earlier. She calmly lit a nearby candle before blowing it out, then took her casual repose on a sofa. "Since you clearly did not get the message, allow me to spell it out for you: our little deal has reached its conclusion. I shall not be needing your assistance any further, nor do I wish to see you again."

"Our deal?" His brows furrowed monstrously, and he did not hesitate to march right over to her, frowning over her like a very pudgy personification of the devil. "You told me you would be my bride! We made plans to buy you a title, introduce you to the court, make you a part of my household! You're throwing all of that away because you danced with a pretty boy? Are you delusional, you ungrateful whore!"

Estelle gave a derisive little snort, bending one elbow against the sofa's arm before leaning her head atop her hand. "I told you no such thing, and every plan you made was formed all by yourself on the assumption I would go along with it. There is some small truth I'll allow you, though. Yes, I told you I could impress your friends and family, that I would be a delightful companion for any nobleman, but marriage is something else entirely. You'd actually have to propose before I could accept, no?"

"You gave me every impression you would accept my hand! A proposal to common blood like yours is so absurd it insults me!"

Her smile turned a touch bitter. "Quite as I imagined. You never once even brought me flowers. Do you know that other men have offered me jewels, dresses, even my own little room at some handsome estate? One admirer went so far as to order several bouquets of roses, all of them delivered to my dressing room before I had even finished my performance. But you… no, even the pursuit of a lady is beyond you. Did you truly think I was attracted to you over every other option available to me? That I would want nothing in return for putting up with every insult, every filthy thing you wanted to do to me?"

His hands balled up into fists at his sides, barely containing his rage. "I am a baron! I offered you a life any sensible woman would accept with delight and gratitude!"

"Call it whatever you want." Estelle sighed and rolled her eyes. "I gave you what you desired, you gave me what I desired. Do yourself a favor and cut your perceived losses here."

"I… you… mmmgh!" The baron was too cowardly for a slap, it seemed, and instead took to pacing the floor. She could guess easily enough how much he was struggling between the idea of forcing her along and backing off. There was no way he could drag her into his carriage without drawing the attention of the guards, and if he tried to expose her he'd only expose himself to even more ridicule. All his plans for securing an heir, his wounded pride at being passed over by a loose little dancer — was it really so hard to just walk away?

Again, Estelle sighed, growing increasingly impatient. "I should remind you that I'm expecting the duke." When the baron's eyes widened, so did her smile. Why not push the truth a little further? "He shouldn't be long. I told him I'd be waiting right here. Perhaps you'd like to explain to him why you feel so betrayed?"

"You—!" He actually looked like he might take a swing, but she pointed to the door.

"Yes, I know. Trollop, whore, dogshit. Get it all out if you must, but at least move toward the door? All your exertion is making the room stink."

The sound of his teeth grinding together was actually audible. For a moment, he merely stood there, nothing but senseless rage. Finally, he moved to the door, certain to slam it behind him. "The fucking duke! Let him have you, make himself dirty with you, and see how he suffers when your wretchedness is just as clear to him as it is to me now! Choke on his cum and roll into an early grave, whore!"

Again, she wished such words didn't sting, but it was hard to see where he was wrong when it came to Robert. Using people, turning intimacy into business — that was who little Leafy had grown up into. If she only had some wine to drink down the truth with, the silence that followed might have been more bearable.
 
"If I might take the liberty of interrupting, your grace" said Connor, quietly, "My lord, my lady" he bowed, acknowledging Fabien and Chantal.
"Excuse me" mouthed Robert, as he stepped away to talk to Connor.

He'd been busy three-quarter-seriously berating the pair of them. Fabien for not having spoken to the Count, and Chantal for being so openly and thoughtlessly defiant of her father's instructions by dancing only with Fabien, as if her father's opposition could just be waved away. He'd explained the conversation he'd had with the Count, told them that his reservations were not about the status of Fabien's family, but about Fabien being a waste of skin, about there being a perfectly good village missing a perfectly good idiot. Told them that he'd gone so far out on a limb for Fabien that he'd be picking out the splinters for days. Told them that the Count had literally threatened to break his legs if he brought shame to his family's door, and said he'd promised to help him. And that he wasn't joking.

Told them that he'd persuaded de Marboux to give Fabien a chance, and to listen to what he had to say. Told Fabien that he needed to go and talk to him, and no, Chantal, you can't go with him. He'll think he's hiding behind your petticoats. Told Fabien to ask him frankly about his objections, and what he might do to change his mind. Told them both that they had a chance to be together if that's what they wanted, but they had to want it, and had to be patient. Earn it.

The pair bore the Duke's tirade with fond forbearance, sensing his affection for them both and appreciative of his efforts on their behalf. Only it was hard to take Robert entirely seriously.
"I'll be a good girl, I promise" Chantal had said, deadpan, wide-eyed and earnest. That had been too much, and the three of them burst out laughing.

* * * * * * * * *

Connor was not in the habit of interrupting, and Robert had a working theory that the calmer and quieter Connor was, the more serious the issue. With profound apologies, my grace... may I presume to take the liberty to bring to your attention the unfortunate fact that your palace appears to be somewhat ablaze?

"As the scheduled end of festivities approached, I thought it prudent to ensure that I was conversant of the whereabouts of Lady Estelle so that I might carry out your prior instructions" said Connor, talking quickly and quietly in his clear, clipped tones, "unwittingly, I observed her repair to a side sitting room with a certain Baron Lineham, following what I took to be a... difference of opinion. While I would never dream of eavesdropping.-"
"Obviously" observed Robert, dryly, raising an eyebrow.
"Obviously" Connor confirmed, before continuing, "I heard raised voices... forgive me, I misspeak... a raised voice. Singular"
"The Baron?"
"Indeed so. I thought it prudent to tell another servant to subtly summon a couple of guards, just in case the Baron were to forget himself, as even gentleman are wont to do when drink has been taken. I trust I did not overstep?"
"You did right. Baron Lineham is a GINO."
"Your grace?"
"GINO. Gentleman in Name Only."
Connor could not hide a hint of a smirk creeping through his poker face.
"If you say so, your grace"
"Are they still there now?"
"Yes, your grace. The guards are idling close to the door, and primed to act. I thought it prudent to inform you."
"Thank you, Connor."

Robert stood up to leave, repeating his apologies.
"If I may, your Grace... if time is of the essence, may I suggest the back staircase?"

* * * * * * * *

"The fucking duke! Let him have you, make himself dirty with you, and see how he suffers when your wretchedness is just as clear to him as it is to me now! Choke on his cum and roll into an early grave, whore!"

Baron Lineham uttered his departing curse and stormed through the door. Without looking up, he turned and slammed the heavy door behind him with all his might. The latch was in the closed position, so the door did not slam shut with a deep, satisfying, bassy thump. Instead, it rebounded off the frame and bounced back into the hallway with a juddering, discordant crash.

There was a moment or two of silence.

Something told the Baron that he was not alone in the corridor, and he looked up, ready to berate anyone he caught presuming to challenge him, or even look in his direction in the wrong way. Summoned words of invective were ready to be unleashed on the unlucky servant when the Baron realised that the figure before him was... not a servant.

