.

In which there is (b)romance

(October, 1814)

.

"Are you sure you're quite well, Harry? That's the third bird you've missed!"

Ron threw his friend an incredulous look as the duck disappeared over the treetops after Harry botched what by all accounts should have been a sure shot.

With excruciatingly slow movements, Harry reloaded, but it was not long enough to shake off Ron, who was still looking curiously at him when Harry finally lifted his eyes.

Harry pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose and cleared his throat.

"I believe it's your shot," he said pointedly, looking at Ron's open gun, still empty and hooked harmlessly over the crook of his arm.

Ron obliged for the moment, reloading and stalking in silence for a minute before speaking up again.

"I know it isn't terribly — there you are," he interrupted himself as another bird took flight. He pointed and shot in one fluid motion, and his target went down with a distant splash, causing Ron to swear under his breath. He thought the bird had cleared the pond, and now they'd have to go retrieve it; Errol was far too old these days to perform that service.

Ron began again as they made their way towards the pond. "I know it isn't terribly exciting here…"

Harry sighed. "Oh, no, it's not that. Believe me, I wish I could stay even longer." Even though nearly a fortnight still remained in his stay, it felt far too close, far too short.

"Well, some blue devil's got you."

They continued on in silence until Harry finally offered, "I've been thinking about — "

He halted as he heard the beat of wings on the other side of the trees, and he brought his shotgun to his shoulder, waiting.

"Been thinking about — "

Buckston, London, Buckston, London, Buckston…

" — London," he finally settled upon the less all-encompassing of the two, pulling the trigger a second later when his quarry came into view.

He hit his mark this time, but Ron wasn't paying attention to that.

"London?" echoed Ron quizzically.

"You know. Capital of England." He looked askance at Ron, who favoured him with his most sarcastic stare.

Then Ron glanced past him, his eyebrows rising in amusement. "I do believe your catch is stuck in a tree."

Harry followed Ron's gaze over and up. "Oh, damn."

Ron laughed as Harry set off to retrieve his bird.

"I've got to fetch mine yet," reminded Ron, taking off once again in the direction of the pond. "Don't start climbing until I come back. I don't know what happens if a peer breaks his neck on my father's land, but I imagine it's awkward."

"Not a bloody peer," sulked Harry as he stomped off. Not yet and, God willing, not for another twenty years at least.

He'd just set aside his gun and begun rolling up his sleeves when he heard a crass curse, a distinct splash, and an annoyed "Damn it all to hell!" in the distance.

It was Harry's turn to laugh when Ron reappeared moments later, disgruntled and very wet and clutching a limp, bedraggled bird.

"How deep is your pond?" enquired Harry in disbelief.

"I tripped."

Harry chortled again as he hoisted himself up onto the lower branches.

Ron swept wet, darkened tendrils of hair off his brow with as much dignity as he could muster.

"So," he prompted in unconcerned tones. "London?"

Harry grunted, partially in frustration and partially as a result of a tree branch pressing against his diaphragm as he dangled precariously from the higher limb now, kicking and hauling himself to a standing position.

But the physical exertion was clearing his head and loosening his lips.

"My father," he said, reaching for the next limb, "wants me to learn how to be an earl."

The only response from Ron was mild silence.

"Did you hear me, Weez?"

"I heard you."

"I'm in a tree — Oh, Christ…" His footing slipped as he clung to a high branch, the side of his leg scraping down the tree trunk before he caught himself. Something snagged on the fabric of his breeches and he pulled himself free, swinging himself to a more stable foothold.

Below him, Ron kept a patient, watchful eye. Harry became rather careless and caper-witted when he was in a mood.

"I'm in a tree, Weez, and I — I've torn my goddamned breeches, and he expects me to be an earl!"

Ron wanted to say that surely there must be another set of breeches to be found somewhere in this country, but as Harry was finally talking Ron wisely kept his mouth shut.

"My first London season after reaching my majority, and he says it's time I learn my Parliamentary duties! He wants me to observe every week! Full sessions! Have you any idea how long those deuced things last? And do you know what else he said?"

"What?"

"He said — Oh, where is it, Ron, I can't see it?" he said suddenly, looking up into the tangle of branches and leaves.

"More to your left."

