Madam Skeeter's High Society Papers, No. 24

What a ravishing night! Truthfully, I, along with the rest of London, did not hold any sort of high expectation for a ball at the noble and stuffy House of D, and its laudable qualities were certainly not to be found in the passable refreshments, the mediocre music, and tasteless wine. But the guests, the entertainment! Oh, my dears! Where on earth to begin?

It should likely come as no surprise to any of my readers that I must first comment about the endearing, light-footed game of blushes and flattery occurring between the Diamond and a young, handsome Pup. One is perhaps surprised to see such a display, when one considers the wide variety to which she finds herself quite entitled. But the Pup is not alone, and nor is he the first to catch the Diamond's eye. Only time will tell which, of many, she might find herself drawn to.

And now, for perhaps the most shocking piece of news. Our favorite Recluse has surprised all of England by stepping into the light with none other than a Sapphire, who shone ever-so-brightly as she took his hand and stole the breath from everyone in the ballroom. Who would ever have imagined that such an Unknown, with only half a lineage to recommend her, could aspire to one of the highest titles in the land? It certainly makes one wonder what enticing, mysterious qualities may linger beneath her finely-cultivated veneer, just waiting to be uncovered…

Hermione did not hear Lisette come into her room. She did not hear the curtains, the birdsong, the faint clatter of the tea tray. But she jerked awake when she heard—

"You have much explaining to do, Mademoiselle!"

Hermione sat up, the room spinning a little as she remembered, all too quickly, how much she had had to drink the night before. "I—" she somehow managed. "Lisette—"

"You!" Lisette snarled. She was like a cannon in full battle mode, and she hurled herself at the dresser, seizing a handful of small objects. "You!" She threw a wooden figure at Hermione's head. Hermione ducked, just barely avoiding it. "You dance not once—" she now threw a comb— "not twice—" a bonnet— "but five times—" a small box— "with the Duke—" something metal, which bounced off the footboard— "and you do not mention it the moment you walk in the front door?!"

"Lis," Hermione tried, her hands raised in defense as she crouched on the bed. "Lis, I was going to tell you—"

Lisette made an extraordinary sound, somewhere between a shriek and a growl. Next, she lunged for the vanity, and Hermione grabbed her largest pillow, holding it aloft like a shield.

"Not a single word—" another comb— "for your steadfast companion?!" Now a mirror, which Hermione managed to hit with the pillow, sending it straight down into her covers. "The woman with whom you have shared every secret—" a spool of thread— "every dream?!" A comb, plated in pearl, bounced off Hermione's hand. "What am I to you?" Lisette spat, a small Bible held aloft. "Am I just a shade, a ghost? Someone who does not deserve the truth?!" With that, she flung the Bible at Hermione's head. Hermione let out a shriek and ducked just as the door opened and a pale figure appeared.

"Have you finished killing each other yet?" said Luna, unfazed by the scene before her. "You sound like two cats in heat."

"She is a wretch," Lisette snapped, her chest heaving with emotion as she glared at Hermione. "How dare she! How dare she! A Duke, and she says nothing!"

"Come now," said Luna, stepping in and closing the door behind her. "Hermione has not said a word to me about her apparent association with the Duke, either. If that merits me a projectile, have you one to spare?"

"Certainly." Lisette passed her a hairbrush. "Now that you are here, we could hold her down and tickle her, she will have to confess eventually—"

Hermione stared at them, still hiding behind her pillow. "I haven't even had a cup of tea."

Luna seemed to consider this, then she turned to Lisette. "Perhaps we should let her have a cup of tea. As a gesture of faith and goodwill."

"For God's sake," Hermione burst out. "There is nothing to tell!"

Lisette frowned, and Luna raised an eyebrow. "We do not believe you," said Lisette.

"The Duke," Hermione tried, conscious of the heat crawling up her face, "simply wished to dance with me, so he did."

"Did you not hear me?!" cried Lisette. "Not once, not twice, but five times! That is not wishing to dance, that is wishing to give you flowers and children and the finest jewelry in the world! Not to mention one of the largest estates in all of England!"

"You exaggerate," Hermione hissed at her, brandishing the pillow once again as something flashed in Lisette's eyes. "We found ourselves… well-matched. In terms of height. It was pleasant to dance together, so we continued to do so."

"Well-matched," Lisette sneered. "A likely story."

"They do dance very prettily together," said Luna. She was watching Hermione, her expression thoughtful. "And the Duke did not seem well-disposed to any other of his partners, in the rare occurrences that he deigned to dance with them."

Hermione met her gaze, swallowing thickly. Unspoken, in the air between them, was a shared knowledge. They both knew the truth — that the Duke had not danced with any other young woman. Had not even looked at another woman.