It was the Duke.

Robert's expression was neutral, calm. His eyebrows were raised in mild surprise at the slamming of the door. The lack of tension in the rest of his stance gave the impression more of boredom than curiosity. He was not standing so close to the door that he must have heard the Baron's tirade, but neither was he so far away that he could not have done. Baron Lineham decided to gamble that his words had not been overheard, a reasonable assumption given that Duke Robert appeared neither insulted nor angry.

"Apologies, your grace. I don't know my own strength sometimes! There must be a window open somewhere, I..."
"No matter, I have lots of doors. Loads...." he said, with a shrug.
"May I say what a spectacular Ball it was this evening... it takes a lot to tempt me from the comforts of Lineham Hall, but-"
"A pleasure, as always" Robert answered, interrupting and dismissing the compliment with a wave of his hand. "May I ask... will you be staying with us long?"
"A few days if I may so presume, your Grace. I have some business to finalise, and...."

Robert affected not to hear the answer, and asked the same question again, in exactly the same manner as if time were repeating itself.
"May I ask... will you be staying with us long?"
"A few days..." the Baron began, puzzled, before trailing off.
Robert repeated the question a third time, this time with an edge.
"Will you be staying with us long?"

Lineham caught the look in the Duke's eye. He had overheard. Gods damn him and her to hell!
"No, your Grace... I must depart tomorrow, unfortunately, I-"
"First thing tomorrow? Oh, What a pity! What a loss!"
"Your Grace, I-"
"That's 'your fucking Grace' to you, my dear Baron" he hissed. And then smiled again.
"I can explain"
"Don't."
"There are things I must tell you, I-"
"I have a confession to make, Lineham. I'm quite drunk at the moment. My judgement is probably impaired. Perhaps yours is too. Whatever things you 'must tell me', put it in writing so that you may write - and I may read - with clear heads. Yes?"
"Tomorrow, I can-"
"You are leaving first thing tomorrow, remember? You can write when you get back to the magnificent Lineham Hall, whose comforts I expect you to take full advantage of for the foreseeable future. But... I can assure you that I will treat your epistle with all the care and consideration that it deserves"
"Good, good" the Baron muttered, missing the implication, "Well, I'll not detain you any longer, I'll be-"
"Getting out of my sight?" asked Robert, airily, "Capital idea. Capital. Bravo."

* * * * * * *

"I thought you told His Grace that you were a good girl!" grinned Fabien, breaking the kiss and coming up for air after another round of exploiting the privacy of the stairwell.
"I'm a good girl" Chantal insisted, affronted. "Buuut.... " she continued, "I never said I was perfect!"
"I think you're perfect"
"I should hope so. Now... enough... you make yourself scarce. I'll talk to my father, I'll arrange a meeting time for tomorrow and send you an invitation."
"Right"
"Don't mess it up, Sir Knight"
"No. I'll try not to. One more kiss for good luck?"
Chantal shook her head and extracted herself from his embrace.
"I need to go. Father will... he won't be happy. Sweet dreams, though" she said, pecking him on the cheek.
"My dreams will be black and silky"
"You are such a pig!" she giggled, rolling her eyes.
 
Estelle had reflexively shuddered when the door violently bounced back from its frame, but that was nothing compared to the shock of dread that ran through her at the sound of Robert's voice. The question of how and why could wait — what she needed to know the most was his frame of mind. Regardless of anything he had or hadn't heard, she was quite certain the baron's outburst left no room for doubt about their sexual relations.

Her stomach made a disturbing gurgle, as if the dread in her gut had decided to go and curdle her innards. A wave of nausea hit her, the flicker of Lineham's stench enough to make her gag. Suddenly in need of fresh air, she stumbled over to the window, hissing when the latch proved annoyingly stubborn.

You stupid, selfish girl. There was Maybell's voice in her head again, reflected through the mess of her thoughts. Did you really think you could sugarcoat fucking that pig? Was having Robert inside you going to make it all feel better? I told you again and again — all you'll ever do is taint his happiness.

Finally, the latch gave and the window grated open! Estelle sat herself up on the windowsill, leaning forward to catch the cool evening breeze. I was going to tell him. Just not now, not like this.

She turned her head back toward the doorway, ears fixed on the painfully clear voices leaking through the open door. Robert didn't sound especially upset, but that was before the venom started dripping into the otherwise pleasant cadence of his voice. Was he actually drunk? He sounded terribly lucid, if a touch weary. How much of that anger was directed at Lineham for, well, being himself, and how much of it was reserved for her deceit? Saying 'I warned you!' really wouldn't hold water, not when she'd given Robert every reason to think she was a proper lady of the court.

Well, mostly proper. When it came to sexual advances, no woman of any class would have approached Robert in the way that she had. She was confident he was aware of her lack of virginity, but that was far from the only obscured detail. To have done it with Lineham, of all people! What must he think of her and her promises now?

Was he going to send her away as well? Perhaps he would be gentle, perhaps not. Whatever mood she'd managed to cultivate, however, was dead. She wanted nothing more than to hide under his sheets until sleep took her and she awoke somewhere far, far away from the ducal palace. Or perhaps she could tear her skirt, leap through the window, and make a run for it. She could imagine the face he'd make upon realizing she'd actually gone and legged it, and the smallest smile tugged at her lips.

And then there was silence. Estelle, pressed a hand flat against her stomach, urging her body to find some semblance of strength again. She'd start with the small things, like straightening her back and —

Click-clack.

"Oh, gods…" Estelle's lungs struggled against her corset as she gasped, one trembling arm keeping her steady against the window's frame.

Click-clack.

Maybe she really should roll herself out the window. The rosebushes would hurt like hell, but at least then he'd be more likely to rescue her and less inclined to toss her out himself.

Click-clack.

Was he already at the door? Those footsteps could only be his, surely. Her head was starting to spin; perhaps she'd only imagined it all? Perhaps she'd gotten tired and fallen asleep on the sofa, and this was just a nightmare…
 
Robert stood for a moment, arms folded, staring daggers into the back of Baron Lineham's head.

If the common people were ever to rise up and overthrow the lot of them - Barons, Dukes, Emperors, all - it would be men like Lineham that would be to blame. Hereditary positions of power made as much sense as hereditary Professors of Mathematics. What was the old eastern proverb... if the father was a lion, the son will be a dog. Robert's father had been a lion... from a proud line of lions, as he sometimes joked. If he was a dog, he hoped he was more pedigree golden retriever than pampered poodle. Born and bred and raised to yield power. And perhaps the son of a mathematician, learning calculus from his father as a carpenter's son learned about wood, would be a good bet as a future mathematician.

But something had gone wrong somewhere along the line with Lineham. Not being able to do much about him, in spite of being Duke, was an example of the unexpected limitations on his power and freedom. He couldn't go around stripping people of their titles and properties, even if - technically - he could. But taking a man's lands on the grounds of misrule, incompetence, and tyranny was itself... well, it was a bit tyrant-y. Winning the man's coaching inn from him at cards that time was scant consolation.