"Ah." Harry braced one foot on a short branch and reached up into the leaves to extract the duck. "Catch, Ron."

He dropped the carcass into Ron's waiting hands and began to back down the tree, continuing, "He said that just because I may not be a peer for many years yet doesn't mean I shouldn't consider the House of Commons in the meantime."

"You know, I'm not sure how I feel about you having any hand in running the country at present."

"That's what I said!" Harry insisted fiercely.

James Potter had become the Earl of Buckston when he was but twenty years of age — but his father had been quite old. It wasn't at all the same for Harry, whose father was still young and strong and full of vitality.

What's more, James had been born for that role — not in the same way that Harry had been born in line to become it one day; but in the sense that James was clearly a natural at it. He had the mien, the wisdom, the honour and sense of duty. He commanded respect. He could run his estate whilst simultaneously bantering the Duke of Padford about what a chuckle-head he was. Or whilst getting foxed with Padford. Or, more commonly, both.

Not that Harry didn't have a sense of honour and duty. But it wasn't the same. He had no mind for business affairs, took no pleasure in reading the newspaper. He felt his youth and inexperience keenly. And frankly — and maybe selfishly — he had no desire to leave that state any time soon.

He was supposed to be young and foolish. He was supposed to be learning how to not be awkward with women. He was supposed to be in France and Italy on a proper Grand Tour, damn it.

He was supposed to be able to climb a tree without ripping his damned breeches.

James had surely never found himself in a tree with ripped breeches. When James shot a bird it fell to the earth where it was damn well supposed to.

Harry wondered vaguely whether Padford had ever fallen into a pond.

The point was: Harry was not James. And he was in no hurry to demonstrate to the world how very incapable he would surely be of replacing James someday.

"Harry?" prompted Ron, causing Harry to quit his woolgathering and continue down onto solid ground.

"And it's not just duties in town, you know," Harry mused as they bagged their catch and trudged back towards where they'd started out that morning. "He wants me to learn the management of Buckston."

"But you'll have a steward for most of that, surely? And a secretary? To attend to the details."

"He does, but to be quite honest he hardly needs them, and he'll expect me to be the same. My father is… he takes his duty seriously, he's very personally involved. His steward is an old Oxford friend; I think my father hired him more as a favour than for any other reason. Pettigrew's perfectly competent, as far as I've ever heard, but my father still has a direct hand in everything himself." Harry shrugged. "Suppose it isn't a bad arrangement for Pettigrew, when you think about it."

"Do you mean to tell me that you could just pay me to ensure that you don't make a cake of yourself? Good God, where do I sign? In fact, I've been advising you for years as it is, and a deuced good job I do of it, too!"

Harry grinned but then shook his head. "You can never do business with friends. My father almost fell out with Pettigrew a few years ago. It was all right in the end and they're still friends, but I think it's never really been quite the same."

Ron let out a long-suffering but good-natured sigh.

"Then the Army it is, I suppose," he said wryly — though the words were heavily laden.

"Really?" said Harry.

"I don't think I see any other options, do you?"

"Must you decide now?"

"I don't know. George, you see, is two years older, and he hasn't taken an occupation…"

Ron suspected that George — who'd always had a fascination with trade — ultimately didn't much care whether he went through life as a gentleman.

Ron sometimes wished that he didn't care quite so much.

"But George can't be an officer," he continued, tapping his left ear demonstratively. "I can, and I suppose it's better to do it young, don't you think?"

"You don't sound pleased."

"I'm not displeased, I suppose." Ron shrugged. "Don't feel one way or another about it, really. It's just something I'll have to do."

"No other options will suit?" asked Harry fairly.

Ron flashed a sceptical grin. "Well, which part of me shouts 'vicar,' exactly?"

"Hmm… barrister?"

Ron chuckled dubiously. "Even if I had any interest, I could never — "

He cut himself off abruptly. He'd been about to say that he could never afford it. Percy had wanted to pursue the law, but attending the Inns of Court was expensive — far more than the cost of Bill's and Fred's initial officer commissions combined.

"Well, I could never bother with it," he finished. "Sounds dreadfully boring, if you ask me. I abominate the whole idea."

They reached the spot where they'd begun their hunt earlier, retrieving their coats that were draped over the branch of a small tree, and Ron assessed the state of himself and Harry — the former still quite damp, his clothes soaked through; and the latter with scuffed boots, torn breeches, dirtied shirtsleeves, and scraped palms.