"Is it any wonder?" Lisette demanded, flinging a hand at Hermione's general person. "Look at her, she is perfection! No, no, this is not what upsets me—"

"I did not tell you because I did not think it mattered!" Hermione blurted. "It was only dancing, it was hardly proclamations or— Lisette, you must believe me! And I was so exhausted last night… even if I had something to tell, I was going to tell you this morning."

Lisette clutched her heart… "To think that ma petite fille… ma compagne… danced half the night with a Duke, and she would rather I heard it from Madame Skeeter before I heard it from her!"

Hermione felt a wave of dizziness, and she gripped her pillow. "Madam Skeeter?"

"Yes!" Lisette marched over to the tea tray, then flung the pamphlet at her.

Hermione caught it midair and fell upon it with unladylike haste. She had forgotten, she was so stupid— she had forgotten about Skeeter, had forgotten that people would notice, apart from the mothers and the suitors—

To her surprise, her mention was tame. Much more flippant than she would've expected. But it's early yet, she thought, then felt another wave of dizziness as she imagined what it would be like in a week or two.

"Ladies!" A disgruntled Ms. Randolph appeared in the doorway, and she took in the scene before her — Hermione hunched on the bed, Lisette scowling at her, Luna cooing at a robin through the window — with a frown. "Do come downstairs, it is getting late! You have received a deluge of tokens and I cannot be expected to—"

The air in the room changed. Hermione dropped the pamphlet and turned to meet Luna's gaze, her pulse beating in her ears like a drum. Lisette put her hands to her mouth to stifle a squeal, and Luna gave Hermione that small, cheeky smile of hers. "Tokens," said Luna, then she grabbed Hermione's hand and pulled her out of bed, down the hall, down the stairs, and into the drawing room, Lisette hot on their heels.

Hardly able to breathe, Hermione could only stare as an entire greenhouse seemed to erupt before her. Every surface, even the couches, was covered in a seemingly endless variety of flowers and greenery, interrupted by small parcels of what appeared to be sweets. The air was thick with every perfume imaginable. She tried to swallow, but her throat was clogged, and she was only dimly aware of Luna reaching for the nearest bouquet — which also happened to be the largest — and taking a card out from between the carnations, roses, and peonies.

Luna beamed, her whole face lighting up. "This one is from Lord Cadogan."

Hermione managed a smile. "That is not surprising, Luna."

"Perhaps, but it is generous of him." She bent her head and closed her eyes, breathing in the flush, delicate scent.

"Mademoiselle," came Lisette's hushed voice from behind Hermione. She sounded shocked.

Frowning, Hermione turned, and what she saw made her heart plummet to her feet.

The card table had been all but swallowed by the largest bouquet — basket? — of roses Hermione had ever seen in her life. It dwarfed every other bouquet in the room; it was practically a planet, in its own right. Red, white, and pink all crowded together, and they seemed to stretch out to her, beckoning, inviting her in, and as she stepped towards the bouquet, she was hardly aware of Lisette reaching out to pluck a card from between the thorns, a card that had her name on it.

Her hands shaking for some ridiculous, indefinite reason, Hermione unfolded the card, pausing just for a moment on the way her name was written — Did he write this? she thought, Did he write this card himself? — and read its contents with surprising composure.

To say the truth, reason and love keep little company together nowadays.

Is this enough flowers?

—H.

Hermione read the words twice more before she lowered the card to stare, once again, at the roses. "He has a heavy, untidy hand," she murmured, and this small observation was enough to keep herself from sinking to the floor, because flowers were one thing, but an unnecessary bit of Shakespeare was quite another.

Why? she thought, as Lisette pounced on her and snatched the card from her limp hand. Why include the quote? Then, once Lisette had let out a dramatic gasp— To sell it, I suppose.

"I can understand why you do not enjoy the promenading," said Luna the next day, "but you must admit it is lovely to be in the fresh air. Does wonders for the humors, you know."

Hermione had to smile at her. "Yes, I know." She looked around them, at the wide lawns and the flowers slowly stretching out of their long hibernation, and thought that Kensington Gardens was certainly one of the better parts of London. She looked around again, but now, her gaze caught on the pairs and clusters of other young ladies, and the chaperones trailing dutifully behind them. It reminded her that Ms. Randolph was just a few feet behind her and Luna, and to hold her tongue accordingly. Things between her and Ms. Randolph had been stilted, but less hostile, after Sir Ian's demonstration, which was perhaps the best that Hermione could hope for. She did not want to make things worse again.

She sighed a little. "How long must we do this, again?"