Another limitation on his practical freedom was that Robert was not, contrary to what he'd said to Lineham, even a little bit drunk. Couldn't. Not at this kind of event. Too risky. He could wake up with a stinking hangover and discover he'd made some country knight his new military commander. Or proposed marriage. Or declared war. Or all three. But he was feeling a little light-headed. It had been one hell of an evening, and the night was still young.

Robert hadn't really had time to absorb or assimilate what he'd seen or heard with what Connor had told him. Estelle. Baron Lineham. A side room. One raised voice - the Baron's. A man he knew to be of bad character. He did not know what had happened or why, but there were two things that he did know. Firstly, he was worried about her, and that something might have happened. Secondly, he knew that he didn't want that man anywhere near his Leafy. The two of them breathing the same air was basically heresy.

When he'd overheard the Baron's outburst, he assumed that it was bile and bluster. He barely registered him calling her wretched, calling her a whore... at least not in the sense that it might be true. When a man accuses a woman of being a whore, Robert knew, their complaint is usually the opposite... that she wouldn't sleep with him. So he set little store by any of that. What had caught his attention was his disparaging references to him... the fucking Duke...the frankly weird remark about her choking on his cum. He didn't want to feature in that filthy pig's depraved imaginings in any way, whether he was entertaining himself or tormenting himself with that image.

Likely he'd propositioned her, and she'd said no. Likely something had happened previously to give him hope in that direction. He didn't know what, and didn't much care. He wanted him gone, and her safe.

One of his guards stuck his head round the door of an adjoining room.
"All well, your Grace?"
"Yes, thank you, sergeant. Could you make sure that the Baron causes no further mischief? Subtly... I don't mean arrest him, unless you have to. Don't make him feel threatened, or embarrass him... not unless he does something, and you think you need to act. We don't need to have any scenes unless he insists on it. I trust your judgement."
"Thank you, your Grace."

The sergeant and his colleague followed Lineham. There was no sign of Connor, though Robert felt sure he'd somehow manifest if and when he was needed.

Time to check on Estelle.

He opened the door, which had settled in the all-but-closed position. Robert opened it only a little and stuck his head round the door, his mop of blond hair and handsome, worried features appearing through a narrow gap between door and frame. Peering round doors rather than striding confidently in was something that he used to do when he was Robin, he realised, and he wondered why he'd defaulted to it now/ Perhaps he was keeping the door closed as much as possible for privacy reasons - although this area was not formally in use, neither was it private. Or because he was uncertain what he'd see.

What he saw was Leafy, perched on the window sill, the sash window wide open and the night air chilling the room. Something was wrong. She looked pale, scared. Her delicate dress seemed undamaged intact, but.... had she been about to flee through the window? Spirits, this looks bad.

Robert muttered a curse of alarm under his breath, and opened the door just wide enough for him to dart inside, closing the door with a neat click behind him. He quickly crossed to the centre of the room, but didn't want to rush right over to her. His instincts told him not to... that window was wide open, she was perched on the sill, and something was very wrong about this tableau.

"Estelle! You okay? Leafy? What happened? Did that animal try to hurt you?"

He took another step towards her, his eyes on her, his face a picture of concern. He held out his arms towards her, inviting her to come to him, away from the window.
"Come here" he said, "I'll protect you, I'll keep you safe. He's gone, I promise. Come to me."
 
The lingering moments between Robert entering the room and speaking were agony. She heard each footfall, recognized the sound of his breathing, and still couldn't bring herself to look at him. The look of disgust on his face, the betrayal — oh, she had earned it, but she wasn't certain she could bear it.

But then he spoke her name with only concern, and like a knight straight out of a storybook, he opened up his arms for the rescue. A wave of relief made her shoulders sag, but the sickness in her stomach hadn't passed. Just a few more breaths and she could perhaps move again, but stumbling into his arms wasn't an option. More than a few beatings had taught her that it was never a good idea to attempt standing back up when she was too weak to walk properly. Like turning one's back to a feral animal, exposing weakness only triggered more attacks.

Robert was no angry bear bent on punishment, but she loathed being so pitiful in front of him. He must feel just as worn out as she was, if not more so after an evening full of stuffy officials and sudden surprises. He shouldn't be rescuing her from problems she'd created herself. But just like the old days, it seemed he was extricating her from trouble she'd gotten herself into yet again.

Either he didn't know the truth, or his protective instincts were drowning out the implications staring him in the face. She didn't know what to say, how to accept his protection or offer the explanation he deserved. 'I'm fine' had formed on her lips, but it was stuck in her throat.

Straighten your back. Square your shoulders. Deep breaths. Estelle tried to gather herself up one little step at a time, but the most she could manage was leaning back against the window frame — as opposed to drooping out of it like a wilting flower hungry for water. Her sense of equilibrium was still as unsteady as her stomach, and she didn't need to test her feet to know her legs were useless. Rather than trying to stumble toward him, she simply reached her arm for him, beckoning him closer.

"I'm your terrible maid, remember? You'll have to come to me." Estelle managed a trembling smile, finding a mote of strength simply by falling back on teasing him. She knew she was a cold and clammy mess, but the warmth of him, that excellent scent on him was very much needed whether she deserved it or not.

"Ah, Robin… Lineham could call me every ugly thing under the sun, he could beat and berate me to his heart's content and it would be nothing so long as you didn't think badly of me by the end of it. There is nothing I want more than to put the sordid business of that man aside, but I don't think I can. Robin, I… I've done some very disgusting things. Do you understand? With Lineham, I…" But she couldn't bring herself to say the words. While a voice in her head was screaming at her for not taking the obvious, easy path of ignorance he offered, she didn't think herself forgivable if he continued protecting her without understanding quite what he was getting himself into.
 
It was fortunate that Lineham was long gone. When Estelle spoke of him beating and berating her, he found his fists clenching and unclenching. He frowned, jaw tightening. He took a deep breath, in and out, as she spoke. He hoped that she was speaking figuratively about beating her, but the feeling in the pit of his stomach told him that she wasn't. Why else would she have been half out of the window? What might he have done if Lineham was still within reach? He wasn't sure. He didn't want to know. Robert was not a violent man, but that meant he had less practice at controlling rage, controlling the impulses when they did come to him.

As she spoke, he closed his eyes. Images he did not want to see. Deeds he did not want to imagine. That horror of a man... that sweaty hog in human form. He was not a young man, he was not an attractive man. That could be said of many nobles - of many people. But Robert knew many men who nature had not favoured as it had favoured him... some who could be said to have fallen from the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down... who nevertheless... their ugliness was merely physical. Upstanding characters lurked underneath. Good hearts. Not so with Lineham and men like him, whose ugliness ran all the way through.