"Next time, I think, we do rabbits," Ron quipped darkly.

.

.

On their way back to Burrough House they passed the old barn, and there they encountered the twins and Angelina, all standing outside around a contraption of George's.

"Ah," remarked George when he'd caught sight of the two approaching. "I see the birds have begun to fight back."

Harry gave a sheepish bow, fully aware that the other three were taking in the state of him, including the tear at his thigh.

Angelina averted her eyes, but calmly, more out of propriety than shock or offence. It was no state she hadn't already seen the twins in before, even if it was some years ago.

But then Harry turned his attention to the object between George and Fred, his embarrassment momentarily forgotten as he realised what it was.

It was made almost entirely of wood — rough hewn, built as it was by one man alone in a barn — a long, thin beam-like seat scarcely half a foot wide, atop two wheels, one in front and one in back, with a wooden hand-bar affixed to the front.

"Is this what you were telling me about?" Harry asked excitedly, referring to a conversation he'd had with George the day before.

"Yes! It's a crude prototype, mind, and Fred's already given me some ideas for improvements — mainly the seat, you see; we think it should be curved a bit, it's rather too severe here. It would be more comfortable and accommodate the wheels better whilst keeping the rider low enough to be able to — erm, walk? Ride? Propel? It's some combination of the three, really."

"Will you show me?" asked Harry keenly.

"Erm…" interjected Fred. "Much as I hate to be what I fear is Percy in this situation, there is a lady present and Potter is, er, out of uniform, so to speak."

Angelina looked supremely unbothered, but Harry flushed, remembering himself.

"Right!" he said. "I beg your pardon. I suppose I should…"

He trailed off, for he did not exactly have a change of clothes with him at the moment — but Ron said, "Here, Harry, you may borrow some clothes of mine — I must change as well, and then see to these." He hefted the bag containing the day's catch.

So with George's assurance that he wasn't going anywhere, Harry and Ron proceeded to the house, where Ron first sought out the cook, asking her to take her own pick of the fowl before the rest were to be delivered to neighbouring families. Then they changed hurriedly in Ron's room before rejoining the group by the barn.

Fred was sitting astride the wooden conveyance, propelling it forward by what looked, essentially, like walking.

"It goes much faster on a road," George explained to Harry and Ron (though Ron had heard this all before). "If you create enough momentum you hardly need to walk at all. I suspect on a paved street it'll really fly."

"Famous!" exclaimed Harry. "What do you call it again?"

"Well, I thought of 'velocipede,' but Fred likes 'pedestrian curricle.' And Angie just calls it 'ridiculous,'" George added proudly, sending Angelina a wink.

"Well, it is!" she protested. "And how's a lady supposed to ride it? There's no way to sit aside."

Fred came to a slow stop, pondering the contraption as he remained astride it, before exchanging a look with George.

"Counterweight, perhaps…"

"More wheels…"

"Yes, widen the base…"

"But there's the question of propulsion. One leg, she'd tire rather quickly…"

"What if we're thinking about this all wrong?"

"Eh? How so?"

"Perhaps a lady can't ride it after all, but what if you applied this to a sedan?"

"What, instead of being carried, you mean?"

"Yes, exactly. Lengthen the whole thing — sedan chair in the middle — chairmen in front and behind as usual — they'd tire much less quickly than if they were carrying it."

"Yes, but quite a risk of toppling over."

"Sedan chairs topple over all the time."

"When someone's merely climbing in or out? How would you balance it at rest?"

"Hmm… suppose you had two wheels in front, two in back, side by side."

"Congratulations, Georgie, you've just invented a carriage."

"Always knew I'd be good for something."

They beamed at one another.

"Well, it's just the most capital thing I've ever seen," insisted Harry. "Tell me you intend to apply for a patent! Why, if you found a cartwright to work with, these would be all over London within a season."

"Do you really think so?" asked Angelina, a little surprised.

"Certainly! It's smaller than a carriage and less trouble than a horse. For short distances, just about town? Besides, if the right people are seen with one, it doesn't really matter how practical it is."

"Ah," said George wryly, "well, we tend not to know the right people."

"Harry's the right people," Ron pointed out.

