Step, lunge, strike, passata sotta.
"Point, Elizabeth Midford!"
Step, parry, flunge, miss—
"Point, Charles Grey!"
Parry, spin, lunge, strike—
"Point, Charles Grey! Match ENDED!"
Elizabeth feels like she's in an opiate daze, standing back so the referee could leave the ring before she removes her fencing mask. The entire stadium is silent and though the match was informal, Elizabeth knows she dueled terribly. To anyone else, the bout might have looked a revelation but to those who know the fencing prodigy well, it's the worst game she's ever fought in.
Charles Grey seems to realize that too.
When he removes his mask, his expression is far from proud—in fact, he looks insulted.
"What the hell was that?" He demands, marching up to Elizabeth without explanation or decorum. No bow, no sweeping words of mockery or thanks. "That was like fighting a feral boar with a broken hind leg."
His words cut, sharp and sure, but Elizabeth's emotional spectrum has been put through hell already. Instead, all she does is nod—jade eyes not meeting his. "I quite agree." Her voice is a wisp, delicately faint. "You oughtn't feel as if I didn't try on purpose—or because I thought this match trivial—"
"Then why did you duel like a dying schoolgirl?" He snaps, crossing his arms in irritation. "You're Elizabeth Midford. You're a British knight. Duel like one."
Elizabeth keeps her temper in check, suppressing the weary agitation Lord Grey seems to incite without trying. "I understand that today was not my best performance. You can expect something better from me come next week—I won't have you stealing my title so easily." A faint—very faint—smile appears on her lips and she tilts her head up, ever so slightly.
Grey looks unimpressed, silver eyes indifferent and mouth downturned. But he scoffs and gives an arrogant shrug, nodding towards Elizabeth's fencing sword. "You better. It's dreadfully boring now, being the best there is. I can't let my only source of entertainment die off as well."
"I'm afraid you still can't lay claim to that title, Lord Grey." A streak of Lizzy shoots up her spine, bright and golden and beautiful. "Had I not been so neglectful, your counter-attack would have been blocked by my riposte."
"Wishful thinking, my lady." He says that part scornfully—full of mockery and derision but there's a spark of curiosity in those bored grey eyes.
Lizzy allows an impish smile to appear, repressing those memories in favor of some normalcy—for as long as she could. "Oh, I saw you Lord Grey—your footwork was impeccable but you neglected the positioning of your left arm, ever so slightly. A speculative turn of the sword by me, a brief two step in your direction and you would be the finest one armed duelist in Britain. Perhaps you could even write a biography—How To Lose Arms And Gain Notoriety."
"I'm already notorious." He snorts disdainfully but he can't hide the smirk on his mouth nor the faint glimmer of interest in his eyes.
Charles Grey hates boredom and Elizabeth Midford is the antithesis of that. So he supposes he likes her—to a degree.
He gives a sweeping glance around the stadium and then looks back at Elizabeth, realizing there's a bit more life in those emerald green depths than before. "Try not to fall into a state of unnecessary shock next time, hm?" He advises cheekily. "I understand seeing me is an undeniable thrill but you can't let that head trauma affect your fencing! That's no way to keep my interest." There's a certain stuck-up, overtly proud cockiness in his tone but—fainter, belying this show of self-importance—is a genuine warning. Whether it's said out of concern or something else, Elizabeth can't tell.
Instead, she gives him a mock curtsey and takes a step back. She's only a head shorter than him but in presence and posture, they're equally matched.
"Thank you for your words and sterling advice, Lord Grey. I'll be sure to keep that in mind come our next match."
"A week from now."
"A week." Elizabeth confirms.
Earl Grey scoffs, moving his sword from his right hand to his left. "Shake on it." He commands. "Gentleman's agreement—although you're an exception." He gives her a roguish grin as Elizabeth balks.
"Lord Grey! I would never think to engage in such a practice if you consider dueling as a betrayal of my femininity—"
"Nonsense." Grey shrugs carelessly though his eyes are mischievous. "You don't see me shaking hands with any other women now do you? They're all teetering fools who bore me to tears. You're fun to be around, Lady Elizabeth."
He holds out his hand and it takes Elizabeth another half second to realize what he's offering.
An accord of equal agreement.
When she finally becomes cognizant of this, Lizzy struggles to hold in a bout of hysterical laughter. Charles Grey—a complete stranger in comparison to her Ciel—is offering her more autonomy and respect than her own fiancé. The irony was too much.
Swallowing her initial reaction, Elizabeth takes a step forward and tentatively clasps hands with the queen's messenger. "You don't pay much heed to propriety do you Lord Grey?"
He shrugs. "Propriety's all well and good when it keeps the peace. And besides, I don't see anything wrong with lending you a bit of mirth."
Elizabeth drops his hand, suspicion and a creep of fear dawning on her. Did she look miserable? Sad? Was that why Ciel didn't want to see her? Because she was doing a terrible job of hiding her melancholy?
"Don't look so sad." He orders, sounding quite annoyed—as if Elizabeth's very thoughts were a burden. "A Phantomhive's not worth the trouble."
The words—flippantly said and expertly executed—hit her like a bolt of lightening, one thrown from Olympus by the hand of Zeus. It strikes her terribly, twisting and burning her insides as she looks up at Grey, their eyes locking. For a full half minute, silence comes over them before Elizabeth forces her jaw to unclench, giving him a hesitant smile. "I do believe you're mistaken, Lord Grey. It's just that I've been feeling a bit under the weather, you understand don't you? The drifting air currents and—"
Grey laughs.
Outright laughs. Blithely, comically—as if Elizabeth's just said the funniest, wittiest jape in all the world.
"Oh Elizabeth Midford." He chuckles, uncrossing his arms to tilt her chin up.
