Chapter Text
Nesta
Nesta takes a moment for herself, closing her eyes and focusing on her breathing. In out in out. If she listens closely, she can almost make out the sounds of the kitchen staff working, swears she can hear the soft sounds of the piano from her sister in the drawing room. But it's all quiet in this hallway. It's just her, alone, and the large door she can't quite bring herself to open.
She knows what's waiting for her on the other side of that door.
Her father may have been willing to be dismissive the last time they spoke, may have merely sighed his displeasure when she voiced her refusal at being wed to Lord Tomas Mandray. But she knows it can't last forever. She knows that it's not just her father waiting in his study for her this time, but also her mother.
And no one tells Elinor Archeron no.
Least of all her eldest daughter.
Right before Nesta's eyes, the walls are closing in tighter and tighter around her, and there's no escape. Not this time. But despite the knots twisting through her stomach like leaden stone, despite the sharp sting twining like an anchor between her ribs, all she can do is face it. All she can do is roll her shoulders and hold her head up high. All she can do is take one final deep breath and push open the study door.
Owain Archeron stands behind the large wooden desk at the center of the room, a piece of parchment Nesta can't quite read with the distance spread out before him. It's hard to tell anything from her father's face, from his deep brown eyes. He looks as bored as he always does, as though the dealings of his three daughters is some deep displeasure for him.
Elinor stands poised just in front of her husband's desk, spine straight and hands neatly tucked together. Her blue eyes, the same shade as Nesta's own, are cold where they pierce right through her, and Nesta can already see the way her mother's lips have started to purse. It's a look Nesta is all too familiar with, a warning, and her own spine straightens almost instinctively, bracing for the storm.
Nesta opens her mouth, ready to greet both her parents, but it's in that exact moment that she realizes they're not alone. She's not sure how she didn't notice him before. With the way he towers with his height, the way his wide shoulders and chest fill the space around him, Mr. Cassian Valdarez is hard to miss.
Much like that previous day in the front entryway, Mr. Valdarez has his hair pulled back and tied in a knot atop his head, the dark green color of his frock coat complimenting him well. Complimenting those bright hazel eyes of his. The ones currently pinned right on Nesta.
She waits to see that spark of a flame in them, waits to see a hint of that smirk he'd offered her once again, but instead he looks almost… nervous. His fingers twitch, and he fiddles with the sleeve of his frock coat before seemingly thinking better of it. It's enough to have unease ricocheting up Nesta's spine, and she tears her attention away from the man and back toward her parents expectantly.
"Nesta," her father offers, gesturing with his arm for her to step closer.
Swallowing down the lump threatening to build in her throat, the questions bubbling up and threatening to spill across her tongue, Nesta finally closes the study door. She takes the few steps forward to settle into the space beside her mother, subtly curling her fingers into the fabric of her skirts to steady herself, to ground herself.
"I presume you've met Mr. Valdarez?" Oswain continues in that same dry, almost bored tone of his. "He has asked for your hand after all."
"What?" Nesta asks before she can stop herself.
This certainly isn't what she had been expecting when she had been informed her presence was required in her father's study, and Nesta suddenly finds herself struggling to keep up. For a moment, it feels like the whole room is spinning, or perhaps that's just her mind, fingers scrabbling blindly for some sort of purchase. She and Mr. Valdarez had one single conversation that day in the entryway. She had no idea he was interested in courting her, let alone this.
"Perhaps, I could—"
Oswain sighs loudly through his nose, cutting off Mr. Valdarez's words. "You have already voiced your distaste at a match with Lord Mandray. Do you intend to protest to this match as well? May I remind you, daughter, that I will not allow you to stay in my home and become some spinster, so I recommend you think carefully about your decision. Whether that is Mr. Valdarez or Lord Mandray."
Nesta tries not to wince at her father's harsh words, but it's harder still to swallow down the response when Elinor's hand snaps out and curls around her forearm, nails biting into her skin. The irritation is clear in her mother's face when Nesta dares to glance toward her, that underlying threat burning so clearly in her gaze that Nesta can practically feel the echo of a slap across her cheek already.
"Did you forget that Mr. Valdarez is the Duke's brother?" Elinor hisses, her voice quiet enough for just Nesta to hear. "Think of the favor a match like this could curry, the consequences of a scorned rejection. Think of your sister. Especially after everything you have already selfishly done to ruin the Archeron name."