Harry laughed. "I don't think I am, but we certainly know them, don't we, Ron? I can think of half a dozen of our acquaintances already who'd be fascinated — " Then he gasped in mischievous realisation. "You know who'd really be tickled by this? Longbottom."

When Ron grinned his agreement, Harry explained to the rest, "Friend from Oxford. Takes an Act of Parliament to get that man on a horse."

"Yes, I walked to London from Lancashire but the damned horse didn't throw a single shoe the entire time, eh wot!" Ron joked, expertly mimicking the pleasant, slightly self-deprecating voice of their friend the future baron.

Harry laughed.

"What else are you working on?" Harry asked George as Fred dismounted the velocipede and propped it against the side of the barn. "I only recall Ron mentioning something about unpickable locks."

"They were unpickable," said George as Fred grinned brightly. "Until Fred showed up. Had both the dashed things outsmarted within an hour. But come on — if Mama isn't around I can even show you — where is Mama?" He looked to Fred and Ron.

"Thought she said something about calling upon the Martins," said Fred. "Or maybe it was the Masons, I can't recall. Anyway, she took Ginny with her. That was over an hour ago."

"Hmm," pondered George, wondering how much time he had to start up one of his steam set-ups before his mother came around. He began to lead the way into the barn. "Well, come on — "

"I was promised cricket," reminded Angelina.

"Well, if we're playing cricket I'm going to have to eat," said Ron. "I'm famished."

"Who said you're invited?" asked Fred. Ron sneered at him. But really, Fred knew they couldn't pass up a game with Ron and Harry — a group this size was too good an opportunity.

"And are you really going to start without Ginny?" Ron pointed out. "Your funeral."

"I can't imagine Mama and Ginny will be much longer," said George fairly. "And there's plenty of daylight left."

Fred shrugged and looked to Angelina. "Fancy a walk?"

George turned his head to hide an amused look as Angelina assented, taking Fred's arm.

So Fred and Angelina took a walk whilst George took Harry and Ron on a tour of his makeshift workshop, and within the hour they'd all reconvened in the open field near the house where Verity had set out a picnic at Ron's request — the day was so fine it was unbearable to be inside a moment longer than necessary.

Ron had begun building the wickets when the carriage bearing Ginny and Mrs Weasley appeared and turned towards the house.

The carriage had barely come to a stop, and the coachman hadn't an opportunity to begin to step down, before Ginny flung open the door and alighted without assistance, protesting, "You are not playing without me!?"

"So graceful," remarked Fred as he sipped his tea, watching as his sister half-scrambled, half-hopped down from the carriage, their mother calling after her futilely.

George stood next to him, carelessly twirling a bat, and when Ginny drew nearer he complimented decorously, "You put all the other bulls in the tearoom to shame — eh, watch it!"

Ginny had picked up the second bat, brandishing it menacingly, and George held his out like a sword.

"Don't start without me!" she threatened, dropping the bat then and hastening inside to change — she liked the dress she was wearing currently and didn't fancy ruining it; as well, she kept a couple of dresses intentionally hemmed an inch or two too short for just these occasions. It made her mother furious, but Ginny reasoned that if she were wearing boots what on earth did it matter anyway?

The boys, meanwhile, explained to Harry the rather convoluted rules they'd created long ago for their own variation on the game with so few players — it was a bizarre combination of team play and all-against-one, all at once. They could have simply played at it non-competitively, but where was the fun in that?

"Age before beauty," remarked George, handing over the bat to Fred to kick things off.

Fred was run out rather quickly, thanks to a quick reaction by Ginny, who tossed the ball to a waiting Angelina, who crouched to put down the stumps and smiled teasingly up at Fred. He grinned, taking her by the hand and rather unnecessarily assisting her back to standing.

George followed, as did Angelina, Ron, and Harry, until finally Ginny took her place at bat, staring haughtily at Fred as he turned the ball over in his hand.

Harry found himself inching closer, the better to field the ball, until a chuckle from George drew his attention.

"I'd move back if I were you, m'lord," warned George cheerfully. He wore a knowing grin, though not once did he take his eyes off his bat-wielding sister.

Harry turned his head quizzically towards George, having barely registered what he'd said a split second before Fred bowled, Ginny swung, and the ball came within an inch and a half of taking Harry's head off entirely.

