Madam Skeeter's High Society Papers, No. 23

Well, my darlings… what a spectacular opening night to the summer season! I could hardly have imagined an evening so succulent, so teeming with intrigue and tension. And where on earth to begin? I suppose the Royal presentation is as good a start as any, in more ways than one!

None was more surprised than I to see a Fairy step into the sunlight and transfigure, as if by unseen and mystical powers, into none other than this season's Diamond. No one had expected a lightheaded, whimsical little figure to be the center of such high regard, her delicate beauty notwithstanding. Indeed, she cuts a fine profile, but what on earth could possibly reside in her cloudy, peculiar mind? This writer overheard her bending a young suitor's ear about the supposed healing properties of something called a Gurdyroot — perhaps, ladies, your mothers were correct; looks really can get you everywhere in life.

And what of her companion, this so-called Sapphire? A virtual unknown, but truthfully, there is none like her anywhere in London, perhaps in England (although one could make that pronouncement based upon her hair alone). Her looks are unique, and her temperament thoroughly unpredictable — it seems that this Sapphire is quite the enigmatic, fleeting creature; after the night's first dance, she all but disappeared. Surprising, perhaps, when one considers that she caught the attention of even our famed Recluse…

Hermione woke to the loud bang of her bedroom door flying open, and mere moments later, there was a thin tearing noise before her room was flooded with sunlight.

She sat up, squinting against the bright light, and something landed beside her in bed.

"Get up!" barked Ms. Randolph, marching over to the next set of curtains, which she flung open with an unbridled enthusiasm that was simultaneously frightening and amusing.

Still foggy with sleep, Hermione glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. She'd only fallen into bed some six hours earlier, and her brain thumped at the idea of going anywhere. But before she could say anything, the weight beside her on the bed turned into a person.

"Look, Hermione," said Luna, sliding onto her stomach, her feet kicking in the air. She was still in her nightgown, her hair was mussed, curls overflowing down her back, and she smiled down at something in her hands. "I woke to find a visitor on my windowsill."

Hermione blinked a few times, trying to take in what she was seeing. It was a small, brown snail with an impressive shell and a shiny back. He was slithering along Luna's palm.

"And," Lisette added as she made her way to Hermione's closet, "a special delivery." She flung something small and made of paper onto the bed.

Ms. Randolph made a poorly-concealed noise of disgust. "That," she said, "is nothing more than a trashy gossip rag, and it should be ignored at all costs."

Hermione reached for the small pamphlet. The paper was thick and heavy with the smell of fresh ink. She found herself intrigued, and she thumbed through it, taking note of the illustration on the front — a large feather quill, with its point morphing into the blade of a knife. "Madam Skeeter," she read aloud, her voice cracking. "Who is she?"

"A malicious busy-body with too much time on her hands." Ms. Randolph was standing by the vanity, a statue of disapproval.

"And the most watchful pair of eyes in all of London," said Luna. "There is nothing she does not see or hear about. And she is completely anonymous — no one knows who she is."

Her interest piqued, Hermione flipped back to the front page. An anonymous female writer with a steady, enthusiastic readership? Impressive, to say the least. "What makes her different from all the other gossip rags?" She'd heard about society papers like this, but never seen one before.

Lisette shrugged, bringing out one of Hermione's dresses. "She is correct, Mademoiselle. Always. And she hears things that most would assume to be private."

Hermione's heart thudded once in her throat, and she looked down at the clean, sharp words. Almost unwittingly, she began to read, and what she read made her heart catch once again, made her reach for Luna's arm. "Luna… she wrote about us."

"Unavoidable, I think." Luna kept watching her snail, unbothered.

"Yes, but…" Hermione had no idea what to say. She could only continue reading, horror mounting in her chest. She'd never imagined that her association with Luna would bring her this much notice, this much criticism. The mothers and daughters had been difficult enough to withstand the night before, but now, when she featured as a literal cover story?

This is a nightmare, Hermione thought, almost wondering if she was still asleep. An absolute, inescapable nightmare.

"Now!" Ms. Randolph clapped her hands together. "Visiting hours begin shortly, ladies, and we must be ready."

Hermione's heart once again leapt into her throat. "Visiting hours?"

"Indeed," said Luna, now watching the snail slither up her index finger. "Apparently, we will be receiving admirers."

Definitely a nightmare, Hermione thought. "But… why?"

"To be read poetry and generally wooed." Luna shot her a glance that was far too cunning for this early in the day. "We must give them biscuits in return."

Now that she was waking up, Hermione caught the scent of cheddar and chive, oddly mixed with buttery shortbread. The kitchen was working hard.

"That means best foot forward, ladies," said Ms. Randolph, now busy sorting through a pile of hair accessories. "This will set the tone for all future social encounters, you know. If you are kind, and generous with your time, you will never want for dance partners, or for companions when you are promenading."