Robert turned away, a look of disgust on his face. His head buzzed and burned with images of him mistreating her, beating her, forcing her, maybe. If not physically, then in other ways. He thought about Estelle having to delight Lineham in all the ways she was capable of. It sickened him. It was wrong. It was against the natural order. And this wasn't just Lineham using his power and wealth to make some poor girl do his bidding... that was a common enough abuse... it was Leafy. His friend. Gods. He felt a flash of anger at himself. Could he have prevented this? Why had he never shown enough interest in finding her? Why had he always believed what he was told? Either she was never married well, or that had ended badly. Either way, he could have done something if he'd known. But he hadn't, and so didn't. And she had not come to him. Until now, which..... this must be why.

If Lineham had been tormenting himself with images of Estelle pleasuring Robert, the tables were now turned. The irony struck him. Robert tried to get a grip. Fortunately, Estelle's words floated through his mind once more... so long as you don't think badly of me. He blinked hard, forced himself to clear his head. These were her sufferings and ordeals, not his. Get. A Grip. He sensed her looking at him, imagined her waiting for his answer. Imagining that him turning his back on her meant he was disgusted with her. That he was rejecting her.

Robert turned round to face her once more, taking a breath.
"Leafy... I don't think badly of you. The shame is his to own, not yours. If you have done things... it can only be because the other choices were worse."

He paused, taking a step towards her.
"I'm not a child any more" he said, as much to himself as to her, "I know something the world is. Of how it can be. Just because it showers me with rose petals, doesn't mean that I don't know that it pelts others with rocks. Men with power and wealth. Women with neither. Women without a family name, or only half a name."

"You told me you were a devil earlier. Well, 'my dearest, sweetest Leafy'" he smiled, quoting her words from earlier, words she had said might have made her an angel if she had heard them more often. "I didn't think you were a devil then, and I don't think you're a devil now."

"Now" he said, closing the remaining between them, "you, Leafy, are coming with me. I had Connor arrange for a plate of macarons to be taken to my chambers, and I need someone to help me eat them."

He reached to take her hands in his.
"No conditions, no expectations, no demands, Leafy. I won't... I'll never make you do... " He trailed off. He tried again.
"Come and be my friend"

He leant closer and whispered into her ear
"Sir Chirps-a-lot has macarons to share".
 
Just as he'd guessed, him turning his back on her had Estelle assuming all sorts of awful things. She couldn't blame him — there really were few scenes more retch-worthy than anything including a naked Lineham. More than his looks, the crassness of his mannerisms and the lack of attention he put into making himself, well, not a smelly, hairy, sweaty mess was what really made intimacy with him so unappealing. If she weren't feeling so icky herself, if Robert wasn't visibly disturbed, she might have entertained the idea of torturing him with the sordid details. His fair face twisted with disgust, like she'd just made him sniff some rancid meat — that was the sort of expression young Robin used to make at the very idea of kissing a girl.

Thankfully, he didn't let her mind linger on the worst of her feelings for long. Though her mask still hid much of her expression, he could see a great deal of her reaction. The sag of her spine as she relaxed into his gentle opinion of her, the soft pout on her lips when he mentioned half a name — then there was a blush that quite warmed her face when my dearest, sweetest Leafy touched her ears. She'd given him such a saccharine line in jest, but when he spoke the words, that heart-stopping smile on his face, she thought she might actually melt.

It was no wonder she greedily accepted his hands, shamelessly guiding them to her waist as he leaned closer. She didn't care that she was making him awkwardly stoop over the windowsill, for her arms belonged nowhere else but tightly around him. Her fingers curled over the broad warmth of his back, the softness of her cheek pressed up against his.

Perhaps she should tease him, point out that he'd just made a demand right before making an assertion that he had none, but the moment between them was perfection. As far as she was concerned, he could demand the world of her and she would do just about anything to give it to him.

There was the matter of her not being a child, either, but she was too delighted that he should remember her love of macarons at all. When she had the comfort of his arms around her, she liked the idea of being spoiled with sweets and attention far too much. So she allowed herself a laugh, squeezing him even tighter as she nuzzled his cheek with hers.

"Nothing would make me happier." She turned her head to press a kiss to his cheek, adoration burning on her lips as one kiss turned into a whole trail of them toward his jaw. "I remember those evenings so well, when the whole estate was quiet and I could sneak into your room. Do you remember all the little snacks you used to save for me? The fairytales we'd read under the faintest candlelight? I remember…"

She gave herself to memory, placing little Estelle next to Young Robin. They hadn't been quite so bothered with what was right or decent between boy and girl back then, so innocent that they could lie side by side on his bed with a book between them. While she had always been loathe to admit it, Robin was the superior reader between them, faster and more eloquent when he gave life to the words on a page. Sometimes he'd read her some stuffy old thing he'd wanted to impress his tutor with, and sometimes he'd let her choose one of her favorite fairytales. She'd stare happily at the pretty illustrations, slowly but surely dozing off until he tickled her awake so she could sneak back into her bed.

"There was one story… mn, about a greedy princess and an earnest peasant. I don't recall what sort of fae fortune he had, nor what mystical fox, dove, or fish favored him with impossible gifts, but he could filch the very stars from the sky if he wanted. Of course he wanted nothing for himself because he was smitten with the princess the moment he saw her. It must have been her beauty that won him over, for she was just about as high-strung and self-absorbed as a princess could be.

"So of course he finds a way to sneak into her castle in the dead of night to woo her. As you'd expect from such a spoilt girl, she'll have nothing to do with him because he's some filthy nobody peasant, but he tells her he'll give her anything she desires. She may ask for the horn of a unicorn, or the imaginary amaranthine, or some godforsaken relic of a saint and he says he'll deliver it. Of course she doesn't believe him, so she asks of him something petty and impossible — probably diamond slippers or a dress woven from clouds or some nonsense."

Estelle leaned back to gaze up at Robert, her eyes alight with whimsical amusement. "To her surprise and delight, he returns with the object of her desire each night! But he wizens up fast, the peasant, probably because he has a friend like you. So each time he brings her a gift, he asks for a kiss. First it's one, then two, then ten… and soon this foolish princess is in debts of hundreds of kisses. Her ladies in waiting count each one, until one night it goes on so long they find themselves in the swell of the morning. And of course it's then that the king finds them, and naturally there is no recourse for such a scene except to have them marry.

"I imagine they're wildly happy and all that, but more importantly…" A warm smile overtook her lips, and she reached forward to gently brush her fingertips along his cheek. "I was just thinking you might take after this generous peasant, and that I owe you at least a hundred kisses. Shall we settle such debts in your room?"
 
Estelle was back in his arms again, and that felt right. Weirdly right. He felt a strong sense of relief, like he'd almost lost her again. Certainly this could have gone very differently and very badly... if Connor had not thought to locate Estelle before the exodus proper started, during which she would have been harder to finder, Estelle and Lineham could have been here alone. Perhaps it would all have unfolded as it did, with Lineham storming off with spouting his bile. Though he might have returned to do more harm. Would Estelle have fled? Or would she just have dusted herself down and returned to him as if nothing had happened?