Startled though he was, Harry was not one for woolgathering during any kind of sporting, and he sprinted after the ball and threw it to Ron, who took out the wicket (and, consequently, Ginny) with beautiful aim.

Ginny, however, did not agree.

"I am not!" she protested furiously when Ron proclaimed her out, and soon the two of them were toe-to-toe and nose-to-nose — as much as they could be, with Ron standing a full head taller — arguing heatedly over one another's words.

"Tell him!" Ginny demanded, at the exact same moment as Ron insisted, "Tell her!" — both of them looking to Fred and George.

The twins looked at one another and nodded.

"As much as I hate to take Ron's side in anything," said Fred to Ginny, "you are run out."

"You're always teaming up against me!" she accused.

"Oh, surely not," said George. "Only on Mondays and Tuesdays."

Ginny was not amused.

"Here," said Fred, "let's seek the opinion of a disinterested party. What does Potter say?"

Harry blinked, wide-eyed. Whilst it had been close, Ginny was definitely out, but it felt a little ungentlemanly to say so.

And she was still wielding a bat.

"I really couldn't say," he hedged.

Ron scoffed in bare disbelief. "I've never seen you not pay attention to the game in my life."

Harry cringed a little, thinking, under five expectant stares, and finally he decided that Miss Weasley — fury aside — did not seem the type to appreciate being patronised, either.

"I'm afraid Miss Weasley is run out," he said apologetically.

Ginny looked as if she'd like to throw the bat at his head, but she merely flung it aside mutinously as Fred leant over to George and quipped, "It's looking a great deal better for Bernard, suddenly."

.

.

The game continued until Ginny's hair was almost entirely coming down and Angelina said she feared she might have had a little too much sun for one day. The group retired to the house for cards until it was time for dinner, after which Fred remarked that it would soon be dark, and insisted on escorting Angelina home in the carriage with the promise to deliver her horse the following day.

"You're quiet," Angelina remarked when they were halfway to Holden House.

It wasn't a criticism or a complaint. It wasn't a concern. It wasn't an awkward attempt to revive the conversation.

It was a companionable observation of the state of things, delivered in warm, untroubled fashion.

It drove Fred slightly mad.

"Doesn't happen very often. Enjoy it whilst it lasts," he joked with a grin, which Angelina returned fondly before glancing out the window at the passing landscape.

Fred was quiet because until that point she'd spent much of the ride watching contentedly out the window — during which time Fred had appreciatively watched her.

He took in her profile, her posture, the occasional little tug at the corner of her mouth, as he tried — not for the first time since he'd come home — to sort out his reaction to it all and what his brain and his body meant by it.

Well — he knew what his body meant by it.

It was just that he'd never felt that way about Angelina in the past — so why was it different now?

He hadn't been so young the last time he'd seen her, as to not have an appreciation of beauty. And he certainly wasn't starved for beauty now, either. He'd seen attractive girls. He'd been with attractive girls.

It had just taken him some time away to be able to recognise what a tempting armful Angelina Johnson really was.

But that part wasn't terribly strange, after all. You were supposed to look at someone beautiful and wonder what their lips felt and tasted like. You were supposed to see Angelina Johnson and think to yourself how devilish nice she was to look at — because she was.

The problem was, that didn't seem to be the extent of his fascination.

For as un-dissembling as she was, for as well as Fred knew her, she was, impossibly, an enigma of sorts. You could be both sure and unsure of her all at once. It was wonderful and wretched, and Fred had never loved and hated his own curiosity so much.

If Angelina had noticed the keenness and increasing frequency with which Fred looked at her, she never let on. And Fred could have driven himself to distraction trying to work out which it was — whether she hadn't noticed, or whether she had and wasn't reacting to it.

Oh she enjoyed his company, of that he was certain. They were friends as ever. Angelina didn't pretend to have fun when she wasn't.

But whilst she was warm, she was also collected and steady — so, so steady. Fred didn't think he'd ever seen her coy, or flirtatious.

If Angelina flirted, what would it even look like?

If a tree flirts in the forest and nobody is around to see it, is it really interested?

Fred could tell well enough when she disfavoured someone. But how to tell whether she favoured someone — well, Fred didn't know the first place to start.

It occurred to him that George might know.