The protest burns on the back of Nesta's tongue. Everything she had done. As though she had been the one to lure Lord Mandray amongst the hedges and shadows of the garden. As though she had wanted his body trapping her, his hands grasping and tearing. It makes her want to claw at her own skin, has a scream lodging firmly in the back of her throat.
"Well, Nesta? Do you have a response for Mr. Valdarez?"
She supposes this is it for her, for her future. Everything will be decided in this single moment between breaths, between heartbeats. There would be no whirlwind romance like the women of her books, no courting or sweeping her off her feet. There would be none of the tentative touches and quiet words snuck between dances at a ball that she dreamed of as a girl.
Only this.
She knows that she if she declines Mr. Valdarez's offer, it will only result in her parents pressuring a match with Lord Mandray even more. Only result in them pushing and pushing until her bow finally broke, until that harsh whispered threat from the garden became reality. And that thought alone has her fighting back a shudder.
But would Mr. Valdarez be any better? Any different.
The monster she knows or the man she doesn't.
One final deep breath, one final moment to close her eyes, and Nesta cuts her gaze across the room again. "I would be honored, Mr. Valdarez."
~ * * * ~
It all happens in a whirlwind.
Nesta supposes it isn't surprising just how quickly her parents push to arrange everything. Anything to finally put the swirling rumors and talk to rest, to stop the whispers of the other ladies that always left her mother's lips curling at every ball. Anything to nurture that budding connection between Feyre and the Duke, tying the Archeron family to the dukedom forever. Anything to ensure Nesta has secured a marriage and is out of the manor, including moving at a pace that Mr. Valdarez can't possibly change his mind.
That Nesta can't ruin it, as her mother is always saying.
It's how Nesta finds herself wearing her best dress and standing inside a church, surrounded by her few members of family. How she finds herself standing across from a man she's spoken only a handful of words to, his large hands surprisingly warm where they completely encase her own. How she finds herself with a new name and the cool weight of metal against her finger.
It's how she finds herself riding in a carriage through the streets of London, watching the different homes and buildings pass by, the different people who are nonethewiser of what's occurred as they go about their day, the oil lanterns being lit as darkness begins to creep in. It takes everything within Nesta to fight back the urge to fidget and tug at the skirts of her dress, to pick at her nails and rub at that scar that's still there on the back of her hand. But there's no biting back the way her shoulders tense instinctively at the sound of a throat clearing across from her.
"I had hoped we would be able to speak properly… before…"
Nesta turns her head to look at Mr. Valdarez. He wore his hair down for once, the dark strands falling in soft waves down to his shoulders, and his face is completely clean shaven. Nesta almost misses the rough-hewn look. Still, his large shoulders stretch at the fabric of his dark tailcoat, and Nesta tracks the way his hand raises to scratch at his throat and tug at his starched collar. It almost has a smile twitching at her lips.
Almost.
But instead, Nesta turns her attention back out the window, just barely holding back a soft sigh. She can feel his eyes on her, feel the way he continues to watch her. It's as unnerving as the last time Nesta was on the other end of that stare. She doesn't know how one look can leave her feeling so splayed open, as though those hazel eyes can burrow straight beneath her skin, can crack her chest open to see every piece she's shoved down and kept hidden, every ice block built up around her heart.
She's surprised when she catches his hand reaching up into the space between them out of the corner of her eye, toward her face, but then he seems to think better of it, dropping that hand back into his lap instead. "Are you alright?"
Nesta whips her head back toward him with a frown. "Why would you ask such a thing?"
"You just seem… quiet."
It's not the response Nesta was expecting. This whole conversation isn't what she was expecting, his soft, warm tone. It's another piece to the puzzle of this man that makes no sense, that she's yet to unravel. The urge to tug at those threads niggles in the back of her mine. Questions burn on her tongue.
But she pushes it all down for a single question instead. "Is that not what a man wants of his wife?"
That question has the corner of his lips twitching, has that spark flaring in his hazel eyes again as he leans forward over his knees. "I think I prefer the woman who told me that I was the one lurking."