Either way, she was back in his arms and all seemed to be well. What he said had seemed to work. He had been half-expecting that she would tell him more, share the whole story, sob the pain away in his arms. Mentally, he'd already started to revise his expectations for the evening in a much more Platonic direction... he imagined himself tucking her into bed, kissing her on the forehead, and retiring to his own room. But no, no further confessions or details or explanations followed, which... well. Robert both wanted to know and didn't want to know. He remembered how Leafy had been... stubborn, proud, headstrong, independent. Why should he now expect that she would sob her heart out and pour out her sufferings to him? Did he even want her to? He wanted her to be able to do that if she wanted to, but he was hardly going to make her do it, or insist on it. And why should she tell him? Or such slight (re)-acquaintance? Was he bursting to tell her about how he felt about Lucie? About how much he missed his father? About how... alone.. he felt sometimes? No, no, and no.

He listened with amused puzzlement to her telling the story of the greedy princess and the earnest peasant.
"Wait, so... I'm the earnest peasant in this story and you're the greedy princess? And this... 'her father finds them next morning' stuff... does that really work? Should I have suggested that to my kinsman and his intended? 'Oh, just be found in her bedroom in the morning, and there'll be no other recourse. You'll have to get married then.' I'm sure that will work out. Or am I overthinking this? I usually am."

"But yes... it's chilly in here, and my chambers are much nicer. Only... I will have to bid my farewells and make banal small talk with my guests as they leave. I'm so tempted to leave it to my good mother the Duchess, and just vanish... just like that. Not turn up to say goodbye. That'll cause some speculation! But....." he sighed, "Connor is undoubtedly somewhere very nearby and is about to remind me of my duty. I can ask him to show you to my chambers, and I'll join you as soon as I can. Promise. You can start on the macarons, but leave some for me, okay?"

* * * * * *

Robert had moved into his father's old chambers shortly after his father's funeral. He hadn't wanted to. The last thing he wanted to do, he protested, was throw his mother out of the suite that had been her home for nearly thirty years. The Dowager Duchess, however, insisted that they were the Duke's chambers, and that as he was the Duke, they were therefore his. She also said that she had no particular desire to continue to live there alone, accompanied only by the presence of an absence. And practically, it was far too big for her, and that as Duke, Robert would need the space, even before he wed.

The Duke's Chambers were a large suite of rooms. A master bedroom, large and luxurious, with en suite dressing rooms for Duke and Duchess. Also off this room was a bathing chamber, with a small pool. The water was heated by a clever device to focus the sun's rays, and the construction was designed to minimise heat loss. There was also a cunning piece of plumbing which drew water back over the fireplace to reheat it. There were two luxurious guest bedrooms - rarely used - and three small bedrooms for servants. There were three reception rooms... one grand, and sometimes used for Council meetings. One medium-sized, and suitable for small parties or receptions, and one more intimate room, just a couple of small armchairs and walls lined with bookcases. There was a private study for the Duke, with a grand desk, reference tomes on the shelves, and maps on the walls. This was sometimes used to meet with advisors. There was a small kitchen and food preparation area and larder.

The furniture was mahogany, all matching, with plush, heavy carpets and rugs on the floor, with tapestries and artwork on the walls - a mixture of family portraits and scenes from different corners of his lands.
 
Estelle pouted — all that prosey build-up had been meant to tempt him into well over a hundred kisses, but his thoughts seemed to be elsewhere entirely. Was this his way of teasing her? Was he still thinking about his friend? And his guests, and his mother, and of course he must have even more to fuss over. She let out a dramatic sigh, leaning back against the windowsill once more so she could gaze up at him properly.

Well, it wasn't like she could blame him for not being able to pick up from where they'd left things at the stairwell. There was the explosion of Lineham that'd left her crumpled sick with worry, and of course the usual ducal affairs that she was stealing Robert away from. Even when they had been children, it was the same story — he had this lecture with his tutor he surely couldn't miss, or that appointment with some banal familial affair, and they'd have to be careful with the timing so no one would see them. It was precisely those times when Robert seemed the most important to the world that she couldn't help being jealous.

And perhaps a touch lonely. In the past, she would have begged, pestered, and pouted until he relented to play with her just for a few minutes. Now that such games were well behind them both, she could only smile and smooth out his shirt for him.

"A noble lady who has lost her honor in the eyes of the public is a truly tragic thing, Mr. Chirpy. They wouldn't even need to be caught in the act — once someone stumbles upon them alone, embracing, kissing, being affectionate, it's quite over. Any father would be a fool not to force the gentleman's hand to accept his daughter before the rumors got out of hand. Why do you think so many of your ilk apply for special permits to get married as quickly as possible?" Estelle's smile remained as she spoke, but she couldn't quite keep the bitterness from her voice. Why had she brought up marriage at all? Even in a fairytale, a magical peasant with endless gifts was still an absurd sight next to a princess.

"Go and be a good host to your guests, Your Grace. With your permission granted, I shall gladly take reprieve in your chambers." Something wicked flashed in her smile, however, as she slid away from his embrace, her legs only a little wobbly. "However, I make no promises about the macarons. I've the title of 'terrible maid' to live up to."


* * * * * *


Connor didn't speak much when he led Estelle over to Robert's chambers, and she didn't quite know what to say to him. A few questions certainly came to mind — had he been shadowing her since she left the ballroom? When had he started working for Robert, and how had he obtained such an important position within the estate? It was obvious that Robert respected the fellow, trusted his opinion and allowed a man of a lower position to nag him.

But she was also achingly tired, quite through with nobles, gossip, and the endless game of chess when it came to positioning herself in just the right place to win over a duke. She ought to be celebrating, basking in the delight of having obtained Robin's favor. He'd seen the worst of her affairs and forgiven the unsightly remnants of it, so why couldn't she just accept it? Why did she have to doubt his understanding and the reliability of his kind, protective nature?

Surely, he was sympathetic to the plight of a powerless creature like herself. If she told him she had willingly exposed herself to Lineham in order to find her way to his side again, he was more likely to feel guilty or confused rather than angry. Some things, she decided, he simply did not need the burden of knowing. He knew that her oh-so-sacred virginity was spent, that she had given herself to the worst dregs of his court — in short, he knew quite what he was entangling himself with. What did the details matter when the simple facts spoke all they needed to?

Connor seemed to have some doubts of his own. He didn't speak a word of them, of course, perfect in his politeness with only the sharp curiosity in his eyes to betray him. She knew the look so very well and the questions he was no doubt striving to answer on behalf of his master. A noblewoman might overlook such a thing on account of her impervious position, but to Estelle it was far more intimidating than the glower of a guard. What did he know, and more importantly, what was he going to tell others?

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble, could you bring me some water infused with lavender? I should like to freshen up after all the excitement of the ball." Estelle flashed a polite smile that would have made a doll jealous once they'd reached Robert's chambers. Connor, ever the genteel servant, bowed and took his leave, allowing her to acquaint herself with the duke's room.

Well, she'd been expecting a room, but it turned out to be an entire suite. Had she not been distracted with so many other thoughts, she might have realized sooner that Robert would have taken up the residence of the late duke. Never had she been allowed anywhere near the legend's personal space, relegated only to watching her fellow servants pass in and out with their various duties.