And Fred was momentarily taken aback by how annoyed he was by that last thought.

They reached Holden House finally, and as he could hardly make that trip without saying hello to his uncle, Fred popped inside for a quick visit, realising to himself how much more awkward it was now than it used to be, returning Angelina home in such a dishevelled state even if it were only due to the cricket.

Not that Colonel Weasley said or suggested anything about it. But once Fred started thinking about the alternative explanations, well, his mind was off and running once again.

He compensated for it by being unnaturally silent for the remainder of the evening after he'd returned home.

He was polishing his boots in his room when George, having just dressed for bed, spoke up.

"Percy's right, you know."

"Well, don't ever let him hear you say it," said Fred repressively, staring critically at his progress. Then on afterthought he added: "Right about what?"

George fixed him with a knowing look.

"Oh, Angie, might I reserve the allemande?" George mimicked in dramatic tones. He made an exaggerated, courtly bow. "Oh, Angie, allow me to assist you with your mount. Oh, Angie, let me fetch you another punch!"

Ignoring Fred's ironic glare, George continued, patting just behind his ear as if primping an invisible coiffure: "Oh, Angie, the way those ribbons set off your eyes — ! "

"Now, that one I never said," protested Fred, feeling the futility of it even as he said it.

"Bah, you were thinking it."

Fred pretended to ignore the remark — and the heat rising in his own cheeks — adding dismissively, "Anyway, you've done all those other things as well."

"Yes, but that's different." George rolled his eyes. But he backed off the subject then, and Fred went back to his boots.

Not a minute had passed, however, before Fred brought his halfhearted work to all but a stop.

"Is it different?" he asked, not raising his eyes.

"What?"

"You and Angelina. The dancing and helping into carriages."

When George didn't respond, Fred looked up, his face carefully blank and his tone painstakingly even.

"Is it different?" he repeated. "To when I do it?"

George looked as if he could hardly believe his own ear. And, in fact, he couldn't.

"Freddie, what are you asking me?"

George's expression was one of pert incredulity, though there was also something provocative in it — because as ridiculous as he thought the question was, George knew exactly what Fred was asking him, and he wanted to hear Fred say it.

Fred looked down at his polishing and then back up at George's expectant face, and he did this about three times before finally managing in a low, steady voice:

"All right. Have you any intentions towards Angelina?"

A bark of laughter escaped George before he clapped his hand over his mouth.

"Sorry," he managed through another laugh.

Fred blinked. "It isn't actually that funny."

"It is. It is fun— oh, Fred, I'm sorry, it isn't the question that's funny, I just hadn't expected it in quite those words." George positively giggled some more to himself.

"Well, you're always together," protested Fred.

"Oh, you sound like Mama. We've been always together since we were ten, what has that to say to anything? The answer's no, by the way. Intentions..." George mimicked with a scoff. The words 'intentions' and 'Angelina' didn't even belong in the same sentence as one another.

Fred opened his mouth as if to speak again but kept biting back words.

"What is it?" asked George.

Fred hesitated a few seconds longer and tried to keep a bizarre sense of accusation out of his voice as he asked, "What was it that Angelina really wanted to talk to you about that day? The first day I was home."

George blinked, doing some quick thinking. But he didn't see any way around it. He couldn't lie to Fred, not about this, not anymore, and nor could he spend much more time not answering, because nothing could possibly look more suspicious.

"Look here, Fred… I'm sorry I didn't tell you. It's just that I didn't think it was mine to tell." He paused, pacing the length of the room. "But under the current circumstances… Well, you know I told you that Angie's got it in mind that she must marry. For control of her inheritance. And the thing is, she told me she had no interest in any of the gentlemen paying their addresses to her. Seems to think they're all fortune-hunters. And so she… "

He chuckled nervously, pausing in his pacing, and then sighed under Fred's steady, expectant stare.

"Oh, it's just the most absurd thing, she asked me for a marriage of convenience!"

Fred didn't seem to register any shock, but George supposed that was the soldier in him. Fred's gaze was calm but penetrating. "And you said?"

"I said no!"

Then Fred did blink in surprise. "No?"

"Yes, no."

Slowly, a bit of levity finally crept over Fred's face.