"Until we catch an eye or two," Luna replied, "or long enough that we secure a deluge of dance partners for the ball tomorrow evening."

"Another ball?" Hermione groaned. "Good Lord, I've barely slept enough as it is."

Luna hummed. "We both know that that has less to do with the social agenda and more to do with the fresh tomes I caught Lisette sneaking into your room yesterday afternoon."

Heat rushed to Hermione's face. "I don't know what you mean."

"It is a lovely day, is it not?" Luna went on, spinning in the middle of the path. "Perfect for tadpoles. If there were a creek, we could go hunting."

Hermione smiled at that. "You could go hunting, Luna. I, for one, am in no hurry to make a fool of myself in public."

"The season is still young, Hermione. There is time enough yet."

They wandered back to their picnic blanket near the pond, where Lisette was waiting under a small canopy with a light meal. She was surrounded by a plush collection of cushions and rugs, and, in all honesty, it looked quite splendid.

"This is exceedingly pleasant," Hermione admitted a while later, when she was slumped into a cushion, shuffling the deck of cards. "Certainly more pleasant than a ball."

"If only," said Ms. Randolph, her lips pursed, "you would sit up straight."

Hermione smiled at her. "Come, Ms. Randolph. Such a thing is impossible when one is sitting on the side of a hill."

"I, for one," Luna chimed in, "am quite impressed that I have yet to roll onto my side."

"You are ladies." Ms. Randolph sounded pained now. "Not… beetles."

"Are you certain?" said Luna, examining her reflection in a silver spoon. "I seem to be sprouting antennae."

"It is a shame you are made of legs and not luck, Luna," said Hermione, dealing the cards. "Otherwise, you might have a sporting chance at winning back your losses."

"I still cannot believe," hissed Ms. Randolph, "that you are playing casino. In public." She glanced around furtively, as if worried that they were about to be arrested or worse, spotted by one of the mothers.

"And I cannot believe," said Hermione, "that you are such a terrible player, Luna."

Luna shrugged, smiling as she took up her cards. "I have no mind for strategy."

Hermione shot her a grin. "Remind me never to partner you at whist."

"Good afternoon, ladies! It seems we are interrupting quite a party."

Hermione did not bother to look up; she knew that voice.

"No party," Luna said to Lord Cadogan, "merely Miss Granger thrashing me at cards."

"What a grim pronouncement for such a lovely day!" He halted at the edge of their camp and inclined his head. "I take it you have already been for a walk?"

"Call it a stroll," said Hermione, putting down the deck. "It is only a walk when there are hills and mud and fields of sheep."

"What an intriguing definition," came a second, all too familiar voice. A voice that twisted her stomach and made her mouth go dry.

Hermione looked up and met the Duke's piercing gaze. He was dressed in his usual dark, trim manner, and his hair was an absolute disaster. He is rich enough to own a mirror, she thought, so it is likely that he does not care. "It is a definition informed by a lifetime of experience, Your Grace."

His expression was stoic, but his voice was warm with mirth. "I am sure it is, Miss Granger."

"Might we join you?" said Cadogan, his dimples twinkling in the sunlight. Behind her, Hermione could practically hear Ms. Randolph's heart palpitating and Lisette drooling.

"Certainly," said Luna, and as the gentlemen sat down — Cadogan to Luna's right, and the Duke to Hermione's — she flashed Hermione an excited little grin.

For a moment, Hermione had to work very hard not to grin back.

Here, on the fresh sunny lawn, it was almost difficult to remember the circumstances leading to her present truce with the Duke, and to reconcile his flat, open expression with the grim determination from two nights before. The warmth and the birds made it easier to forget the things she had heard him say, to forget the poorly-concealed insults he had passed about her character, her appearance. Truthfully, she thought now, I would not have toyed with his pride if he had not slighted mine, unwitting though it might have been. Hermione knew she would likely never forget those words, and not just because the person who had spoken them was a high-ranking member of society with the ear of every peer. No — it was because he had felt, for a brief period of time, like an ally. An unwilling ally, granted, but an ally nonetheless. And he had voiced every insecurity, every worry she had ever had about herself. An uncanny bit of luck, that.

But together they had passed the rest of the evening in a pleasant, if unsteady, atmosphere. Granted, they had been much distracted by the dancing, the drinking, the chatting to other inconsequential Lords and Ladies; but there had been a few moments, a few keen, pressing moments when his touch had lingered, when he had spun her into an unnecessary turn, when Hermione had felt every pair of eyes in the room raking over them with an almost greedy appetite. Most of it now felt like a blur to Hermione; the only constant, apart from the heavy, but not unpleasant, weight of the Duke's hand on her back, was the piercing, flashing green of his gaze as it found her own, over and over again. She had had a fleeting thought between waltzes that perhaps, with time, she would get used to it. But now that he was here, and glancing at her in that pleasantly bright, open way… perhaps, she thought, I will never get used to it.