Who would have thought she'd end up with the Duke's chambers to herself? The carpet was so thick and plush it made her heels wobble. Once she peeled her shoes off, the ticklish brush of it against her satin-clad feet was almost worse. Goosebumps ran up her spine as she moved about, eyes flicking to the various paintings and embroidered seat cushions. It was impossible to say what was Robert's touch and what wasn't, all the little details he might have changed to remove the uncomfortable shadow of his parents from his personal space.

What she could say was that he was most definitely spoiled. A whole marbled bathing room with an endless flow of steaming water? A dressing room the size of her entire flat? Everything was immaculately polished, too, from his shoes to an ornate blade resting inside a silken case. Had he attended a formal ceremony recently, or was this his idea of an everyday sort of weapon? It was sleek, balanced thing, something she imagined was well suited to his lean, nimble frame.

Before she could work up the nerve to feel out the blade for herself, there was a knock at the door.

Connor had arrived with the water she'd requested, and she'd never been more grateful for it. The lavender helped to soothe her nerves, the crisp coolness of the water bringing her out of her fog of awe. She wasn't there to poke through Robin's things! Though there was no telling how long he'd be cooing his farewells, it was probably for the best that he didn't come back to find her playing with his sword.

Alone in his dressing room, she took the liberty of freshening up, removing her gloves and jewelry piece by piece. There was something oddly satisfying about mixing her things with his, the gleaming silver of her necklace set alongside a collection of link cuffs he'd no doubt contemplated while dressing for the ball earlier that evening. Her comb with its delicate branches of pearls and sapphires found its place next to an emerald stickpin, allowing her pale curls to tumble free. When she finally parted with her mask, she found a tired, but surprisingly flushed face gazing back at her.

Estelle had always been marked by the high, distinct cheekbones of a noblewoman, adding a sort of maturity to her features even when she had been a child. A delicate chin, a soft, narrow nose, a long, elegant neck — if there was one fault to her dancer's profile, it was always that she seemed a touch too delicate, thin enough to be a little emaciated. Perfect balance came at a cost, and her poor toes still had some bandaging left on after her last performance had left them bleeding.

Needless to say, she had no intention of removing her stockings for the whole of the night. Her dress, however, was a different story. The tiny little buttons along the back were something of a nightmare, but a little wriggling and twisting about soon had her free. She laid the long, silken fabric over the back of his dressing room chair, which was soon followed by a similarly troublesome corset. The latter was a bit unusual, thin even for a corset without any seams for the boning.

Indeed, the silhouette of her gown as it ran over her waist and hips had been so tight panties hadn't been an option. The only thing she had under the dress was a long, translucent slip. It had been cut high along her thigh to allow for movement, the split silk filled in with delicate white lace. Even more than her dress, the slip was clingy, hugging her delicate frame like water. The pale blue had been tapered perfectly to follow the soft curves of her breasts, leaving her shoulders and a deep cut of her cleavage exposed.

While she brushed out the tight coils of her hair into soft curls, she tried to mentally prepare herself once more. The point of a woman in her role was to please and seduce, to convince him that trusting her had been the right choice. Unfortunately, she wasn't so smooth as all that. When she thought back to the ball, the simple truth was that she'd been far more honest than was prudent. Rather than smoldering glances and fluttering her fan in front of her cleavage, she'd tossed barbs at him and he'd flirted back until the warmth between them felt all too natural. Could that really be called seduction?

She didn't want to admit that Robert had wiles of his own. The way he leaned close to her ear at the drop of a hat, dipping his voice into a velvety murmur, his wildly inappropriate innuendos wrapped up in bubbly, almost innocent amusement, those strikingly good looks that make her go soft with just the twist of a wry smile — quite when had the sweet, chatty, and petty little boy grown up into such a devious fox?

Just thinking of him, stooping over one lady's hand after another, kissing their precious knuckles and winking at all shy suggestions of where his fancies may lay, had her pouting and fidgeting. It inevitably brought her thoughts to his smiling lips, the warmth of his breath, and the taunting in his voice when he'd told her to retie his cravat. When was he going to scoop her up and taste her at last, instead of merely saying that he wanted to do so?

Why was she thinking such things at all! Getting all fluttery and bashful was not like her. Seduction required control and confidence, a mastery over oneself as much as the game. When he left her to stew over everything by herself, she ran herself in useless circles, wanting him and being unable to have him. She couldn't decide if she was supposed to be annoyed with him for making her wait, or writhing in delightful anticipation whilst setting an irresistible scene for him to return to.

Worst of all, she couldn't bring herself to touch the macarons without him. After rifling through a few books she found near what surely had to be his reading settee of choice, she stole the plate of sweets and set it on the bed before occupying the other side of it. With her back to the door and the macarons, she laid on her side, head propped up on one hand. Cracking the book open, it seemed there was no better way to pass the rest of her time than to…

What? Since when, exactly, had he been so curious about so many different sex positions?
 
The Dowager Duchess Adele de Reynaux merely raised an eyebrow at her son's late appearance in the grand hallway of the palace, where dignitaries waited their turn to pay their compliments and respects. Those who made their capital their habitual home tended to slip away without great ceremony, instead having their secretaries to send polite notes of appreciation the following day. Which would, in turn, be responded to by other secretaries. Those visitors from far away would generally stay longer, combining the pleasure of the Ball with any business they had to conduct in the capital. Attending satellite events, seeing the sights, and generally making a holiday of it. They would typically pay their respects on taking their leave from the capital at the end of their stay. Those in attendance that night were generally those from middling distances, who would likely be departing at first light the following day, hangover or no.

Robert's sister, Elizabeth, was there with her entourage and her gaggle of admirers, using the pretext of formal departures to eke out the pleasures of the evening for as long as possible. She paid little or no attention to the gathered nobles, leaving such tedium as talking to them to her mother.

"Ah... apologies, friends!" Robert said, "I was called away. Extremely urgent and pressing affairs...." he paused for a beat, "of state. I'm sure you understand."
He smiled his best innocent smile. Butter wouldn't melt, but the cat had got the cream.
"Brought to a satisfactory conclusion, your grace?" asked one wag.
"That's a state secret. Sorry" Robert smiled apologetically.

Adele chose not to dignify this exchange with any kind of reaction whatsoever.
Elizabeth, however, rolled her eyes.
"Ewww... gross!" she said, loud enough for Robert to hear, but not so loud that he couldn't pretend he hadn't.
Robert glanced at the group of young bucks around her, caught between wanting to ingratiate themselves with her without offending him. Generally unsuitable matches, for various reasons, though likely one or two of them were aiming for one of her friends. No. No. Probably Not. Absolutely Not. Maybe. No.

Elizabeth caught his appraising glance, and stared back at him, daring him to say something, either about what she'd said or the company she was keeping. Robert decided against it. What was the point? He suspected that she was deliberately allowing the attentions of this - admittedly handsome - rabble to make an eventual candidate seem like an Emperor's only son by comparison. He needed to speak to their mother about the question of Elizabeth's marriage again... it wasn't a decision he could make, or at least not be seen to be making. But neither could the situation continue.