"A girl whose company you enjoy, who's handsome and has a fortune to boot, and you said no?" He smirked. "Georgie, you know I think the world of you, but how much better did you think you could do, exactly?"

"Well, I don't wish to be mawkish, but shouldn't I have some sort of affection for whomever I marry? I simply can't think of Angie in that way."

"You're flying your colours," Fred observed, as a flush had crept across George's face, deeper even than when he'd been laughing.

"Yes, because that's how embarrassing this all is! I wouldn't make it past the first night! Do you see now why I didn't tell you? This is the last conversation I want to be having."

"It was you who brought it up."

"About you and Angie, not me."

They held one another in a steady gaze, Fred's keen and searching, until at last Fred spoke again.

"You really feel nothing for her." It sounded relieved — it was relieved — and yet sought confirmation all the same.

"Not in that way."

"But she does for you."

"What? No, haven't you been listening? You've never seen a more practical, passionless offer."

"She must feel something."

"I'm telling you she doesn't, not a drop."

Fred refused to find any sense in this, arguing, "But of all the people she could have even a passionless marriage with, she chose you."

"Because we're friends! She seriously thought we could just exist under the same roof and go on exactly the way we are now, that's exactly what she said — I mean it, Freddie, she told me I could have a fancy piece on the side, for God's sake!"

Fred's eyes widened in two seconds of shock — and then he burst out laughing.

"She said that?"

"Yes!"

"How does she even know what that is?" Fred asked in disbelief — though still excessively diverted by it all.

"I don't know!"

Fred gave himself up to laughter again, feeling so much lighter than he had a mere five minutes before.

"Ah," he said appreciatively, wiping a tear from his eye, "she's a great gun, isn't she?"

There was a knock at the bedroom door, and George opened it to discover Percy, who'd apparently deigned to come home on this particular day, wearing no glasses, a banyan over his nightshirt, and a supremely annoyed expression.

"Do you mind?" he complained.

The twins made their apologies, closed the door, and promptly burst into laughter again.

George was tempted, after the earlier 'intentions' question, to turn it back around on Fred, who hadn't actually confirmed George's suspicions in so many words. But it really wasn't necessary — he fairly well knew.

And as for Fred — well, if George had asked him, he hardly knew what he'd have said.

He hadn't gone into any of this with any intentions at all. Perhaps that made him sound like a cad, and for that reason also he didn't want to vocalise it to George — but he didn't feel like one. Angelina was Fred's friend, too, and he'd never played a part to her. It wasn't his fault he'd come home to find her so damned lovely.

But whilst he'd been driven rather aimlessly in the beginning by a vague desire to find favour with her, something in his mind had not stopped ever since he'd learnt that she was on the hunt for a husband. And even the part of Fred's brain that didn't know what he wanted, realised that he'd better work it out quickly or soon it wouldn't much matter what he'd wanted.

Fred was perhaps a bit young for marriage. So many men didn't marry until thirty or thirty-five even — but if he were being honest, Fred didn't understand that. People weren't meant to be alone, and after a while it started to look — and feel — rather unsatisfying.

In all his life so far, Fred had never imagined himself to be in love. But he was thinking about it now, and that had to mean something.

And if he was feeling it, well, he couldn't very well tell himself that he wasn't.

.

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Notes:

What's that? You don't like love triangles? Yeah, neither do I, oddly enough. And yet we find ourselves in interesting territory. Lean in, friends. We're gonna get weird. XD

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George has invented... a bicycle!

He's a little ahead of his time. The first iteration of the bicycle was in fact invented in Germany in 1817. A similar, improved model was introduced in London in 1818, patented the 'velocipede' or 'pedestrian curricle.' It became commonly known, however, as a 'hobby horse' or 'dandy horse.'
These early versions of the bicycle had no pedals, and were propelled with one's feet in a walking motion. It became super popular and fashionable in London in 1819, but its popularity faded when fines were imposed because so many people were causing accidents.

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Some other context you may find useful:
Basically, you were not a gentleman if you worked for money. If you didn't own land that turned a profit and provided a living for you, the acceptable occupations were Army/Naval officer, clergyman, barrister, or perhaps a position in government/politics. These were considered learned/gentlemanly professions, and they avoided the appearance of being paid a salary by instead characterizing it as a 'commission' or 'gratuity' or 'living.'
No, it doesn't make sense.