"Promenading?" Hermione asked Luna in a horrified whisper. Luna did not react.

"And in time, you will determine which suitor, among the many I assume you will collect, might serve as the best partner, the best lifelong companion," Ms. Randolph went on.

Hermione stared at her bedding. The floral pattern swam before her eyes. "I'm going to be sick," she muttered, mostly to herself.

"What an exciting time, ladies!" Ms. Randolph was getting quite worked up. "Who knows how many gentlemen callers will come today! I gather you made a rather favorable impression at court, and at the ball." The edge in her voice was unmistakable — she envied not being there herself. "It is entirely possible that you will find yourselves occupied until the dinner gong."

"The dinner gong," Hermione repeated, with just a hint of hope. "Does that mean— there are no events this evening?"

"No," Ms. Randolph replied. "There was an invitation to a small dinner party at Lady Graham's, but that did not merit your attendance. No, this way, you will not appear in public until tomorrow evening, at the Denisons' ball. And as we all know, absence makes the heart grow fonder, does it not?"

"Perhaps," Hermione said, catching Lisette's eye. She would need another ham sandwich, if she were to make it through the afternoon.

An hour later, she and Luna were in the drawing room, seated on couches opposite each other. Hermione glanced around the room; she had yet to come in here, and it was quite different from the Blue Room. More austere, less lived-in, less colorful. There were several paintings on the walls, of impressive landscapes and Lovegoods from centuries past. It was personal and impersonal all at once.

At least she was allowed to read. They had to be occupied, according to Ms. Randolph, or at least give the appearance of being occupied, when the suitors came in to call. Luna had a small embroidery hoop in her hands, but she was paying it little attention. Her gaze kept wandering to the window, where bursts of birdsong were interrupting the relative silence of the morning.

Hermione shifted where she sat, frowning as the corset dug into her hips. She'd hoped, perhaps stupidly, that she could avoid wearing it until the following day, but no. At least her hair was somewhat simple — the top half had been braided into three separate sections, then joined with the rest of it and pulled into a loose bun. It was a far cry from her hair the night before, which had taken Lisette almost half an hour to unravel.

She glanced at Luna, wondering what she was thinking, what she was feeling. They hadn't had a chance to speak yet, at least not about the events of the previous night. A part of her wanted desperately to know what Luna thought of Lord Cadogan, if the deep, keen interest she had seen in the young man's eyes was reciprocated. Luna did seem more distracted than usual, but perhaps that was because she was tired, or overwhelmed, or even bored. She could be difficult to read at the best of times, and Hermione thought longingly of this evening, when they might be alone, when she might be able to pull Luna aside and demand to know the truth.

There came a sudden flurry of noise from the front door, and Hermione's spine straightened. Ms. Randolph, who had occupied a large armchair near the windows, quivered with anticipation and clapped her hands like a giddy toddler. "Girls!" she hissed. "Brace yourselves!"

In spite of her best efforts, Hermione's stomach twisted with nerves, but she forced herself to sit still, even with every instinct telling her to fling herself out of the window. She gripped her book hard, sending a silent apology to the front cover, and looked up as Benny the footman appeared, followed by a trail of eager young men, their hands full of bouquets and sweets.

"Lady Lovegood," said Benny, facing Luna. "May I present Lord Crawley?"

"Indeed." Luna put aside her embroidery and smiled up at the newcomer. "How do you do, Lord Crawley?"

"And Miss Granger," Benny continued, "may I present Lord Roden?"

Hermione blinked, staring at her caller. He was several years older than her, her height, pale as a pile of snow, with a weak chin, poorly-trimmed whiskers, and a thick neck. She had never seen him before in her life.

"Certainly," she managed, putting down her book. "How are you, my Lord?"

"All the better for having made your acquaintance, my dear." His voice was as slick as oil, and she held in a wince as he swept into an officious, unnecessary bow.

"You flatter me, my Lord," she said, glancing wistfully at the window. Too late now.

He leered at her, then handed her a small posy of wilting yellow tulips. "You charming little creature. I was wondering if I might be permitted to regale you with a selection of Casanova's finest verses. He is my personal favorite, you see."
Luna, meanwhile, was being offered a large bouquet of fresh pink roses and a small box of chocolates. She smiled and blushed, and Lord Crawley melted like a pat of butter.

Hermione glanced at Lord Roden, whose leer had only deepened. "Certainly, my Lord," she said, almost wishing she were back at the opening ball.

Anywhere was better than here.

"Careful, ma chère," Lisette said, handing over the steaming mug. "Il fait très chaud."