Robert took a breath, and then threw himself into enthusiastically greeting the awaiting nobles. He'd discovered that if he deployed enough warmth and charm and energy and a measure of informality, these interactions could be cut much shorter. That was the theory... it just didn't feel like it in practice. Not that night, anyway.

* * * * * * *

Robert made his way back to his rooms, walking quickly. He couldn't quite rid himself of the nagging worry that Estelle might be gone by the time he got there. Whether because she'd get bored with waiting, or she'd change her mind, or... something else. Fortunately, he needn't have worried.

Connor was stood by the door to his chambers. He gave his master a subtle nod.
"The macarons are inside, your grace, as requested. I have taken the liberty of delivering some other refreshments also. Will there be anything else, your grace?"
"No, Connor. Thank you for everything this evening."
"My pleasure, your grace. Goodnight". He bowed.
"Good night, Connor".

Robert opened the door to his rooms and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He tried the reception rooms first - it just seemed bad form to go straight to the bedroom, even if that's where he hoped Estelle would be waiting for him.

And so she was.

He stood in the doorway as she turned at the sound of the opening door.

"Oh... hello" he said, staring at her. He hadn't seen her without her mask... not since she was Leafy. She wasn't wearing her dress either, but that detail seemed secondary. Robert was lost for words for a moment or two, which... was not like him at all. He tried to rescue the situation by saying something witty, but nothing occurred to him. He was aware that he was staring at her. So familiar, and yet so unfamiliar. It was her, but it wasn't her. But of course it was. On the one hand, it felt obvious that that's how Leafy would look now. He could see a straight line between the child and the adult. On the other, she looked new and different and lovely. It was undeniably her. She was back. She was familiar and safe and comfortable... she was new and exotic and captivating. All at once, all at the same time. The best of both worlds. And it had broken something in his brain.

"I should have something clever to say" he said, "but you..." he paused, shaking his head, "you... spirits, but you're beautiful, Estelle. I feel like I'm finally meeting you again... finally seeing you. And... oh... I see you've decided to literally slip into something more comfortable."

"Come here, Estelle" he said, holding out his arms, grinning, still stood in the doorway. "I want to hold you. And then... other things. But right now I want to hold you and I want to look at you."
 
A speechless Robert was quite the rare sight. Estelle couldn't help but preen, more than vindicated by his wide-eyed admiration. She turned about to face him, propped up by one arm while the other draped lazily along her side. The cut of her slip left her leg all but bare to the world, only the slightest hint of lace catching halfway down her thigh. Slender and delicate, there was just enough softness in the shape of her to capture that alluring sort of femininity poets loved to compare to flower petals and the celestial curves of the moon. There was a sliver of her naked thigh on display before it was swallowed up in the satin of her stocking, the silkiest façade of snow so thin a proper blush seemed like it could melt the fabric.

He stared and she innocently beamed back at him. One little hitch of her fingers — that was all it would take to allow him a peek of her bare derrière.

She was tempted to make him come to her again, to settle himself on the bed where she could crawl into his lap. As ever, however, he was so earnest and gentle. This wasn't the first time he had asked her to approach him, she realized — even when he'd recognized her, keen for an embrace, he hadn't taken her into his arms until she'd thrown herself there. It didn't seem to be bashfulness (he certainly had no problem tossing out innuendos), but an unspoken sort of restraint. Was he afraid of forcing himself on her, or was there something else that made him hesitate?

Whatever the case, Estelle was determined to take her sweet time. Perhaps part of it was vindictive — he had made her wait a good little while, after all — but she was experienced enough to know the pleasure of anticipation. He wanted to see her and she wanted nothing more than to be seen by him.

"Only you would fall upon a tortured pun at a time like this." Estelle smiled, affectionate mischief on her lips. "And only you could be charming enough to get away with it."

Estelle took her time getting off the bed, rising with the grace of a budding snowdrop. Her long fingers curled around the bedpost as she made her way around it, her opposite hand occupied with her slip. Though it was wholly unnecessary to walk comfortably, it was so easy to drag her own hand down her waist before taking hold of the silken fabric and hitching it upward. With her slip split even higher against her leg as she walked, there was plenty for him to enjoy until she was finally within reach of his hands.

And yet! She skipped his awaiting grasp entirely, gliding her hands up the length of his arms as she pressed herself close to him. Her breath hitched when the warmth of his chest found her again, and suddenly she was very keenly aware of how little now separated her naked body from his touch.

Calm, stay calm! She tried to tell herself that this was no different from their interlude on the stairwell, no different at all from being held close when they'd danced. He could surely see it, though, the maidenly pink in her cheeks as she gazed up at him. Bereft of a mask, the mix of attraction, delight, and naked admiration was clear on her face.

She felt she ought to add something witty as well, perhaps some remark about how she should have entered the ballroom with no mask at all just so the first thing she'd see on him was that delightfully starstruck expression. With his arms finally around her once more, however, there was only one thing she could say.

"I missed you, Robin. I've missed you so very much."
 
Robert didn't take his eyes off Estelle for a moment as she slowly and delicately rose from his bed to approach him. She had such grace... she moved like a dancer, and this too seemed like a performance. And what a performance! Fingers caressing the bedpost, prompting thoughts of what else those skilful fingers might do. The entirely unnecessary but entirely welcome way in which she hitched up her little shift as if it were a grand ballgown that encumbered her movement. If he wasn't so enchanted by what he was seeing, he might have regarded it almost as a comic touch. She was so... if he had never set eyes on her before this evening, this would have been a treat. But as he had, and as she was her... familiar and unfamiliar... there was a whole other layer. What a pleasure to watch her. What a travesty that Lineham had got his sweaty little paws anywhere near her.... truly pearls before swine.

Although he had asked her to come to him, he was patient. Rather than waiting until she was within reach and then pouncing, he instead waited a moment longer before intending to scoop her into an embrace... only to find she'd beaten him to it, pressing her near-naked form against him. He wrapped his arms around her, chuckling, delighted. She felt soft and warm against him, and he was struck by just how nearly naked she was, and how little it would take to complete the job.

He felt a pang of guilt at her words. He had no doubt that she had missed him very much, and... yes, he had missed her. Especially after she had left so suddenly to return to her family, or so he was told. He did think of her from time to time, even made an enquiry or two, but that had not extended to actually doing anything significant to find her. He'd believed what he was told, allowed himself to get distracted. And there was a time when he'd regarded Leafy as part of a somewhat gauche, somewhat soft, somewhat... embarrassing time of his life when he was still a child, but perhaps should have known better. Not missing Estelle and not making a fuss had become bound up in notions of growing up, of maturity, of being the heir. Putting aside the trappings of childhood. Now he was older, he felt greater fondness for his childhood self, and felt a greater cringe for his later adolescent self.

This sense of guilt prevented Robert from answering in kind.
"You know" he said, instead, "I think I've missed being Robin. And I'm very glad you've come back to me, Leafy. It's so..." he paused, giving himself a moment to take in her beauty once more, "it's so lovely to see you looking so..." But rather than 'well', he finished the sentence with "beautiful".