The reminder of that disastrous conversation in her family's entryway, of exactly how unrefined she was in the moment is enough to have Nesta fighting back heat from spilling across her cheeks. "I never should have made such a comment toward you, Mr. Valdarez. I—"
"I believe it's safe to say that you can call me Cassian now."
"Cassian…"
His lips tug up into a full grin at that, the slightly lopsided quality of it leaving Nesta pressing her own lips together in protest. He seems to clock it anyways, the smile she tries to bite back and hide, and he settles back in his seat again, crossing his arms over his chest. His gaze dances across her face, his lips parting as though to speak, but the carriage pulls to a jolting stop, effectively cutting him off.
Sighing softly through his nose, Cassian pushes open the carriage door and steps down. He reaches his hand back expectantly, and Nesta takes one final moment for herself before she slides her hand into his palm, allowing him to guide her down and out of the carriage. She blinks up at the building before her, the dark brown stone and the lines of white-trimmed windows.
"I'll have someone bring up your trunk," Cassian says, offering his arm. "It's this way."
Nesta settles her hand in the crook of his elbow, swallowing down her nerves as Cassian leads them inside, leads them up the stairs to the third floor apartments. It's simple furnishings that greet her when they step over the threshold, a small parlor and a hall that Nesta presumes must lead to the bedroom and bathing chamber.
"I've had this room made up for you," Cassian continues, stepping into the hall and opening the first door. "And mine is at the end of the hall, should you need anything."
Separate rooms.
Nesta tries not to let the revelation shock her, let it sting, as she nods and steps inside the bedroom, as she takes in the soft looking blankets of the bed, the evening purples and pinks creeping through the gap in the curtains. She's not sure why she expected anything more given just how fast everything moved, given their circumstances. They're aren't exactly a couple madly in love. She just hopes her new husband at least shows some discretion should he choose to take a mistress.
"And should I expect you later this evening?" Nesta dares to ask, determined to keep her head held high. "Or would you prefer to have me right now?"
Cassian tilts his head, stepping properly into the room, stepping closer to Nesta. He reaches out and takes Nesta's hands in his own, her fingers once again encased within the large span of his palms, the warmth of his touch. But this time, his thumbs trace an arch across her knuckles, the touch surprisingly gentle, the gesture surprisingly soft.
"No one will check your bedsheets here, sweetheart," he tells her, raising her hands to his lips and pressing a featherlight kiss to the backs of them. "Rest. I'll have someone sent to prepare a bath for you. We'll leave at first light."
Another breath passes between them, another heartbeat, and then Cassian is releasing her hands. He steps back, turning and heading back toward the bedroom door, and for a moment, Nesta can do nothing but blink at his retreating form. But then those words that have been whispering at the back of her mind since that day in her father's study, they claw up her throat and tear free before she can silence them.
"Why did you do it, then?"
Cassian pauses in the doorway, turning back toward her with a frown of confusion. "I don't know what you mean. Do what exactly?"
"Marry me. I presumed it was so you could bed me, but if that is not the reason, then why?"
"All of London knew that your father was hoping for a quick marriage after the Beddor's ball."
"Perhaps," Nesta concedes, but still refusing to back down. "But I don't see how that is relevant to you, how that led to your offer."
"Everyone knows that your father was hoping for it to be with Tomas Mandray. I know exactly what sort of man comes from the Mandray family."
"So, what? You're my white knight, then?" Nesta scoffs, crossing her arms and raising a brow. "Swooping in to rescue a damsel you deemed needed saving?"
Cassian doesn't say anything for a moment, glancing away from her, but Nesta can see the way his jaw works, the way he swallows. It feels like answer enough, fire sparking and blazing beneath Nesta's skin at the unspoken admission.
"Pride, then. I finally have my answer. There truly is nothing like the male ego."
He laughs lowly at that, the sound dry and humorless. "I suppose a thank you is out of the question then."
"What is there to be thankful for?" Nesta sneers, daring to take a step closer to him. "Who would be grateful to be the wife of an untitled, ungentlemanly bastard?"
She watches the exact moment her words land like a blow directly to his chest. He hides it well, turning his face away from her completely, but she can see the cut they slice all the same. Regret burns cold in Nesta's chest, twisting tighter and tighter until it weighs like a stone in her gut. Her lips part, words poised on the tip of her tongue, but before she can say anything, before she can take the words back, Cassian is moving, stepping out of the room and back into the hall.