"Gentlemen," said Luna. "May I introduce our chaperone, Ms. Randolph? Ms. Randolph, the Earl Cadogan and the Duke of St. Godric's."

"A pleasure," said Cadogan, giving her a nod. The Duke copied him.

"I can assure you, gentlemen," came Ms. Randolph's surprisingly breathy reply, "the honor is all mine."

"It appears that we've interrupted a serious game here, Prongs," said Cadogan, mock-frowning as he peered at the cards. "What is the score?"

Luna sighed. "Hermione, eighteen, and I, only four."

"Not a very fair fight," said the Duke, and he looked right at Hermione.

She fought off a shiver, reaching for the dealt cards. "No matter. We can put them away, and find something more diverting to amuse ourselves."

A hand, warm and firm on her wrist, stopping her. "Not at all," said the Duke. "Deal us in."

"Very well." As she did, she glanced at Cadogan, then at the Duke. "Meanwhile, Luna and I should thank you both for your very kind gestures yesterday morning."

"Not at all," said Cadogan, then his brow twisted a little and he looked at his friend. "What does she mean, 'both?' Prongs, does this good lady imply—?"

"No implication," said the Duke, and when she looked up, he was looking right at her. "Merely a simple truth."

"Which is?" Hermione managed.

"That a beautiful woman should receive equally beautiful flowers." With that, he captured her gloved hand, and, his eyes boring into hers, brushed a kiss to her knuckles.

Behind her, Hermione heard a faint thud, and supposed that Lisette had fainted clean away. Meanwhile, half of the people in the park had turned to stare at them. As she held the Duke's gaze, Hermione felt a slow smile creep upon her face. It's working, she thought.

For all his faults, the Duke was an excellent card player.

"My goodness," said Luna as they were tallying the score. "Eight points in a single round, Your Grace! Perhaps you have a better mind for strategy than even our Miss Granger."

"Perhaps," the Duke said, sifting his cards into a single pile. "Though I must admit, strategy is one of very few areas in which I excel."

Cadogan scoffed. "Modesty does not suit you, Prongs. He is a dab hand at riding and boxing as well."

"Boxing?" Hermione asked the Duke a few minutes later, as they were taking a walk together around the pond. "What an odd pastime, Your Grace."

He cocked his head to one side. In the sun, parts of his hair were almost chestnut. "Is it?"

"For one of your standing, yes. Is it not a tad… vulgar?"

"On the contrary, I find it quite thrilling." He shrugged. "There is a certain equality to it. Titles do not matter when you are in the ring. What matters is your strength, your speed. Nothing that is predestined by virtue of birth."

"I see." She wondered what would happen if she took hold of this sensitivity of his — this insecurity about his own status — and poked at it. Behave, she told herself. It was easier to be cordial with him now that they had found this new, slightly more even footing — the common ground of shared conspiracy. He was different, now. More relaxed. "Can I ask… why does Lord Cadogan call you 'Prongs?'"

For a brief second, his face did something very complicated — something between a wince and a grin. "A tradition," he said, "for the male heirs. Our coat of arms has a huge stag at the front of it, and the antlers…"

"How…" She fumbled for a good word. "Creative."

"Not at all, really." He shrugged. "That was what the previous Earl Cadogan and Lord Black always called my father, so once I got old enough, I just inherited the nickname along with the title. In all honesty, I cannot remember the last time Nev called me by my actual name."

She glanced at him. "I must admit, Your Grace, I do enjoy your friendship with Lord Cadogan. It is quite endearing, to see two such close friends."

"Do you know," the Duke said, stopping abruptly and meeting her gaze. "Now that we are… attached… you need not use my title."

Before she could stop herself, Hermione grinned and raised an eyebrow. "Very well… Prongs."

The Duke did wince then. "Good God," he said, while she could only laugh, "please, I beg you, refrain from doing that again—"

"Not if it generates a reaction as brilliant as this," she managed, clutching her stomach.

"Harry," he said, pained. "You may call me Harry."

Hermione raised her eyebrow again. "Harold."

"You," said the Duke, as she dissolved into giggles, "are a menace, Her-mi-ninny."

"Truce, truce," she choked out, swatting at him in a very unladylike manner. "Harry."

He met her gaze and gave her a rare, cheeky smile. "Hermione."

Something unhelpful swooped in her stomach and she looked away, clearing her throat. None of this felt very funny, now. She continued walking, and after a moment, the Duke did the same. "I meant to tell you, Your— Harry. We made a very positive impression, the other night."