"Thank you." Hermione cupped her hands around the mug, grateful for its heat in spite of the mild evening air. After Hermione's horror-show of an afternoon, she and Luna had had a very pleasant dinner with Lord Devon, and now, they were sitting in front of the wide bank of windows in Luna's room, which opened on the back garden.

"This is delicious, Lisette," said Luna. She took another sip of cocoa and smiled. "Perfect, even in the foyer of summer."

Lisette smiled and sat down between them on the window seat. "You are too kind, Mademoiselle. And take care not to drink it too quickly, or you may find yourself wavering."

Hermione smirked at Luna. "Lisette has a heavy pour."

"Oh." Luna looked from Lisette to Hermione and back again. "You mean to say there is liquor in this?"

Lisette's smile turned into a grin, her eyes flashing with impish delight. "I would never suggest such a thing, Miss Lovegood."

Luna brightened and she took another sip, savoring it. "Rum?"

Hermione took a sip herself and recognized the oaky bite. "Scotch."

"Scotch," Luna repeated, as if tasting the word. "I have never had scotch before."

Lisette hummed. "And you had never known adoration personified until you met Lord Cadogan."

Hermione choked on a laugh and Luna gasped, unable to hide her smile as she grabbed Lisette's arm. "You wretch!" Luna squealed. "Oh, how dare you—!"

"She dares, Luna," said Hermione, "because she is quite correct. And you yourself are undoubtedly taken with him as well, unless I have the most flawed pair of eyes in all of London."

"So what was he like, ma chère?" said Lisette, leaning in and giving Luna's arm a squeeze. Her tone was reverent, secretive, and Hermione loved her for it — she was making herself Luna's friend, sister, confidant, and doing so with such beautiful ease. "Was he every bit as charming as his portrait suggested?"

For a moment, Luna simply smiled at her, but then something inside her cracked, and she blushed, going radiant and shy all at once. "Every bit," she said, "and more."

Hermione almost squealed, stolen by the giddiness of the moment. Barely two days into the season, and here they were, with Luna on the precipice of what was sure to be a great love. "What of your conversation? Was he engaging, curious? Or was he only full of petty compliments and other such pieces of nonsense—?"

Lisette smacked her on the arm. "Mademoiselle, such things are not always nonsense!"

"He did ask me many questions," Luna said, as if she were divulging some momentous secret. "And he listened quite keenly to each answer. And he was most diverted by my observations about the toadstools at the foot of the garden—"

Lisette stared at Luna. "Mademoiselle, that is hardly—"

"—and he told me of himself. The most engaging, rapturous details. Did you know he is an orphan? That is why he inherited his title so young, just like the Duke—"

Hermione blinked, the scotch making her head spin. "The Duke is an orphan?"

"Yes, but his parents and Cadogan's parents were best friends, you see, so they grew up together. But now all Lord Cadogan has is his great aunt, a formidable woman, if the stories are true. And he simply adores gardening, you know. His estate features a large greenhouse, where he conducts all sorts of experiments. He has a new variety of hyacinth he plans to unveil next spring."

"How…" Lisette was clearly struggling to come up with the right word. "But, ma chère, did you speak of love? Did you trade sweet nothings, and did he compliment your beauty, your wit?"

Still smiling, Luna just looked at her. "No," she said at last. "I am not sure that came up."

"Ma chère," said Lisette, her voice thinned by exasperation. Hermione put her hand to her mouth to hide her smile. "You must speak of these things, if you are to make a match. And from what I hear, the two of you — you have such a connection, such a spark. It would be a pity to overlook it, even if it is not… what you intended to get out of the season."

But these words seemed to slide off of Luna like water off a duck's back. "I am sure we will, eventually, if that is the path we are destined to follow," she said in her dreamy, lilting voice.

Lisette sighed a little and Hermione took a sip of her cocoa to avoid giggling like a lunatic. "Very well," said Lisette, and, much to Hermione's horror, she turned and gave Hermione a sly look. "And what of the Duke? You have been far too quiet, on that account."

Heat crept up Hermione's face and she gripped her mug tight. "Have I? I can hardly— Lis, we did not even spend five minutes together—"

"But that is more than enough time to make an impression," Lisette pressed. "I wish to know if the rumors are true."

"Rumors?"

"The rumors that the Duke is ill-mannered, bad-tempered," Luna chimed in. "And he never gives the time of day to anyone he thinks is beneath him."
"And that he is gorgeous," Lisette purred. "Handsome in a dark, roguish sort of way—"

"I suppose," Hermione managed, "that you could call him handsome, yes, but every fool with a pair of eyes could tell you the same—"

"And what of his person, his conversation?"

"I suppose he was rather rude," Hermione said, and it was true. "It was evident that he had no wish to be there, and he only deigned to speak with me because Lord Cadogan—"

"Rude in what way?" said Luna, tilting her head to one side. The scotch had given her skin a delicate flush.