"Goodnight, Nesta."
~ * * * ~
Cassian
Cassian stares at the dying, flickering flame. Soon, he won't need it. Soon, the pale blues and pinks filtering through the windows will give way to soft, golden yellows as the sun rises past the horizon. He'd tried to return to his own room the previous evening, but after his conversation with Nesta, after everything with her, his mind had been too restless. He'd retreated to his study instead, tried to drown his racing thoughts in his papers, tried to distract himself with finishing up any final threads tying him here in London.
But it had all been futile attempts.
Over and over again, his mind circled around her. The way she looked in her dress standing in that church in front of him. The way the light had spilled through the stained glass windows, dancing across her cheeks and catching in her eyes. The warmth and weight of her hands held securely in his own. Right where they belonged if you asked him.
Of course, that particular feeling wasn't reciprocated.
He knew with the way everything went down, the speed of it all, that there would be a bit of an uphill trek. He certainly hadn't expected Nesta to jump into his arms, especially when he didn't get the opportunity to speak with her properly before his proposal, before the wedding. Especially with the way his plan hadn't really extended beyond just the marriage part.
But he hadn't been expecting things to turn out like… this.
Sighing softly, Cassian drags a hand down his face and reaches for a fresh piece of parchment. He grabs the pen and inkwell next, but pauses when there's a soft, almost tentative knock on the door of his study. He glances toward the windows again, toward the light beginning to spill through the pane as the sun rises. He supposes it's time to ensure the carriage is ready for their journey. To wake his new wife.
"Enter," Cassian calls out.
The handle turns, but when the door pushes open, it's Nesta that steps inside his study. Her hair is pinned away from her face in a neat and tight braid, much like the previous day, but this morning, she's wearing a much more simple, pale grey dress. Clearly, she's prepared for a day of travel.
Cassian watches the way her eyes flit around the room, taking in the rugs and the chairs, the shelf along the far wall and the meager amount of books he keeps here in his London flat. Her fingers fiddle and tug at the hem of her sleeve before she seems to think better of it, tucking her hands behind her back instead and raising her chin.
"Did you sleep al—"
"I wish to apologize," Nesta cuts him off, taking a small step closer to his desk. "For my words last night."
Cassian snorts softly, pushing up to his feet. He dares to take a moment to stretch his tired limbs after sitting all night, raising his hands high above his head. It takes all his effort to bite back a smirk when he notices the shift in Nesta's eyes, the way they jump to his arms, his stomach, if only for a brief moment. When he notices the smallest twitch of her lips.
"You shouldn't," Cassian finally says, stepping around his desk. "Nothing you said was untrue. I am untitled. I certainly don't have the training or schooling of my peers." He laughs again, this time self-deprecating. "And I am a bastard."
"So, what? You don't accept my apology?"
"I didn't take you as someone who apologizes." That earns him an eye roll of her pretty blue eyes, and Cassian lets the smirk finally break free. "Are you ready for our travels, Nes?"
That one earns him an adorable scowl. "Do not call me that."
Cassian hums, tipping his head down closer to her, tracking that spark of silver in the sea of her blue eyes. "That didn't answer my question."
"And how far is the journey? To Wales?"
"It should take us about three days of travel." He places his hand at the small of her back, gently guiding her back toward the door of his study. "But first, I'm sure the kitchen staff prepared quite the feast, and it would be rude not to indulge."
After a spread of breakfast and tea, Cassian and Nesta are clambering back into his carriage and leaving the bustling streets of London behind for the quiet country roads that will lead them north. It gives Cassian another opportunity to watch her, to trace the lines of her cheek bones, that one strand of hair that's fallen free from her updo and tickles across her temple. She keeps her head turned to watch out the window, but Cassian catalogues every time her eyebrows dip, every time her lips twitch and twist.
One day, he'll catalogue her every look. One day, he'll get those lips to part into a smile, earn a laugh.
"You know," Cassian begins, trying not to shift too much in his own seat. "Soon, this journey will take half the time. When the rails are finished."
Nesta hums, her eyes darting toward him before returning back toward the window and the passing scenery. But then she doesn't say anything else, the silence stretching like an expanse between them. Cassian clears his throat, tugging at the collar of his shirt, and he just prays the entire journey to Wales doesn't continue this way.
