Chapter Text
Nesta
Nesta closes her eyes, pressing her back more firmly against the wall and praying that the solidity it offers along her spine will ground her the way she needs. She tries desperately to take in a deep, heaving breath, but it's as though her lungs refuse, that burning sensation in her chest only twisting tighter and tighter with each passing second. She can't breathe. And a heaviness presses against her temples until she fears she may actually collapse.
Over and over again her mind replays that evening at the Beddor Manor.
The ball.
The gardens.
She swears that she can still feel the hot breath against her cheek. Swears that she can still feel the weight of his body and the prickle of the garden wall he trapped her against. Swears she can still feel those hands grasping at her hips and those fingers curling into the skirts of her dress. Swears she can still feel the sting of skin beneath her fingers from when she slapped him, her heart still beating as wildly as though she's shoved him away all over again.
She can still hear his words echoing and ringing in her ears as he'd wiped the blood from his bottom lip and stalked away. I'll have you one day, Nesta Archeron. A promise. A threat.
The sound of the bell echoing through the halls jolts Nesta free from her spiraling thoughts, and she tries to compose herself as she hears the echoing footsteps of their housekeeper, as she hears the door open and voices begin to fill the front entryway of their home.
"Good afternoon. I've come to call on Miss Feyre Archeron."
"Of course, your Grace. I shall inform the Lady of your arrival. And…"
"Ah. This is my brother, Mr. Cassian Valdarez, but do not worry. He's not here to also call on Miss Archeron." A low chuckle follows the words. "He seems to think I am in need of a chaperone as much as Miss Archeron."
Nesta can hear Mrs. Reynolds answering laugh to the teasing words, and she doesn't bother swallowing back her eye roll. She can perfectly picture the Duke's smirk, the one that seems to have her youngest sister under some sort of spell, and when Nesta dares to peer around the corner, sure enough, there it is in all its pretenious glory.
But then Nesta's attention catches on the man standing beside the Duke, his brother as he'd introduced to their housekeeper. He's tall, taller than the Duke, strong shoulders and a wide chest tugging at the dark fabric of his frock coat. Unlike most of the other men in London, his hair is styled long, the strands currently tugged away from his face and secured with a leather strap at the back of his head, and dark hair lines the skin along his jaw and cheeks.
Nesta remembers seeing him at the ball at the Beddor Manor, remembers hearing the Welsh lilt and dips curling around his words as he spoke with some of the other men in attendance. Remembers his bright hazel eyes that seemed to follow her across the ballroom the whole night.
The same pair of eyes currently staring at Nesta right now.
With a quiet gasp at being caught, Nesta is quick to duck back around the corner. She presses her hand against her mouth to keep quiet, holding her breath and waiting until she hears footsteps retreating down the hall and toward the drawing room. She takes a moment to breathe and compose herself again, straightening out the skirts of her dress before stepping fully away from the wall, before finally stepping around the corner.
"Done hiding?"
Nesta nearly jolts at the deep, warm voice, her eyes widening when she looks up and finds Mr. Cassian Valdarez still standing in her family's front entryway, still watching her, and now with a smirk tugging up the corners of his lips. A scowl twists across Nesta's own lips on instinct before she hears her mother's voice in the back of her mind, chastizing her about what proper ladies do and do not do, and she clears her throat and softens her expression back into something more neutral.
"I assure you I was not hiding."
Mr. Valdarez laughs quietly, the sound as warm as his voice. "Lurking, then."
"And what would you call what you're doing? If anyone is lurking, it is you, sir."
The words are tumbling past Nesta's lips before she can think twice, before she can bite her tongue and swallow them back down. She's suddenly glad that it's only her and Mr. Valdarez standing in the entryway. Had her mother heard such a brazen response, Nesta surely would have earned herself a slap of reprimand. She's sure the man before her must feel equally aghast at such words from a lady, but oddly, it's a wide grin that twists across his face, some sort of spark that seems to flare in his hazel eyes.
Nesta isn't sure what to make of such a reaction.
"And besides," Nesta continues, if only to fill the silence. "I am a lady, Mr. Valdarez. Ladies do not lurk. You should know better."
Mr. Valdarez hums, his lips twitching as though she's said some sort of joke, but there's an emptiness to the words that follow, an underlying layer of self-deprecation. "Haven't you heard? I wasn't raised like these other lords and such, so perhaps I don't know better."
It's enough to give Nesta pause, to have her frowning and sending a sharp pang echoing through her chest. She's certainly heard the way the mothers of London, including her own, like to whisper about untitled men like Mr. Valdarez, like to turn their noses up to the way they've made their money and their name, like to sneer at their roughen edges compared to the peerage.
