A/N: Wow...I can't believe it's already been five months since I posted something new. Yikes... In my defense, my laptop crashed soon after my last update and basically wiped out everything I had. I'd made a backup a year ago, but since I've done a lot of writing since then, much of everything recent is gone. Suffice to say, I was not a happy camper and was extremely discouraged. I didn't even want to look at PRO BONO for the longest time because all my outlines, summaries and pre-written scenes were all gone. Anyhow, there's no point in crying over spilled milk, but I just want to warn you all that I might completely redo PRO BONO. I'll keep most of what's already up, but since I can't remember exactly what I meant to do with it, I might as well strike anew.

In the meantime, this fic came flowing beautifully out of my fingers this past week. I've integrated the duke!verse of my ANOTHER LIFETIME collection into this and it basically fleshes out the story. This will come in four parts. I'm nearly done with all of them, so this should be up in its complete glory within the next couple of weeks. A lot of the material in these first two parts are not necessarily new, but it's rearranged to make more sense. Thanks for your patience and I hope you enjoy this!

THE PORTRAIT

ONE

Nibelheim, 1710

Cloud Strife, the notorious sixth Duke of Midgar, was the type of man that everyone would love to hate. His long-revered title came in conjunction with a disgusting amount of wealth upon which each year he seemed to add with staggering consistency. He was worshiped in all circles, whether it be social, political, or even the underground criminal world (though of course none would dare breathe a word that the duke was involved in anything remotely nefarious).

Astounding wealth and impeccable social status would be bad itself by themselves, but to add insult to injury, he was also obnoxiously attractive, though that was far too frail a word to describe the extent of his physical beauty.

Yes, his were the portraits that women of all ages sighed after: the young ladies in wishful dreams wherein he would sweep them off their feet and bind himself in sweet matrimony with them (because of course, no proper young lady would dare be seen with him alone otherwise), the old in wistful sighs wherein they lamented that he wasn't born forty years earlier, and—Cloud's personal favorite—the independent young widows who threw sultry glances at him (and some, quite a bit more) in hopes of a night with the infamous duke.

One would think that his lethal popularity with the fairer sex would have embittered the male half of the population against him, but reality was that everyone fawned over Cloud. No one could afford not to. Not to say he didn't have his enemies, but for all his arrogance and high-handedness, the man himself was actually quite likeable.

Those (very far) beneath him in station could not complain at his generosity and thoughtfulness; those (very, very few) above him thought him to be the image of trustworthiness; and those of equal station…actually, he did not treat those of equal station with much respect at all save for a select few, but perhaps that was a sign of his superior intelligence more than a defect in character. After all, he was never one for the rampant hypocrisy that seemed an inborn trait of the aristocracy.

But he was the Duke of Midgar after all and none would dare oppose him openly.

Perhaps that was why he was somewhat surprised that it was amusement, albeit the kind laced with the decidedly baser emotion of lust, and not irritation tickling his lips when she dared to defy him.

"No," emphatically repeated the lovely Lady Tiffany Lockhart, the only daughter of the Earl of Nibelheim, as if her first refusal was not loud enough, though he could have sworn the echoes of its shout reverberated against the drawing room walls even still.

"No, Tifa? Are you very sure?" he murmured as he disregarded etiquette and crowded into her personal space. She instinctively took a step back, but she could only retreat so far before the wall met her back and she was trapped between two very immoveable objects, one of which she annoyingly found herself unconsciously swaying towards. She caught herself quickly, but not enough to escape notice.

Her glare when she caught him smirking would have felled a lesser man, but this was Cloud Strife and nothing could discompose him.

"No," she said once again. He had to give her credit for keeping her voice as steady as such since he could feel the whole length of her delectable body trembling. He dared flatter himself in thinking it to be desire.

The corners of his lips curved into a slow, burning smile, one that promised long, long nights and a violent shiver coursed through her body and seeped into his. "No, you are not very sure? Or no, you don't want me?"

It pleased him that it took her a full ten seconds before she could drag her gaze from his lips to his eyes and another five before she could reply, somewhat shakily this time, "The second."

He brought his hand up to her face, deliberately grazing his fingertips ever so lightly against the outer curve of her breast as he did so. "I think you're lying. I think you want me just as much as I want you."

Her cheeks flushed a delightful shade of red, but she refused to answer.

Cloud pondered his options. With any other woman, he would have simply laid siege on her lips until she relented in bliss—which, admittedly was what his body ached to do—but Tiffany Lockhart was not just any other woman. If he played his cards right, she would be his wife in less than a month. There was no need to rush, and somehow he knew that to push her too far too quickly would have her refusing him even more soundly. Yes, his best option was to retreat for now.

Decision made, he prepared himself to pull away from her—an action infinitely more difficult than he would have ever suspected.

But…he glanced down at her eyes, half-lidded and utterly seductive though he was fairly certain she had no idea she was doing it, and found himself grinning. Surely he could give her—and himself—a little taste of what was to come?

The tip of her tongue came out to moisten her dried lips and he groaned. What a fool he was to think that he could resist!

His lips came upon hers before he was even aware of it.

At any other time, this lack of awareness would have startled him, but in this moment, as he caressed those full lips with his own, he was only aware that it felt wonderfully like coming home.

Midgar, 2010

It was one of those days that made Tifa Lockhart wonder how she was ever going to survive the term, much less graduate. It wasn't so much because she had so much to do as it was that, well, she had too much to do.