God. Hermione tried to swallow. "Distant, or disengaged. He was neither courteous, nor attentive, and he spoke to me as if I were no more interesting than a piece of stone."

Not true, chimed in the small, treacherous voice from the back of her mind. Your mother. The dancing. Your book.

"Huh." Lisette was looking at her, something knowing and distant in her gaze. "Very well."

"With any luck," Hermione went on. "I shall never have to endure his presence again."

"Indeed," said Luna, with a smile.

Later, when she was in bed and staring down the last remaining candle, Hermione leaned in towards the flame and felt its heat wash over her nose.

"I wish," she whispered, her heart thudding, "to learn something about the Duke. Something… that perhaps no one else knows."

Her last thought, before she plunged into darkness, was of his hand, warm and surprisingly soft, on the bare skin of her arm.

Hermione stared up at the remarkable edifice of Denison manor with a distinct sense of foreboding. Three days into the season, and she was already fed up with all of it — the simpering, the curtsying, the hair, the corsets, the shoes, the dresses. And, she thought, meeting Miss Brown's ferocious glare, I'm fed up with the ladies.

"Come along," said Lord Devon, lifting a hand to help Luna out of the carriage. She looked ravishing, a vision in pale blue, with a line of diamonds around her neck. Hermione, who had paid little attention to her own appearance that evening, was dressed in pink, with her hair in another intricate braid pulled back into a bun.

"The Denisons," Luna remarked, coming to stand next to Hermione. "A friendly enough family, I think."

"You know them?" said Hermione.

"A little," Luna demurred. "Their daughter once called me a fanciful half-wit, but I hear she has grown more charming with age."

"Ah." Hermione stared at her. "Lovely."

And with that, Lord Devon led them up and into the house.

Inside, it was remarkably similar to the Johnsons' manor. It was, perhaps, a touch smaller, though, and as they walked up to their hosts, Hermione could see that Lord Denison was all too aware of it. He wore his insecurity like a second skin, and gave them all a haughty, unamused look.

"Lord Devon," he said. "Ladies."

"A pleasure," said Lord Devon. He began the small-talk and the introductions, but Hermione's attention wandered, then snagged on a cluster of young ladies in the next room.

They were all crowded around something, fluttering with excitement, and she caught the flurry of overlapping conversation, gasps and coos snaking through the air. Just as she began to wonder what was going on, one of the ladies ducked her head, and, at the center of it all, Hermione saw none other than the Duke of St. Godric's. He was surrounded, pressed against the wall, and his expression, though flat and unamused, betrayed just a hint of panic. He glanced around, completely ignoring Miss Brown's attempt to engage him in conversation, trying to find a way out.

In spite of herself, Hermione grinned. Serves him right, she thought, though she wasn't sure why. And then, before she could turn away, his gaze landed on her.

She froze, but just for a moment. There was something overpowering, stupefying, about his eyes. She relaxed, and let her grin turn into a chuckle, relishing the way his gaze tightened with irritation. Good, she thought, turning back to Lord Denison just in time to curtsy.

As she and Luna made their way into the thick of the party, Lord Devon following them at a distance, Hermione let her gaze wander over the crowd, taking note of the people she knew and the people she did not know. They were all dressed within an inch of excess, as they had been two nights before — Hermione had never seen such dresses, such coats, such accessories and jewelry. She knew she looked much the same, but this did nothing to dampen the effect of seeing luxury in real life, paraded about as if it were nothing more than commonplace or typical. This world was still so foreign to her; she felt a prickle of unease, but hastened to bury it. She must appear totally in control, engaged and yet removed from the world around her. Disinterested, and yet present. Like the Duke, she thought, then rolled her eyes.

Once again, the crowd parted as Luna cut a path through the room. Dozens of eyes landed on her and flitted away before she could acknowledge them. Luna was still the center of attention, then, as Hermione suspected she would be for the entirety of the season. Envy, regard, disregard, even outright hatred — Luna seemed to receive each and every emotion in equal measure, but she did not appear to care. In fact, she did not appear to notice anything at all. She wore a faint smile as she looked around, making a beeline for a table set against the opposite wall.

Hermione closed the distance between them, frowning. "Luna?" she said in a low voice. "What are you—?"

They had reached the table. "Dance cards," Luna replied, handing one to Hermione and looping another around her own wrist. "I am sure we will be in high demand, as we were before."

Hermione smiled, tempted to tear up the card without any delay. "As you were, Luna. You may recall that I made myself scarce in order to avoid precisely this situation."

"Ah, yes." Luna turned to her, still smiling that faint smile. "I do not understand why. Even if you claim to dislike a jig, I know you enjoy waltzing."