"I don't listen nor care for gossip and rumors," Nesta assures him, and she means it. She's certainly familiar with being on the other side after what happened at the ball.
Mr. Valdarez steps closer to her, close enough that Nesta has to tilt her chin up to keep eye contact with him. Close enough that she can feel waves of warmth radiating off his body and the scent of low burning embers tickles her nose. Close enough that it's bordering on impropriety with no one else in the front entryway to act as a chaperone.
His eyes skate over her face, his head tilting slightly, and Nesta's spine locks up. There's something in that look, something in his hazel eyes. It's too knowing, leaves Nesta feeling exposed. It needles and prickles beneath her skin, like he's seeing through something Nesta certainly isn't willing to voice or name, seeing straight through her.
"I don't either."
His voice is quiet as he says the words, but it's laced with a heavy weight that has Nesta's breath hitching, an underyling meaning that has her unable to tear her eyes away from his. But awareness prickles up her spine all the same, that voice in the back of her mind screaming warnings and reminders. Warnings of just how little she can trust the men of London. Reminders of exactly what she was hiding from in the first place.
She takes a firm step back, finally tearing her gaze away and toward the hallway extending off the entryway. "It was lovely speaking with you, Mr. Valdarez, but I should be seeing to my sister."
Nesta turns away from him then, turns toward the drawing room, when fingers curl around her forearm, halting her. Her entire body freezes at the contact, her eyes snapping down to the touch, to Mr. Valdarez's large hand now pressed against her skin, the heat of it practically burning. She turns her wide eyed gaze back to the man's face in alarm, but he looks almost as surprised as she feels.
"Sorry, I—" He releases his hold on her, but his hand continues to hover in the air between them, his fingers flexing. "I just… I thought—I mean… I wanted to ask. Are you… alright, Miss Archeron?"
"Why would you ask me such a thing?"
"I merely…" He trails off, not finishing whatever thoughts sits heavy on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he clears his throat, straightening and tucking his hands behind his back. "It was nice speaking with you as well, Miss Archeron."
For a moment, Nesta merely watches him, the way he gazes right back at her. The man doesn't make sense. He's certainly unlike any of the other gentleman of London, and Nesta wonders if that's due to his Welsh roots or the fact he's not titled. Or if that's simply him. It's as intriguing as it is dangerous. And as the left side of Mr. Valdarez's lips tug up into a small, cocksure smirk at her continued staring, Nesta has a strong suspicion the feeling might be mutual.
~ * * * ~
Cassian
Cassian steps over to the shelf tucked to the side of the study. He picks up the decanter of brandy, swirling the amber liquid for a moment before pouring a finger length into a glass. He takes a sip, the deep, sweet taste blooming across his tongue. It's clearly a vintage. His brother always did have expensive tastes.
"She certainly seemed to appreciate my gift. You should have seen the way her face lit up."
Cassian snorts softly, amusedly, at that, turning around to face the room at large. Rhys is lounging in his usual chair, his own glass of brandy poised on the large, oak desk before him. Azriel sits across from him, one leg casually folded and tucked across the other. He has his usual cool and indifferent expression painted across his face, but Cassian knows him too well, and he doesn't miss that hint of fond amusement hiding in his hazel eyes.
"I'd say it's basically a done deal," Rhys continues. "I'm sure we'll be wed before the season's end."
"So confident," Azriel comments dryly. "You aren't worried about Tamlin? I've heard he's still courting Miss Archeron as well."
Rhys scoffs, taking a long, slow sip of his brandy. "He bought her paints. Plain and basic paints."
"So, then, what are you waiting for? Why not ask for her hand already?"
"When the moment is right."
Cassian continues to watch his brothers' back and forth, but he's not really listening. His mind continues to drift back to Miss Nesta Archeron. He still remembers the moment he first saw her at the Beddor Manor, the way he'd been enraptured and taken by her in a single instance. He'd always hated balls. The stuffy rooms. The fake pleasantries. The unsubtle looks and murmurs.
But then he'd seen her.
The burnished gold of her hair beneath the chandeliers. A pair of piercing blue eyes cutting across the ballroom. Cutting cheekbones and a dark blue dress that clung to her figure devastatingly. It had him not wanting to take his leave early for once. Had him desperate for the chance to catch a glimpse of her again. The chance to speak with her. To ask her to dance even with his two left feet.