Sad to say, putting together her art portfolio for submission to finally graduate from that blasted institution known as university, nerve-wracking as it was, was actually the fun part of her schedule. And from the looks of the blank sheet of paper staring back at her from her sketchpad, that "fun" part of her schedule wasn't getting done.

With an irritated sigh, Tifa packed up her equipment as she lamented another wasted afternoon. Well, if nothing else, at least she'd been granted a couple hours of reprieve from her overly loquacious roommate. She loved Yuffie dearly and was grateful to be rooming with her, but sometimes the girl really just didn't know when to stop talking. Ever.

She just knew that the moment she stepped through the front door of their apartment, Yuffie would be bugging her about going clubbing with her again. Contrary to what Yuffie thought, Tifa did in fact know how to have fun; she just preferred the kind of fun that was a little quieter.

She took a moment longer to savor the peace of the museum's gallery. Some people thought that museums were cold and forbidding, but she'd always felt comfort among the relics of old. She wondered many times if she should have gone into history instead of design, but nothing, not even her love for history could come close to the thrill of ecstasy she felt when she was in the midst of creating a work of art. Or maybe they were tied in after all because she loved imagining what the story of every artifact might have been. In a way, it was still all about art and creativity. For her, art and history had always gone hand in hand.

Of course, according to Yuffie, Tifa was spending way too much time with her pictures and old people stuff when she should have been worrying about more important things—like hot guys.

She turned toward the exit and paused, her eyes drawn as only an artist's would be to the perfection captured in the portrait hanging by the door. She wasn't sure how she missed it on her way in, but now that she saw it, she was irresistably drawn to it. She found herself standing right in front of it before she was even aware that she had moved.

It was a beautiful painting, and even though it was probably close to three hundred years old, the colors were still as bright and vibrant as ever. But it was not the superior technique that drew her artist's admiration. No, what truly caught her attention were the eyes.

Eyes filled with the brightest blue she'd ever beheld and even as she sifted through her mental color palette, she knew that it would be impossible to recreate such a unique shade of summer sky and clear ocean reef all rolled into one. The eyes were set in a face of impossible masculine beauty, striking lines that marked a straight nose, a stubborn set of a jaw, eyebrows that could only be fashioned by the most meticulous sculptor, and lips pressed into a thin line, as if he were angry…or perhaps unbearably sad. The perfection of his image extended to the wondrously built form of his body, even encased as it was in the layers his suit as was the fashion then. Still she could easily make out the broad length of his shoulders and chest tapering to narrow hips and strong thighs.

It made her smile unconsciously when she noted that everything about the subject matter screamed noble…save for that wild stand of unrepentant blonde hair rising in all directions from his head. She liked to think that perhaps he might have been burdened with heavy responsibilities from birth, but he knew that life was more than duty.

She did not know how wistful her sigh was as she gazed into the image of a man who she could have loved. Startled, she shook her head at her thoughts.

Her friends told her that she was too obsessed with her art; maybe they were right after all. Falling in love with a portrait? Good lord, maybe she really should go out to the club tonight.

"Tifa…"

She spun around sharply at the faint whisper of her name but the few others in the gallery were absorbed with their own musings. Heart beating with almost painful speed, she caught her breath and surveyed the room once more. She had probably imagined it. The voice had been so soft, but her heart ached terribly for some reason and she could not rid herself of the touch of that melancholic tenor against her ears.

The back of her neck prickled with awareness, as if someone was watching her intently, but she knew even as she turned back to the portrait that the only person staring at her possessed eyes of impossible blue allure. She looked back into those eyes and lost herself in his world.

Perhaps he had been a nobleman, a duke even. He certainly had the bearing. He would have set the world afire with those pensive lips and expressive brows. She wished she could have met him. His voice would have been a seductive melody, soothing her fears even as she melted into his arms. His lips would have feathered against her hair and her temples, her cheeks and nose before settling first gently, then with greater fervor against her willing lips. His hands, those elegant masterpieces, would have gripped her firmly around the waist, pulling her tighter against his hard body while his fingers drummed hypnotic beats against her back, her hips, her thighs.

His tongue touched hers and she lost herself in sensation, her fingers digging deep into the nape of his neck and dragging through the soft down of his hair. She raised herself higher on her feet and tried to get closer, closer, closer to that elusive sense of completion, but it seemed nothing could quench the burning fire that raged throughout her body.

"Cloud," she moaned in desperation, the heretofore unknown name coming naturally to her lips.

And as suddenly as that, she found herself thrown back into the art gallery, her breathing heavy as if she had just run a mile. Or had just been kissed out of her mind.

Oh god. She had just fantasized about a man in a portrait. She raised shaking hands to her cheeks and found them heated, but whether it was from embarrassment or unfulfilled desire, she could not say.

She really needed to get away. She turned to leave, but she couldn't help herself as she checked the small plaque beneath the painting hoping to see the name of the artist. Somehow she wasn't surprised when it was assigned as "Unknown."

Pity she would not be able to research other pieces of art from the brush of this master, but it seemed fitting that such a majestic work of art did not have a known artist. If she didn't know better, she could almost swear that something like this could only be the work of a god. Maybe that was why…

Just forget it! cried the sensible part of her mind. The rest of her agreed after only the briefest hesitation.

The club was starting to sound better and better.

…

If one had been very carefully observing the portrait of the unnamed man by the unknown artist, they would have been startled to find that those bright blue eyes darkened fractionally as they shifted to watch an unsettled young brunette hurry out of the gallery. Then they would have seen the hard lips curve into a possessive smirk, one dark enough to send shivers down the spine of the bravest soul.