"Correct," Hermione admitted, "but not with strange gentlemen. I do enjoy waltzing with you." She recalled her first morning in London, before her presentation to the Queen — leading Luna around the drawing room, giggling as she spun Luna into a turn, Ms. Randolph scowling but clapping along to the count.

"Most of the gentlemen are strange," said Luna, nodding, "but some of them are quite lovely. I am sure at least one or two of them would refrain from stepping on your feet."

"What a ringing endorsement, dear," her father chimed in, winking at them both. "That would not have been such an issue, back in my day."

"Your dances were easier, Papa. The standards have shifted, and the gentlemen are still catching up."

"We do our best," came a voice. A pleasant, familiar voice. "Good evening, my Lady."

Luna spun around, breaking into a genuine smile as she turned to face Lord Cadogan. "My Lord!" She curtsied, and he inclined his head in return. "What a timely arrival. We were just discussing the importance of dancing."

"And its difficulties, if I heard correctly." He smiled back at her, and Hermione saw an unmistakable light in his eyes. He was smitten. "I must admit, it is not my strength."

"Not at all, my Lord!" Luna replied. "From what I saw the other night, you present no more than a passing danger to ladies' feet."

"You are too kind, my Lady. But perhaps you would be brave enough to test such a pronouncement sometime this evening?"

Luna's smile widened. "Certainly." She held out her dance card. "You may take the first slot, and the third."

A delightful blush spread across Lord Cadogan's cheeks, and Hermione hid her smile with a quick cough. "You are generous," he said, leaning forward to pencil in his name. "Are you certain you wish to commit so much of your time, when you have yet to sample my efforts?"

Luna twinkled at him. "I am in the mood to take risks this evening, Lord Cadogan. And, three is my lucky number."

"Mine as well, I think." His gaze landed on Hermione and he startled a little, as if surprised by her presence. "Miss Granger, Lord Devon. Good evening to you both."

"Not to worry, my Lord," said Luna's father, amusement lacing his words. "Though you seem to be lacking a shadow this evening. You have only one, instead of two."

"Oh, yes." Cadogan frowned and he looked around, scanning the crowd. "The Duke arrived a few minutes after I did, and I could have sworn he was just behind me. I cannot think where he got to."

"He is stuck," Hermione said, surprised that she was saying it at all. "Near the other door. It seems that every young lady in London wishes to gain his attention, and he is struggling to escape."

"Oh, yes!" Cadogan grinned at the sight of the trapped Duke, then cut her a knowing look. "Every young lady, apart from you."

Before Hermione could do more than choke on a reply, her face heating with indignation, Luna laid a hand on Cadogan's arm and said, "Oh, we should rescue him! Yes, do let's rescue the poor Duke!"

"What an excellent idea!" Cadogan let her slip her hand into the crook of his elbow. "Miss Granger, would you join us? Two is hardly enough for a rescue party."

Hermione bit her tongue and looked to Lord Devon for help. But he gave her an enigmatic smile just like Luna's, the picture of demurral. "Very well," she said, and turned to follow Luna and Cadogan through the crowd.

By the time they'd reached the Duke, the group around him had grown distressing in size. Cadogan grinned, clearly enjoying the sight. "One moment, ladies," he said, and he pushed his way to the front of the crowd, dodging fans and feathers as he went. "Come along, Prongs! I require your presence at once!"

Cadogan resurfaced a moment later, a disgruntled Duke in tow. "You took your time," the Duke snarled to him under his breath. His glasses were crooked. "I was accosted as soon as I—"

Cadogan cleared his throat pointedly. "Ladies," he said, "might I once again introduce—"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Nev," the Duke burst out, "they know who I am!" He gave Luna and Hermione a passing glance. "Good evening, Lady Lovegood, Miss Granger."

"Good evening," Luna replied as she curtsied, far too delighted by this development.

Mute, Hermione copied her. The Duke looked even more ruffled this evening, but he was as handsome as ever, and as he glared at the people around them, she felt something inside her stir in response to the unbridled energy in his face.

"We were just discussing dancing," Cadogan went on. "Lady Lovegood has kindly agreed to accompany me." He glanced at Hermione. "Perhaps you would do Miss Granger the honor of your company as well?"

The Duke's gaze landed on her, and Hermione's mouth went dry. He still looked angry, his jaw tense and his eyes flashing, and he seemed on the verge of saying no. But then he glanced at Cadogan, at the pleading look on his face, and seemed to relent. "Very well," he said, looking at Hermione once again. "If Miss Granger will have me."

Before Hermione could reply, there came a blast of music from the adjacent ballroom, and the crowd roared with delight. Heart thudding, she was all too aware of the Duke taking her hand in his and leading her onto the dance floor.