It's almost unfair, how bewitching she is, how she floods his every waking thought. Haunts his every dream. Hell, he's half convinced his very heart seems to beat in time to her name. Nesta Nesta Nesta. It weighs heavy on his tongue, his lips, a constant pressure begging to be sung, to be breathed, to be whispered like a prayer at her altar.
It was pure luck that her sister should catch the eye of his brother. Pure luck that he weaseled his way into tagging along to the Archeron home while Rhys called on her. Certainly pure luck that he spotted her just around the corner of the entryway, that he got to see those icy blue eyes up close, that adorable scowl twisting its way across her lips before she hid it away again. He hadn't been thinking when he reached out his hand, but he'd seen it, that flicker of unease in her gaze.
A flicker of almost fear, but not at him.
"Have you heard anything about Miss Archeron's sister?" Cassian asks before he can bother trying to stop himself, before he can even bother checking back into the conversation to ensure his interuption isn't out of the blue.
From the way his brothers turn their heads toward him, it's clearly a mistake. Rhys raises a single eyebrow, his glass of brandy held inches from his lips, and Azriel's entire expression shifts into something between unimpressed and amused. And yet neither of them seems to look surprised at his outburst.
"Which sister?" Azriel asks, not even trying to conceal his smirk.
"You know which sister."
That earns a low chuckle from Azriel, but Rhys merely rolls his eyes. "Honestly, Cass, I don't understand your fascination with her. As if the current rumors aren't enough, I've also heard she's a viper."
"Exactly his type then. You know Cassian loves a woman that bites back."
Cassian shakes his head at that, stepping closer toward Rhys' desk and his brothers. "Can you just tell me what you've heard?"
He hates to press, but he knows that no one has a thumb on the pulse of London quite like Azriel. His brother always seems to know everything, practically a shadow himself with the way he moves, the way he listens. And it's a fact Cassian is all too happy to exploit today.
Azriel settles back more against his chair, crosses his arms across his chest. "After the scandal at the ball spread like wildfire, her father is working fast. Or trying to, might be a better description. From what I've heard, Miss Archeron is not keen on being wed to Tomas Mandray."
"Good. I don't need your penchant for secrets to know what sort of man he is." Cassian finishes the final dregs of his drink. "What sort of men that whole damn family is."
"It's not on you to save her, Cass."
He wants to scoff at Azriel's words. His brothers have always given him shit for his strong sense of duty, his honor. Especially during the war, during those long days and nights in the Mediterranean. But even if those days still haunt his steps sometimes, it's not the same thing now. He'd watched the way Miss Archeron had hurried from the gardens into the ballroom at the Beddor Manor, had tracked the way her hands had trembled, the catch of her breaths. He'd almost gone to her then before her sisters swooped in.
But he can go to her now.
"Mother save us," Rhys breathes, dragging a hand down his face. "I know that look. You're going to do something stupid, aren't you?"
"I seem to recall you encouraging me to take a wife just the other day."
"I remember, but I certainly didn't think you'd be looking to jump into marriage so soon, and not with…" Rhys doesn't finish the thought, clearing his throat and glancing away instead, but Cassian can fill in the blanks.
"You don't understand. There's something about her. Something—"
Familiar.
But Cassian doesn't say that. His English brothers don't share his own beliefs, but he still remembers the stories his mother would whisper to him as a child, sing to him. Stories of magic and destiny. It's those stories that still echo in the back of his mind when he thinks of her. When that familiarity, that surety settles in his bones, expanding through his chest like a golden thread.
"Just… trust me, alright?" Cassian requests of his brothers.
"And do you have a plan?"
"I just told you," Cassian scoffs at Rhys' question, at the dry, almost unimpressed tone of his voice. "Marriage. I'm sure Lord Archeron will appreciate my offer, considering the talk around London…"
Rhys' eyes narrow, almost as though he doesn't quite believe Cassian's words, as though the whole thing still doesn't make sense to him. But Cassian simply doesn't care what either of his brothers think, and he certainly isn't waiting for their blessing. He knows it's not conventional, marriage first and courting second, knows there's most likely an uphill battle awaiting him on the other side, but all he can think about is those trembling hands at the ball, that flicker of fear in the entryway. All he can think about is Tomas Mandray and that sickening feeling that twists low in his gut.
It's all that matters.
"You may have to work quickly," Azriel adds. "While Miss Archeron may be hesitant, I've heard the Lord and Lady are not. They may force her hand."
"Oh, don't worry, brother. I don't intend wait like Rhysie over here."
"So, you do have a plan? You're not just going to do something stupid?"
Cassian doesn't say anything, merely shrugs, but from the look Rhys and Azriel share with one another, his answer is clear enough.