But by the time they're stopping for the first time to change the horses, nothing has changed between them. And by the time they're stopping to change the horses again, the stifling silence grates against Cassian's skin like nails. Enough that he pushes open the carriage door and steps out under the guise of supervising the change just to gulp down a deep breath of fresh air.
He quickly pops into the coaching inn, handing over a coin to a chambermaid with an easy, charming grin. The new team of horses are ready when he returns, and he slips back inside the carriage with his new purchase.
"What's that?" Nesta asks once Cassian's settled in his seat, the carriage starting again with a gentle lurch.
"May I?" Cassian asks back instead, gesturing toward her feet.
Nesta's eyebrows pinch, her eyes narrowing, and she stares at him for a long moment before finally nodding. Cassian reaches for her right foot first, carefully lifting it up and onto his lap. His fingers work at the laces until he can slip her shoe off, curling around her stockinged ankle as he sets the shoe aside. He can feel the shudder that jumps through her at his touch, and for a moment, his fingers flex before he sets her foot down to focus on the left one.
"As we move further north and as the sun sets, it's only going to get cooler," Cassian explains, sliding Nesta's left shoe off her foot. "Lift your legs onto the seat."
That confused frown still twists Nesta's lips, but she does as he requests, curling her legs up and onto her seat. He picks back up the brick he purchased, the warmth already seeping through the gray flannel wrapped around it and into his hands. He leans forward, arranging the skirts of Nesta's dress and tucking the brick right between her stockinged feet.
"Oh," Nesta sighs softly, her eyes fluttering in a way that has Cassian's heart jolting between his ribs, has heat spilling low in his gut. "That's nice."
"Better, sweetheart?"
A pretty pink starts to spill across the apples of her cheeks, clearly having not intended such a response tumbling free, but she shifts slightly in her seat, curling her feet more against the brick. "My… my sisters would always tease me because I was always cold. When we were just girls and shared a bed, Elain would get mad that I stuck my cold feet against her legs."
"We can get a quilt at the next stop to change the horses."
"That won't be necessary. I'll be fine."
It's a small thing, practically an offhanded comment, but Cassian frowns all the same. Azriel had mentioned the whispers of the Archeron's current financial state, the whispers of the risks that Lord Archeron was making, not all of them paying off. How many times had Nesta pushed aside her own needs, her own wants, as a result? How many times did she simply dismiss and shoulder that weight? Did she have anything just for herself?
~ * * * ~
By the time the carriage is pulling into the final coaching inn for the day, darkness has completely blanketed across the rolling hills and trees of their surroundings. And somewhere along the road, as the horses continued to lead them north and west, they rode straight into a storm, rain now lashing against the carriage doors and windows.
Cassian can see the weariness clinging to Nesta's limbs, around her eyes, and he's sure that the brick between her feet has long gone cold at this point, but she doesn't complain, doesn't say anything. When the carriage finally comes to a jerking stop, he helps to slip her shoes back onto her feet and lace them up again. Then, he reaches for her cloak, helping to secure it around her shoulders and gently tugging the hood up and over her head.
He tries not to let his fingers linger for too long, but then Nesta's eyes meet his from beneath the lip of her hood, and Cassian feels like he can't breathe. It takes all of his will power to drop his hands again, to merely offer her an easy smile instead of pulling her into him. It takes all of his willpower to breathe again and turn, pushing open the carriage door. At least the rain firmly shoves him back into the present, the harsh droplets quickly wetting his hair and dripping down his face.
He steps down and directly into mud, wincing at the squelch of his boots as they sink. He glances toward the entrance of the coaching inn, toward the distance that stretches between it and the carriage, before returning his attention to where Nesta is now moving to step down as well.
"It's quite muddy from the rain," Cassian tells her. "It might be best if I carry you so you don't slip."
Nesta makes a face at that, clearly dubious, but one look at the still pelting rain, and she allows him to slip one arm around her knees and another beneath her shoulders. The weight of her in his arms, secure against his chest, has Cassian's fingers flexing again, and with her head tucked against his shoulder to keep her face out of the rain, he can just make out the sweet scent of vanilla and lilies, even beneath her hood and the rain. If it weren't for both, Cassian might be tempted to bury his nose against her hair.