His grip was firm but not tight, and he shot her another look as she held her chin high and matched his pace. "You are quiet this evening," he said, under his breath.

"Not quiet," she replied, the words leaving her mouth before she could think about them. "Merely attempting to escape your ire."

He seemed almost amused by this. "My ire," he said, leading them to a vacant bit of floor, two couples behind Cadogan and Luna, "is reserved for those who provoke it."

Hermione dared to glance at him. "And for those who prolong it?"

"Well," he replied, "a far worse fate than this." And to her astonishment, he spun her into frame, taking her right hand and resting his own just below her left shoulder blade. His eyes drilled into hers, alight and enigmatic, and she tried to swallow, heat sweeping up her face.

Then, he looked away, the music began, and they were dancing.

Hermione's body reacted on instinct, responding to the subtle shifts in the Duke's frame. He was a skilled dancer, and he led them around the floor with a fluidity and ease that was unlike anything she had ever experienced. Their bodies, she realized, after a minute, were close, closer than, perhaps, they should have been, and she could not escape the heat of his chest, the line of his shoulders. In a flagrant disregard for technique, he kept his gaze averted, fixed on some distant point, and did not once meet her eyes. Instead, Hermione stared at the lapel of his jacket, the gold buttons that shone in the bright candlelight, noting the craftsmanship, the fine stitching. Anything to distract her from the way his fingers pressed into the edge of her spine, holding her close and guiding her with an ease that was almost frightening.

He was not a simple dancer, either. He led her through turns, chassés, promenades, and even a heel turn that took her breath away, all without once knocking into another couple. Surprise was mixing freely with the unease and embarrassment already churning in Hermione's stomach, and it was enough to pull her focus away from the way he was making her feel — untethered, boundless. Beautiful.

The music ended, and the Duke spun her out of frame before sinking into a deep bow. Hermione curtsied back, wobbling a little as she straightened, and suddenly became aware that almost everyone in the room was staring at them, at her and the Duke, and some of them were smiling, astonished by their performance.

Because that's all it is, Hermione told herself as the Duke straightened. A performance.

"Another?" she asked him, before she knew she was asking it.

The Duke looked at her, and she shivered. "You flatter me, Miss Granger," he said, stepping away. "But I am afraid I have had enough of dancing this evening." And with that, he turned and was gone, melting into the crowd.

Hermione immediately did the same, knowing that if she lingered, people might guess what had just happened, the insult she had just suffered. Her face burning, her stomach twisting into knots, she made for the nearest exit, pausing only to snatch a glass of punch from a nearby tray.

"Enough," she snarled under her breath. "Enough, now."

Once again, her feet carried her where her brain could not, and she found herself on the terrace in the garden. It was nice enough, though planned within an inch of its life. There were a handful of couples out here, and a small quartet playing beside the fountain. Still struggling to catch her breath, Hermione made for the arcade, which was covered in climbing roses. No one would see her in there.

At least, that was what she had thought. But when she stepped into the cool, earthy shade, she was shocked to find herself face to face with—

"Miss Bell," she blurted, forgetting to curtsy. "Please excuse me—"

"Not at all, Miss Granger." Miss Bell gave her an inquisitive sort of look. "We meet again. I assume you need a place of refuge?"

Tension leaked out of her, and Hermione slumped onto a nearby bench. "Correct."

"Then you are my guest." A smile, or something close to it. Miss Bell produced a small plate, which was piled with hors d'oeuvres, and a half-empty bottle of wine. "Here. Join me."

The food settled Hermione's stomach and made her feel more steady, less likely to be flung off the edge of the earth. She sipped at the wine, feeling a pleasant rush in her arms and legs, and smiled at Miss Bell. "You have yet to ask what induced me to flee."

"That is because I already know," Miss Bell replied, licking a spot of mustard off her thumb. She met Hermione's gaze. "A man."

Hermione sighed, slumping against the bench. "I want nothing more than to go to bed."

"Don't we all?" That almost-smile again. "And you have had the poor fortune of catching the Queen's eye. You would do better if you were unremarkable, less wealthy. Like me."

"You are hardly unremarkable," Hermione replied. "You are clever, sneaky. And pretty."

Miss Bell snorted, taking a swig of wine. "And unsuited to marriage. A mother's dream."

Hermione looked at her, really looked. "Are you in love, then?" she said, testing the invisible boundary that hung in the air between them. "With someone who returns your affections?"

Miss Bell sighed, and for a moment, something small, something hurt, showed in her face. "Yes, I am. But she is likewise being made to suffer the slings and arrows of this ridiculous farce. We can hardly steal a moment together."

Hermione felt a twinge of sympathy. "I am sorry. I would not wish that upon anyone."

Miss Bell looked at her, her eyes soft. "I think," she said at last, "you should call me Katie."