She freezes. His hand—even encased in the soft leather glove—radiates heat.
"You're a fantastic fencer but a terrible liar. If you were a scamp living on the East End, you'd survive. But not because of your guile—it's your pretty face that'd save you." His words are audacious—scandalous—and inappropriate for a lady's ears. But then again, hadn't Grey just called her a brute? One who could shake hands with a man because she was so ungainly and awful?
Without meaning to, tears welled up in her eyes. That must be why Ciel avoids me. Who would want a fiancée so beastly and wild? He must think me rough edged and hideous.
"Eh? Why on earth are you crying?" Charles Grey demands, sounding more curious than panicked.
"B-because you're right!" Lizzy cried out passionately, pulling back from his warm hand and dropping her sword to the ground. "I'm awful! That's why Ciel won't see me—because I'm terrifying and scary and…and…I'm the type of wife he hates!" Now that the floodgates have been opened, Lizzy can't stop crying. Most everyone had left this wing of the stadium to look at another match so the two were alone, yet Elizabeth was too caught up to be thankful for small mercies. "He once told me that he didn't want a strong wife but here I am dueling and fencing and—even you said I'm a brute!"
"I did not!" He bristled, somewhat offended. "Don't put words in my mouth! I refute that claim entirely!"
"You said—"
"I said you were the only girl I knew worth showing any amount of respect to!" He snaped back, the ferocity of his tone causing Lizzy to quiet down.
She wipes a trail of tears from her eyes. "W-what?"
"Look more closely at the subtext why don't you?" Grey threw down his sword, crossing his arms to his chest again. "There's a reason why I study you so closely. Many, actually, but I won't state them all. You're a genius with the sword and I admire that—not only because of your inherent gift but how hard you work at maintaining and perfecting your skills. You're stubborn and passionate but you always manage to smile with kindness. How does any opponent manage to be both sunshine and steel? If your fiancé—whose intellect is supposed to be unparalleled—can't see the beauty in your strength, then her majesty needs a new watchdog because this one's defective. And before you bite my head off for insulting your betrothed, I think you're worth more than what he offers you Elizabeth Midford."
She's stunned then, jade eyes wide and shimmering—as if someone had sprinkled stardust all over her.
Charles Grey is suddenly uncomfortable with the lingering intimacy surrounding them but he ignores it. He's never been one for discomfort.
"Do you…do you mean that Lord Grey?" She asks softly, looking so very surprised by his compliments that he feels a need to question why she is. Elizabeth Midford is pretty. Elizabeth Midford is warm and amiable and fun to be around. Elizabeth Midford should be used to compliments from sickly sweet ladies to lascivious men to others of a more kindly nature.
But Elizabeth Midford is engaged to Ciel Phantomhive and he, of course, doesn't give a shit about his fiancée.
Grey doesn't know what possesses him to be so concerned. Really, sincerely, truly. Instead, he simply takes a step forward and gives her a sweeping bow. "I'll write to you, Lady Elizabeth. Next week. Same time. I want you at your best." Without another word, Grey straightens up, gives her a wide smirk, and then turns around to leave.
He's hardly gotten more than half a dozen steps when he hears her running up behind him.
"Thank you Lord Grey." She addresses him from behind. "For your honesty today. Perhaps all days, actually." She pauses. "Though, I would ask that you refrain from calling my betrothed such derogatory terms."
He gives her a sideways glance, smirk on his mouth. "Wouldn't think of it, Midford." Before she can react, he's already walking away, form growing fainter and fainter.
Loyal. Grey thinks, with a touch of bitterness. She's as loyal as they come.
Charles Grey neither liked nor disliked Ciel Phantomhive. He was the queen's chosen watchdog and Grey could live with it. The brat may be imperious and presumptuous but Grey saw no real reason to dislike the boy or his disturbingly astute butler. But now, after meeting Elizabeth Ethel Cordelia Midford, Grey thinks that spiteful watchdog has gotten more than his fair share of luxuries.
He has gold and emeralds and luminous pearls, all in the form of a fiancée he neglects. (Because, and Grey is fairly sure, there's more than just platonic servitude going on between master and servant. From the butler's sly smirks to Phantomhive's own "accidental" caresses, they're both attuned to the other's body.)
In fact, when Grey inquires where his fiancée even is, the Phantomhive boy evades.
"That question does not pertain to this current task." He looks down at the envelope in his hands. "Lady Elizabeth is none of your concern."
Charles allows a bored, condescending smirk to appear on his face, sharp silver eyes glaring from master to butler.
By the end of the meeting, Sebastian Michaelis has moved too close to Phantomhive's side, bending down to whisper in his lord's ear with an almost seductive touch. That's how they end the entire process.
Phipps leaves for the carriage first while Charles remains behind with the watchdog and his collared pet for a little while longer.
"Take care of that fiancée of yours." He warns airily, arms crossed behind his head as he prepares to leave.
The boy hardly gives him a hum of acknowledgement.
That angers Charles and—as Elizabeth's angelic visage flashes before his face—he turns around, a practiced smile on his face. "Or else I will."
He feels triumphant when he catches the surprised looks of both Phantomhive and Michaelis before he departs. Yet it's only when he's actually in the carriage does he realize how true those words rang.
Charles Grey rather liked Elizabeth Midford.
- Title derived from William Wordsworth's poem of the same name.
A/N: This wasn't supposed to be Charles/Elizabeth but Grey wanted it to be so here it is. Don't get me wrong, I think Ciel shutting Lizzy out isn't him being cruel but a form of protection. Still, it's bound to hurt when the boy you've loved for so long basically decides death is more interesting than you.
Partially written because I want Lizzy to have a family post-Ciel's death.
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