"Did we?" His voice was neutral, but she caught the teasing edge.

"At least, according to Madam Skeeter. But hers is the most important voice in London, apart from the Queen's, so do not discount her opinion."

"Madam Skeeter," the Duke repeated. "Enlighten me."

"A gossip-monger." Hermione slipped her hand into her petticoat pocket and pulled out her rumpled, creased copy of issue No. 24. She handed it to him. "She sees and hears everything, and has yet to be proven wrong."

"Ah, yes. I had almost forgotten about your mysterious hidden pocket." The Duke unfolded the pamphlet as she fought off a blush. "Lose any more Shakespeare?"

"No," she bit out, then cleared her throat. "Our mentions have been quite tame, so far, but that may change as the season progresses and tensions rise."

"I can handle a bit of juicy slander," the Duke replied, scanning the front page. "She certainly does not mince her words."

"Not in the least," Hermione replied. "No one knows who she is, either. But she must be someone of note, because she is privy to details that only a peer would know. And she makes money hand over fist — each of these costs half a shilling, and hundreds of them are distributed throughout London almost every day of the week. She has an entire underground empire, and need not betray a whiff of her identity to rule it."

The Duke looked up at her then, his eyes flashing behind his spectacles. "You envy her."

Hermione's veins flooded hot and cold, and all she could choke out was, "No!"

"You do." The Duke looked smug, almost triumphant. He folded the pamphlet up and handed it back to her. "You need not pretend otherwise, Hermione, and you forget that you are in confidential company. Secrets do not a happy attachment make."

She overcame her shock in order to laugh. "Now that was an excellent jest!"

The Duke lifted his chin with exaggerated seriousness. "What do you mean?"

"It is a jest," she said, "because you are probably the most reticent, guarded person in all of England. I cannot imagine that such a deep-set quality of yours would suddenly change, even in the face of an association borne from shared conspiracy."

He was looking at her again. "This speech is brutal evidence," he said, "that you certainly do not neglect your Shakespeare."

"An artful dodge, Your Grace. I shall make no mention of the fact that you ignored my reply, and all the implications it carried."

"I did not ignore anything," he replied. "Just as you did not mention your alleged fact."

"Where does this leave us, then?" Hermione said, almost smiling. "In terms of secrecy?"

The Duke stopped, still looking at her. His expression was flat, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "I suppose," he said finally, after several moments' pause, "that our situation will likely result in us becoming quite acquainted with one another. If we are going to spend all this time pretending to everyone else, the least we could do is not pretend to each other."

For a brief instant, Hermione felt a bolt of fear. It rattled her, but she did her best to ignore it. "I suppose so."

His expression clouded over slightly, like a sudden storm over a field of wheat, and she knew then, in that moment, that, regardless of what he might say, or what he might agree to, a part of the Duke would always remain hidden from view. He looked away, across the pond, where Luna and Cadogan were chatting under a large oak.

Hermione cleared her throat and tried for a smile. "They do enjoy each other's company."

"Indeed." Then the Duke turned his back on the oak, the pond. He was restless; she could tell. "Perhaps we should return, and discuss our plans for tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" she echoed, before she remembered. "Ah."

"No need to sound so excited," he said, but his voice was grim. They began walking back the way they had come. "Did you hear the Queen will be in attendance?"

Hermione nearly stumbled, but she managed to catch herself in time. "I did not."

The Duke nodded. "She has a keen eye, as I am sure you've noticed, and you can be certain that she, too, subscribes to Madam Skeeter. We must dance the first two dances together, but greet her separately. If we greet her together, then it will be seen as—"

"An implication," Hermione finished for him, fighting yet another blush. "What about before the ball?"

"I am afraid I am too busy to call on you." He cut her an amused glance. "Though I can certainly send flowers."

She smiled. "It seems almost a shame, you know. Just how many blooms need to suffer for our art."

"Really? What would the good lady have me send instead? A bouquet of books?"

Hermione had never heard of anything more perfect, but— "That would turn too many heads, Your Grace. A bouquet of fruit, perhaps?"

He gave her a proper look now, his eyes narrowed. "Fruit?"

"Fruit," she confirmed, enjoying this little joke. "Pretty and practical. Besides," she added, "it would be helpful to have some food that was small enough to hide in my petticoat, so I could sneak it into my room. Ms. Randolph keeps us on a very strict diet. Lisette has become a master of subterfuge just to hand me the occasional ham sandwich."

This time, when he looked at her, there was something sharp about it. "A diet?" he said, his voice brittle. "I cannot think of anything less necessary—"

Hermione looked back at him, a little lost. "Really, Your Grace?"