"Katie," Hermione repeated, but before she could say anything else, voices filtered in through the roses, and Katie pressed a finger to her lips, her hand gripping Hermione's arm. They both froze, desperate not to be found.

"—you are being thoroughly disagreeable, and I will not accompany you if you insist upon being an absolute brute to every young lady within spitting distance of London—"

A snort. "By all means, I am more than happy to remain at home—"

A groan of frustration. "You cannot be happy alone, you know that as well as I—"

"And, what, the solution is to find me a wife?"

Katie stared at her, her face ashen, and Hermione could only stare back, her heart thumping in her ears. For she knew those voices. Cadogan, and the Duke.

"Yes!" Cadogan retorted. "Or, at the very least, for you to entertain the idea."

"I find nothing whatsoever entertaining about the idea." The Duke's voice was dry, indifferent. "And I will not continue to pander to your whims. If you wish to woo the Lovegood girl, then fine, but leave me out of it. Find someone else to occupy her friend."

"Her friend," said Cadogan, heated now, "is as diverting and charming as Luna herself, you cannot hope to convince me that you—"

"Diverting?" the Duke repeated, sardonic. "Charming? She can barely keep a conversation, and there are a dozen prettier girls in the ballroom alone. Besides, apart from a passing familiarity with literature, she has few other skills to commend her."

A few beats of silence. Then:

"You are wrong," said Cadogan. "You are very, very, wrong."

"I doubt that," the Duke replied, then the sound of footsteps. He was going back to the house. "And I expect to be proven right."

Silence followed, save for the sound of the fountain. A few minutes later, Cadogan left as well, with a huff of lingering exasperation.

Her throat thick, Hermione could hardly begin to string together a coherent thought as Katie stared at her. "Well," she finally managed, with an attempt at a smile, "at least I will not have to suffer his presence any longer."

Katie offered her a weak smile in return, and they went back to their meal, though the food, Hermione realized, was now tasteless.

Several hours later, Hermione grit her teeth and summoned every last remaining scrap of her patience. Lord Roden leered at her, his hand sliding precariously low as he led her down the dance floor. Thank God, she thought, for slow waltzes.

"I do enjoy big game hunting, you see," he went on. "Last I was in France, I managed to bag a bear as well as a boar. Their heads are mounted, quite beautifully, if I may use the word, in the drawing room of my country estate. Which is very large, as you may recall."

"Indeed, my Lord," she replied, wincing as he stepped on her foot.

"Gorgeous creature, the boar. Mad as anything, but all the more fun to watch it struggle out of a trap, you see."

Much to Hermione's relief, the music ended before she had to respond. She stepped away from Lord Roden and curtsied. "A pleasure, my Lord."

His leer broadened and his gaze went directly to her chest. "But not one that has to end, Miss Granger." Then, his attention was drawn to something over her shoulder and his leer turned into a frown. "Oh, and what, I suppose you've come to steal her away?"

Hermione's heart throbbed once in her throat, then she looked over her shoulder to find the Duke, halted mid-step at the edge of the dance floor, staring at Lord Roden with unchecked outrage.

She had not known the Duke long, but seeing him even once after hearing what she'd heard was enough to make her skin tingle with anger.

"Hardly," she said, before the Duke could say a word. "The Duke can make no pretensions to my favor or my time. He is not so fortunate, or so entertained."

She could feel his gaze on the back of her head, but she ignored it. Now Lord Roden was staring at her, surprise overruling his presumption for the first time that evening.

"If you'll excuse me," she went on, "I would like a glass of punch." With that, she fled.

After locating a dimly-lit corner in the next room, Hermione slumped against the wall and allowed her eyes to slip shut, her ears throbbing with the sounds of a party kicking into high gear. By this point in the evening, the punch was warm and syrupy, but she gulped it down regardless, fighting the urge to sneak away.

"Miss Granger?"

She opened her eyes and took in the young man before her.

He was handsome enough to be smug about it, with dark hair, bright eyes, and an uneven smile. He looked at her chest before he looked her in the eye, and she fought the urge to smack him.

"Lord Cornwall," he said, making an attempt at a bow. "Might we dance?"

Hermione grit her teeth, then imagined what she would have to endure once Ms. Randolph found out she'd turned down a dance. "Yes," she said, and let him take her hand.

He was almost, but not quite, as bad as Lord Roden. He stepped on her toes, bragged about his land, his staff, his estate, and claimed that his tenants bowed to him in the street. It took far too much effort for her to smile and nod, to act charmed instead of revolted, and when the dance was finally over, she made an excuse without hearing it and fled properly this time, slipping through the crowds until she stumbled onto a veranda at the side of the house, her mind reeling. The veranda was empty, surrounded by a lawn and bordered by hedges, and she made her way to the railing, fighting for air.