He gave her a quick hug, pulling her close, tight, against him, so that he could feel as much of her naked body pressed against him as he could. He released the pressure after a moment and smiled fondly down at her.

"This is something you should be aware of, Leafy. A little rule I have... a rule of the Duke's bedchamber. I laugh and joke and tease and... chirp... but I'm serious about this rule. Three words: no faking pleasure. Ever. Okay, that's four words."

He withdrew his left arm from around her and gently but firmly placed his thumb and forefinger on her jawbone, lifting her head a little to emphasise eye contact.

"Every catch of your breath, every sigh, every gasp, every moan, every shudder... every sight or sound of pleasure, I expect to earn. I love giving pleasure, Estelle. It makes me feel... powerful is not quite the right word. I am the Duke. I am powerful. But I'm only Duke because father was, and he was only Duke because of who his father was, and because the Duke before him was weak and incompetent. This, though... this is all me. I'm told that some men seek only their own pleasure, rolling over when they're spent. I pity them... not knowing how it feels to make their partner cum hard. Faking pleasure is lying to your Duke... I mean, it's technically treason. Now, I'm not going to say that I can always tell the difference, because how would I know? I'm not saying don't be vocal if that's your way, but don't... never pretend."

"And I think... some instinct tells me that you may not have had your fair share of pleasure recently, Leafy. And I mean to put that right."
 
Estelle very nearly laughed at his spoken rule, but how could she blame him for harboring doubt? There was her history with Lineham for starters, and his own experience that was surely ripe with sycophants and pretenders. He didn't know the potency of his grip as his fingers teased her with the silk of her own slip, nor the little thrill of anticipation that buzzed down her spine every time he merely said 'pleasure.' There had been much she could hide behind the mask of a smile, but the way he made her flushed and breathless with so little effort was just a bit embarrassing.

Her chin was reluctant to comply with his guidance, but she didn't have it in herself to properly resist him. Estelle's eyes were inevitably drawn to his, the pale blue so full of nostalgia, longing, and joy they were on the brink of overflowing with tears.

Why now? Pull yourself together, woman!

Crying was a habit of Leafy the maid, not Estelle the lady. The trouble was, being embraced by him in the privacy of his chambers brought on a rush of emotion that quite overtook her. For a moment, it felt like no time had passed at all, and she was still a child with the audacity to sneak into his bedroom. All those evenings spent at his side, his long-suffering sigh when she started to nod off on his shoulder — there was no place in the world that had ever felt so safe and warm.

Yes, she was home. Against all logic, her heart had simply decided that she had a place to belong to, and that place was in the flickering candlelight of a spoiled brat's overindulgent bedroom.

Pragmatism wrestled with childish delight — she knew better than to nurse such sentimental thoughts, but being with Robin again was no longer a mere fantasy. She really was standing there, his arm around her while he insisted on pleasuring her. And the longer she stayed there, infected with the verdant warmth of his cologne, the less coherent her thoughts became. She didn't want to think about what was or wasn't real, whether she deserved him or not, or the consequences that would follow further intimacy.

The rest of her body wasn't nearly so confused as her head, however. Robert's mouth hadn't yet finished curving around the 'igh' in 'right' before her lips were on his. They were so close she merely needed to roll up onto the pads of her feet. A little tilt of her head, the curl of her fingers around the back of his neck, and then she was happily swallowing the remnants of his words.

How long had she waited for exactly that moment? She couldn't pin down quite when her feelings for him had developed into something more than companionship. As a maid, she'd been too young and ignorant to understand adult desire. It simply felt good to be around Robin, to have someone to poke, tease, and hug on a whim. Slowly, however, she had started to imagine more indulgent fantasies, ones in which he ran away with her into the woods. They'd live in a little hut together, she'd make him soups and pies from wild fruits and vegetables, and he'd snuggle her under a blanket when the nights got cold. Maybe, when their eyes locked and the gold of his hair was turned silver by starlight, he'd kiss her. Just a peck, just a little smooch, and then the image of such a thing would leave young Estelle squealing into her pillow.

The tenderness with which Estelle touched him now was ripe with such sentiments, somehow shy, indulgent, and gentle all at once. Her lips lingered on the curve of his, soft as the frills of a carnation. When she parted from him, she didn't go far, the curve of her forehead resting up against his.

"I don't want to disappoint a man thoughtful enough to earn my affections, but…" Her gaze burned with desire, and it was difficult to keep her breath steady as she spoke. "Robin. You cannot touch me in a way I won't adore. If you think there's holes to such logic, I dare you to test your theories now."
 
Robert was pretty sure Estelle wasn't pretending now. The way she was looking at him. Soft eyes.... eyes damp with happiness... eyes sparkling with joy and with desire. He'd told her how giving pleasure made him feel powerful, but he'd barely touched her yet, and the way she was looking at him made him feel eleven feet tall. What had he said or done to be worth a look like that? Well... he was him. He was Duke Robert. He had been Robin. As he saw Leafy and saw Estelle and found the continuation and the contrast intoxicating, so, he reasoned, must she. And however he might wish it were not so, perhaps life had never been kinder to her than he had been.

Any such speculations were cut short when she kissed him. She'd taken him a little by surprise... perhaps he had expected some witty retort or challenge to his alleged prowess. Telling him to prove that she didn't need to pretend. But perhaps they were past all that. He half-moaned, half-gasped as she kissed him, taken aback, but delighted. He smiled into her sweet kiss... she tasted so good, her lips so soft. He leaned forward a little, inclined his head downwards towards her. Even that strange feeling he'd had once when they'd wrestled didn't feel as good as this did. And again... when he'd first held her, he'd thought how well they fitted together. And now, how they seemed to known how to kiss each other in an instance, without any of the initial hesitation or experimentation.

He held her close as they kissed. Robert was sorely tempted to let an arm drift lazily downwards, a hand trailing over the swell of her backside, onto bare thigh, and then up again, slip his hand under her slip. He could almost imagine how that would feel, how she would feel. So close, so near. But no... not yet. Not quite yet. He knew better than to gulp his wine or bolt his banquet in a rush to the dessert course. He wanted to savour every morsel, extract every soupçon of pleasure.

Estelle broke the kiss, planting a few butterfly kisses on his lips, which he eagerly returned.
"You ask the impossible, Estelle" he answered, grinning again, "I find you in my bed, wearing... well, frankly, really very little.... you sashay across the room towards me, kiss me... and then expect logic from me? No, darling. No. Although... I must say that your hypothesis - such as it is - will require extensive and rigorous testing to see if it can be falsified."

"Now... my waistcoat will have to go at some point. My shirt too, afterwards... after my cravat, of course. Which you re-tied for me, I seem to recall, after you couldn't keep your hands off me. I could do all this myself, of course, but that would be a bit of a waste. For two reasons... firstly, I'd much rather have my hands on your body than on mine, and secondly... why do these things yourself when you have a maid to help you? Well, you are, of course, a terrible maid. But I see potential in you, Leafy, I really do."
 
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