"Yes, well." Something was happening to him. He looked like he'd been clubbed over the head. "Your figure, well. It is very…"

He stopped walking, so Hermione did so as well. He stared at her, she stared at him, and at his back, the pond splashed quietly at his heels. The silence was astounding.

After a few painful, eternal moments, the Duke cleared his throat and kept walking, dropping his gaze to the ground. He was ever-so-slightly flushed. "Anyway. What have you planned for this evening?"

Hermione, too, continued walking, wondering what on earth had just happened. "Nothing terribly exciting. We have a visit from the modiste, and Ms. Randolph has promised to overwhelm us with dining etiquette."

The Duke shook his head, still not looking at her. "I do not like this woman."

"Then you would be in the majority," Hermione told him.

"Why must you put up with her?"

She sighed. "When mine and Luna's social abilities were analyzed by anyone who claimed to be an expert, we were found to be somewhat lacking. She has been installed to turn us into proper young ladies."

"Good Lord." The Duke seemed appalled. "How horrendous."

"It is quite a relief to hear you say that," she said, and it was the truth. "I have become quite used to regarding her as a person of consequence."

Then, finally, he cut her another glance. "Has she been unkind to you? Needlessly?"

"Not since my first night here in London," Hermione said. "My father… corrected some of her behavior."

The Duke gave a nod and looked away once again. "You know, you have not yet mentioned… why you summer with the Lovegoods, and not your father."

Hermione blinked, a little surprised by this turn in the conversation. "My father and I are new to London, and by the time he was looking to purchase, most of the good houses were gone. Ours will need several months of work before it is habitable, and he spends most of his time at the palace. Quite apart from concerns of practicality, he did not relish the idea of me sitting alone in some empty, stately house."

Something twitched in his jaw. "You are… close."

"We are. Out of choice as well as necessity." Hermione smiled, then glanced at him. "And what about you, Your Grace? Do you have—"

"Harry," he said, with a bite of impatience. "Call me Harry."

"Harry," Hermione acquiesced, the name still foreign on her tongue. "Do you—?"

"Miss Granger." He stopped abruptly, then gave her a quick, stilted bow. "Forgive me, but I must be on my way."

She hastened to drop into a curtsy, trying to hide her confusion. "Of course—"

"Goodnight." With that, he turned and marched off, not in the direction of their picnic, but towards the main path. Within moments, he was slipping back into the streams of promenaders, his black head a stark contrast to the crowds of white and pastels.

Hermione stared after him, utterly bewildered. What had happened? Had she said something wrong? Had she—?

She glanced across the pond, and saw, again to her surprise, that like her, Lord Cadogan was watching the Duke's departure. Even from this distance, she could tell that his jaw was clenched. A moment later, he bade Luna farewell and walked off, following the Duke's line of exit.

When Hermione arrived back at their picnic area, Lisette looked at her with a question in her eyes. Hermione could only shrug. "I have no idea."

Hermione frowned as the modiste slipped the measuring tape around her waist and pulled it tight. "Luna, surely you must have discussed something beyond the life cycles of tulips—"

"The Earl is so knowledgeable," Luna replied. The tone of her voice told Hermione that she wasn't listening at all. Hermione glanced over her shoulder. Luna was reclining on the chaise in the corner, wafting a huge yellow feather — courtesy of the modiste — through the air. "He learned so much of what he knows from his great aunt, you see. Plants and flowers have been a lifelong passion for his family, but he is the first to turn it into a business."

Hermione was beginning to share Lisette's worry. Carefree, sweet, enigmatic Luna might well drive the Earl away if she did not make her own sentiments — which hopefully extended beyond the bounds of plant life — known. "He seems a very agreeable dance partner."

"Yes," Luna sighed happily. Perhaps she was listening. "He does occasionally step on one's toes, but he has such enormous feet, I think he can hardly avoid it."

There were far too many things for Hermione to say to that, so as the tape measure slipped from her waist to her hips, she settled on, "At least he knows his manners. Lord Roden cannot claim the same."

"Bite your tongue," Ms. Randolph snapped, choosing that perfect moment to come into Luna's bedroom. "Lord Roden is as acceptable a match as any. The fact that he is paying you any attention at all is quite the compliment."

Hermione did indeed bite her tongue. Ms. Randolph had not taken kindly to the Duke's sudden departure earlier that afternoon, and had decided that Hermione must have done something wrong to cause it. The carriage ride home had been an awkward one, to say the least.