Gasping, Hermione braced herself on the stone railing and squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to cry as a small section of hair fell out of her bun, grazing her cheek. It was too much, all of it. She'd never thought it would be this bad, this unendurable, that she would have to suffer their leers and their stares, to let them touch her—

"Miss Granger."

An all too familiar voice, this time. She tipped her head back in exasperation, letting her eyes fall open and take in the stars above. "Please leave."

"You are upset." A statement, not a question, and he approached her. She could hear his steps on the stone. "I have, perhaps, insulted you in some—"

"Your Grace," she bit out. "I have no desire for company."

"He is a toad. Lord Roden, I mean. And Lord Cornwall a tadpole."

This threw her for a moment. When she recovered, her confusion was replaced only by anger, and she spun around to face him. "You have no right," she spat, "to even attempt at expressing an insult on my behalf."

The Duke's face was impassive in the half-darkness. "I do not?"

"No, Your Grace. You are not my ally, my friend. And I cannot see what you might be attempting to accomplish by cornering me in this manner, but I demand that you stop at once."

A beat of silence. Then he took a step closer, producing a handkerchief. "You are crying," he said, his voice low.

"Is it any wonder?" she spat at him, snatching the handkerchief out of his hand.

"You will not match with them," he said. "Roden and Cornwall, I mean."

Hermione tried to take a breath, dabbing at her face. The handkerchief was soft and, she noticed, embroidered with the initials 'H.P.' in the corner. "I will not match," she managed, her voice shaky, "with any of them."

Another beat, longer than the first. "You will not marry?" said the Duke, betraying only a hint of surprise.

"No, Your Grace." Her voice was low, vehement. "I would only marry if it would get me into a University, but even God Himself cannot work that miracle."

The surprise showed on his face now, and he took a step closer. "You are…" he said at last. "Very unexpected."

"What a pronouncement," she said, the words hot on her tongue. "Here I thought I had few skills to commend me, let alone good looks or the ability to hold a conversation."

This seemed to rattle him and he stared at her. "You overhead me."

"Indeed, Your Grace." She pushed the handkerchief into his open hand and gathered her skirt. "Which is why we no longer need entertain this farce. Besides, I have two pieces of slime that would probably like to corner me into another dance, and I cannot dream of insulting them."

"Miss Granger." His jaw worked. "Allow me to apologize."

"I will not," she replied. "Because I do not think it would be genuine."

"You cannot—" He seemed to swallow his own words, and something flashed in his eyes. "What if you did not have to endure them? The suitors?"

Hermione stared at him, at a loss for words. "What on earth do you mean?"

"I mean." The Duke cleared his throat, and if she did not know any better, a blush seemed to color his cheekbones. "We could pretend… to form an attachment."

This was such an abrupt turn that for a moment, Hermione felt quite dizzy. She continued to stare at him, hardly able to believe what she was hearing. "You are mad."

"I am not," he returned. "My title, my status. They would protect you. If the other men knew… if I set my claim to you, then they would…" He winced. "Fall into line."

It was a horrifying and yet tantalizing idea. Such an attachment would please Ms. Randolph beyond measure, and she would never again have to endure a waltz with the likes of Lord Roden. But there was something— "You would not ask," she said, her mouth numb, "if you would not benefit in some way, as well."

A brief pause, then the Duke ducked his chin and nodded. "I likewise have no desire to marry," he said, "or any desire to entertain the matchmaking efforts of every mother in London. If we were… then I would be free, as well."

Her heart thudding, Hermione's mind whirled through the idea, spinning it in every direction she could imagine. Perhaps an arrangement such as this would work, and she would be able to escape the season with little injury to her pride or her sanity. What better way, she thought, than to pretend with someone I could not love, and who could never love me?

"Yes," she said, before she knew she was saying it. "Yes, Your Grace."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Then we are agreed, Miss Granger."

"We should have some rules," she blurted. "Guidelines."

He cocked his head to one side and his glasses caught the light. "What do you suggest?"

"We must be seen together at every ball, and attend at least three semi-public events every week, whether they be promenading or a picnic or a tea." Her heart thudded again. "You must send flowers, and come to call on occasion."

His smile was growing into a smirk. "Very well."

"And," she added, "we should dance together. Frequently."

The Duke pocketed his handkerchief and closed the distance between them. His eyes were amber in the reflected light of the manor as he offered her his arm. "Then I suggest," he said, "that we begin at once."

Hermione tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and, to her own surprise, returned his smile. "Yes," she said. "Let's."

disclaimer: pls do not ever try to spin someone into frame. 9 times out of 10 it ends in an elbow to the face. but this is fiction so hey! I can dream lol
follow me on Instagram emmy_award_writes for chapter updates & more x