His long legs and strides make quick work of the muddy terrain, trying his best not to jostle Nesta too much but get her out of the rain as quickly as possible. He sets her down back on her feet when they step inside the coaching inn, moving toward the slightly battered and worn down innkeeper's desk. It doesn't take long to ensure his request he sent ahead with a servant was met, to slide the required gold coins across the desk and receive the old looking key in return. With the key in hand, he leads Nesta up the slightly rickety wooden steps and to their room.
"I ensured there would be a hot bath in the room," Cassian explains, pushing open the door and gesturing for Nesta to step inside. "Warm up, and I'll go see about getting something to eat."
Nesta pauses just inside the doorway, taking a moment before saying, "thank you."
"You don't have to thank me, Nes."
The use of the nickname has her rolling her eyes, but it pulls a smile to Cassian's lips, seeing some of that weariness melt away. He pulls the door closed, leaving Nesta to it and heading back down to the main floor of the coaching inn. It's easy enough to pay and get what he needs, and he waves off the chambermaid that offers to bring them to the room. Instead, he opts to carry it all back to the room himself, carefully balancing everything in his arms.
Nesta is sitting at the small, worn vanity table in the room when Cassian steps back inside, running a brush through the now wet strands of her hair. Cassian nearly trips over his own feet at the sight, nearly goes stumbling head first into the floor, the earthen bowl full of stew in his hands with him. He never knew a woman could be so beautiful, never knew he could be felled simply by golden brown strands falling in soft waves and tickling Nesta's waist. She looks so soft, so comfortable, skin slightly pink from the bath and clad in a simple shift.
Shaking his head, Cassian rights himself and his mind, finally closing the distance with the vanity table and setting the bowl of stew down against the wood. "I can't guarantee that it's good, but it's at least warm."
Nesta hums, setting down her brush and picking up the spoon. Satisfied that she's eating, Cassian steps away again. He tugs free the extra quilt he'd draped over his shoulder, taking the time to spread it out onto the bed and the blankets already piled there. When he turns back around, Nesta is already watching him, lips parted and hand poised with a spoonful of strew halfway to her mouth.
"How's the stew?"
Nesta snaps her attention back to the bowl, digging the spoon back into the contents. "Terrible."
Cassian laughs easily at that, earning him the smallest hint of a lip twitch in return. He peels off his waist coat and tosses it over one of the bed posts. He ignores the tub still in the center of the room, opting instead to wash his hands in the basin of fresh water. He grabs a rag and dips it in the water, dragging the fabric over his face and along the back of his neck.
It's not much, but it will do for the night, especially when they'll be back in the carriage come first light. With a soft, weary sigh he sits down and sinks into the bed, working on his boots next.
"Did you not get a second room?" Nesta asks, watching him again.
"Willing to share a carriage but not a bed with me, sweetheart? Did you forget we're married now?"
"What happened to no one checking my bed sheets?"
"It's just sleep," Cassian assures her, shifting on the bed so he can stretch out his legs and drawing an X over his chest. "Cross my heart as a gentleman."
"I seem to recall a certain conversation in my family's home where you informed me that you weren't a gentleman," Nesta fires back, even as she stands up and walks over to the bed, carefully sitting and tucking her feet beneath the blankets.
Cassian watches her the entire time, watches the way she takes a moment to adjust the blankets, including the extra quilt he purchased, the way she gathers all of her hair over one shoulder and begins to work the strands into a simple braid. Watches the way the movement causes her shift to slip slightly off her shoulder, revealing a sliver of pale skin and a smattering of freckles.
"More of a gentleman than many of the patrons at a coaching inn such as this," Cassian finally finds his words again to answer. "If you must know, it's the reason I opted only one room be reserved."
She doesn't say anything in response to that, but Cassian can see her lips twitch. Clearly, the answer is another nail in the coffin of her perception of him. Prideful, that was the word she used. That's how she sees him. A peacock showing off his gallantry.
He's not sure she's wrong, though. Some baser instinct within him screeching protect protect protect. It's the same voice that whispers mine.
Nesta finally settles properly, and Cassian tries not to let it sting too much that she's turned her back fully to him, that she's practically tucked herself all the way to the edge of the bed. With a silent prayer to the Mother for strength, Cassian shifts as well. He reaches to extinguish the oil lamp, plunging the small room into darkness.
"Goodnight, Nesta."