"But Lord Roden is too old for us, Ms. Randolph," said Luna, and Hermione again bit her tongue to keep from smiling at the way Ms. Randolph's eye twitched. "And he does not share our sense of humor, or her passion for literature. I, for one, cannot fault Hermione for wishing he would keep his distance."

"If Miss Granger continues to repel all her suitors," Ms. Randolph said imperiously, "then it is possible that Lord Roden may give her the best offer she can hope for. Sapphire or not, you are not guaranteed a single thing if you do not make yourself an attractive option."

For a brief, delightful moment, Hermione imagined Puck flying into the room and giving Ms. Randolph a pair of donkey's ears and a tail to match.

"Madam D'Amboise," said Ms. Randolph, and the modiste looked up in reply. "Have you an estimate of how long it will take you to complete a new gown for Miss Granger? Miss Lovegood has several more she can wear, but Miss Granger's wardrobe is surprisingly lacking for a young lady fresh from Paris."

A hat, Hermione thought savagely. A little red hat, and a bell around her neck—

"Give me two days, madam," said the modiste. Her French accent was light, lilting, not as thick as Lisette's. She was several years older than Hermione and Luna, but her eyes sparkled with an undeniable vivacity. "Perhaps less, if she is happy to wear not such a complicated pattern."

"Yes," Hermione began, but Ms. Randolph swelled.

"Miss Granger's gowns cannot be seen as any less intricate than Miss Lovegood's. As they are attending every event together, it would not do for one of them to be seen as somehow subordinate to the other." For a brief moment, Hermione was surprised by this concern, then realized that Ms. Randolph was only worried about Luna, and how such a supposed disparity might reflect poorly on Lord Devon. Ms. Randolph huffed a sigh. "I suppose two days is fine. She can borrow some of Luna's old dresses for the Queen's tea party and the opera, and wear her new gown to the Rosiers' Ball. But she will continue to need dresses, Madam D'Amboise, both formal and informal. Please," she added, "spare no expense. And do not hesitate to use plenty of beadwork. Miss Granger needs all the help she can get."

"Absolutely, madam." Madam D'Amboise dipped into a curtsy. Ms. Randolph gave her a nod and left the room, her steps echoing in the hall.

Once Madam D'Amboise straightened, she flashed Hermione a knowing look that Hermione was all too happy to return.

"I feel I should apologize for her manners," Hermione said in French. "She does not actually speak for me, though she thinks she does."

"I understand, Mademoiselle," Madam D'Amboise replied, likewise in French. She knelt down to take Hermione's inseam. "It seems she is not too fond of you, huh?"

"I am not her true concern," Hermione replied. Speaking in French again — with someone other than Lisette — felt oddly cleansing, like a weight dripping off of her back. "And she has some perplexing ideas about fashion."

"Beading," Madam D'Amboise repeated, spitting out the word. "She reminds me of my grandmother, which is not a flattering comparison." Then, she looked up, her bright eyes fixing on Hermione's with a kind of determination. "They dress you quite modestly, no? In silly little whites and pinks and blues?"

Hermione nodded, bemused. She gestured to the open closet, where they could see the evidence. "Why do you ask?"

Something resolute crept across Madam D'Amboise's features. When she looked up at Hermione again, her gaze was alight. "Mademoiselle, you deserve to be dressed like a woman, not a little girl. I will make that happen." With that, she stood up, snaking her measuring tape into a thin, tight bundle. "Give me two days. You will see."

"I look forward to it," Hermione replied, trying to sound very normal and controlled when, in reality, her stomach was exploding with butterflies. Dressed like a woman? What on earth did she mean by that? How else was there to dress?

Madam D'Amboise packed up the remainder of her things in a few quick, efficient movements, and swept into a final, deep curtsy. She flashed Hermione a conspiratorial grin. "It has been an honor, Miss Granger, Lady Lovegood. Take care."

At some point during dinner that evening, Lord Devon looked up from his potatoes and said to Hermione, "Well, my dear, seems like you and the Duke are the talk of the entire town. I can hardly walk three feet without someone asking me about the two of you."

She tried, a beat late, to smile. "Really? How extraordinary, I cannot think of anything less newsworthy than—"

"Quite the contrary, I'm afraid." Lord Devon flashed her something that might have been a smile. "Is there any chance I could glean something of import?"

She couldn't help it; she stared at him. "Can I ask, my Lord, what you mean?"

He waved a noncommittal hand. "Well, you know. Was it love at first sight? Are you merely doing a bit of cat and mouse, before you see what your options are? Come, there is hardly any need for secrets. I can certainly promise you that anything you may mention will be kept in the strictest confidence. One only wonders at these things because of the Duke's reputation, you see."

"Reputation," Hermione repeated, her mind spinning. "Well, my Lord, seeing as it has only been a few days, I do not think we can attach any particular motivations or appeals to mine and the Duke's actions." She attempted a carefree shrug. "We are at the beginning of the season, after all. Why should we bother to commit ourselves to any one feeling or person?"

Lord Devon shook his head but gave her a smile. "Spoken like a true modern woman. I can tell you, in my day we never had any of this dancing around. Well, perhaps, but it was more—"

On and on he went, oblivious to the seething turmoil in Hermione's stomach. She stared down at her half-eaten food, and realized that if she had any hope of making it through her arrangement with the Duke with any of her sanity, pride, or heart left, there was something she had to do.

Several hours later, Hermione looked up at the sound of Lisette's quiet knock and said, "Enter."

"Mademoiselle," Lisette breathed as she slipped into the bedroom. She took in everything with a glance — Hermione's dress, left hanging over her screen; the open windows, welcoming in a gentle breeze; the desk in the corner, covered in books and papers, far messier than Hermione usually liked. And then there was Hermione herself, curled into a chaise she'd dragged in front of the windows. "You have already changed," Lisette said, somewhat surprised, then made her way to the desk. Again, all it took was a glance, then her gaze snapped to Hermione. "Algebra and Ovid. What is the matter?"

Hermione tried to take a steadying breath, but it did not work. "I tried, but… my corset, I could not—"

Lisette was by her in an instant. She pushed aside the fabric of Hermione's nightgown and went to work on the laces, which were half-undone and had tangled into a large knot. "Tell me," she said, simple, not pressing. She tugged the laces open and Hermione took a grateful gulp of air.

"I have to tell you the truth," Hermione managed, in French. "About me… and the Duke."

Lisette stilled. Her hands went to Hermione's shoulders, and she leaned forward enough to make eye contact. "What truth?" she said, her words even sharper in French.

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, hating herself for the hot, prickling tears that threatened to break free. "It is not real," she said, hating the way her voice shook. "None of it. Our attachment is a pretension, a farce."

A ringing silence. Lisette's hands slipped from Hermione's shoulders back to her laces. "How did this happen?" Lisette said, her voice softening.

Once Hermione began talking, everything spilled out of her like a flood. It felt almost Biblical — emptying her heart to the listless, cooling air, staring out at the stars behind the trees, feeling Lisette's warm hand on her arm, a soft encouragement, a reminder that she could find moments of safety even in a place like this. Around her, the world continued to shift, to spin, to slip towards dawn, but here, in this moment, it was just Hermione and the Duke, staring at each other across the darkened hall, his face half-lit as he looked at her and said, "Goodnight, Miss Granger."

By now, her corset was a crumpled mess on the floor, and Lisette was sitting beside her on the chaise, looking out into the throbbing night. "Mademoiselle," she finally said, breaking a long silence. "This is a very strange situation. He is helping you, but to protect himself."

Hermione almost smiled. "I know."

"He insulted you, but he respects you. And he trusts you."

Hermione nodded. "I know." The Duke's trust was the thing that unsettled her most.

"You are helping each other, yet toying with the possibility… of hurt."

Hermione sighed now, dropping her head into her hands. "I know. But I would be more worried if I thought that I could fall in love with him."

When she opened her eyes, Lisette was looking at her with something akin to surprise. "Really?" said Lisette. "You do not think you could love him?"

"No." The word was heavy in Hermione's throat.

Lisette's gaze shifted into something knowing, something clever. "So when he walks into a room, you do not feel every light dim, feel a weight in your stomach that settles deep, pulling you towards him even when you know it shouldn't?"

Hermione blinked a few times. "No."

"You do not find yourself looking for him, even when you know he is not there? You do not dream of his hands, his eyes, you do not long to hear his laugh, to see him look at you even when he is speaking to someone else? You do not wait to see if he smiles, before you do?"

"No," Hermione said, vehement now. Her face was hot.

"When something happens, you do not want to tell him right away, to see the way his face changes when you speak, to see if he watches you, as much as you watch him? You do not wonder what he dreams of at night, what he thinks while he reads, what he sees in the stars?"

"No, Lisette." Hermione rubbed her face, trying to will away the butterflies roaring in her stomach. "What you are talking of… it does not exist between us. It never will. Besides, I hardly know him."

"Right," said Lisette, but she sounded smug. "Now, you hardly know him, but in a few weeks…" Then, she leaned forward again, giving Hermione a final piercing, warning look. "Do not let him hurt you, ma chère. No matter the cost."

Later, when Hermione was staring down that solitary flame, she looked into its bright, flickering depths, and whispered, "I won't."

love u guys, u keep me bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. be kind and courteous in the comments.