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Bardroy crossed his arms and sighed wearily, scanning the Phantomhive ballroom like a general surveying a chaotic, bloodstained battlefield. The whole room was festooned with streamers, baubles, glitter, decorations he couldn’t even name…and pink. Lots of pink, enough to make his eyes smart. Miss Elizabeth meant well, and she tried so hard to make the young master smile, but damn if she wasn’t a handful when she put one of these harebrained schemes in motion! He’d actually managed to enjoy himself at the dance (even with that bloody awful outfit the blonde tyrant had insisted he wear—who the hell would think that thing was cute?!), but he was dreading the cleanup. It’d take ages to get all this stuff put away. Mey Rin and Finny had been sent off to remove Miss Elizabeth’s “renovations” from the other side of the manor, and Mr. Sebastian was tending to his own tasks, which meant the only backup Bard had at the moment was Grelle.
He’d need a cigarette after this was over. Maybe two.
Not that Grelle was a bad bloke. Though shy and prone to stutter, he was a nice enough fellow. Polite as could be, and wouldn’t hurt a fly. But he was one of the clumsiest people Bard had ever met, and absolutely hopeless at being a butler. Then, of course, there was the much more alarming business of Grelle’s neverending suicide attempts. Trying to stab himself, almost jumping out a window, nearly hanging himself in the garden…the unfortunate Sutcliff must’ve had a rough life to be so fixated on death and dying, and Bard worried about Grelle more than he cared to admit. Something about the timid butler activated his protective instincts. Maybe it was those large, plaintive green eyes. Beautiful eyes.
Bard blinked in confusion, cheeks reddening. Where the deuce had that thought come from? Though he had to admit it wasn’t the first time such notions had crossed his mind. Grelle might be an incompetent butler, but he was really quite pretty, and seeing him pining after Mr. Sebastian made Bard feel a sharp pang in his chest that was uncomfortably close to jealousy. Now, you stop that, Bardroy, he admonished himself. Besides, there’s no sense in gettin’ attached when Grelle’s goin’ back to Madame Red’s place soon.
He turned to look at his companion, who was busy taking down a banner. Grelle seemed to be in unusually high spirits and was humming the same tune he’d sung earlier that night. Bard and the other servants had been floored when he’d opened his mouth. Who’d have guessed that such a mousy person had such a powerful, melodious voice? Rich and warm, like a cello. Bard could have listened for hours.
Then there was the matter of the white dress. Bard had been humiliated by the girly outfit Miss Elizabeth had foisted upon him, rushing back to the servants’ quarters to put on something respectable as soon as the ball was over. Grelle was different, though. He hadn’t seemed upset by the dress itself but rather the fact that it was the “wrong color!” Bard couldn’t deny that it suited Grelle, somehow. The dress certainly showed off Grelle’s trim figure, but it did more than that. Normally anxious and flustered, Grelle seemed at ease, happier, finally in his element. Strangely enough, feminine was the word that sprang to mind when Bard looked at the butler. That was crazy, of course. Grelle was a bloke, wasn’t he? Still, he couldn’t help but wonder.
“Grelle?” Bard asked before he could stop himself. Grelle stopped humming, dreamy gaze coming back into focus. “Yes? Is something the matter?” he twittered nervously.
“I was jus’…er…don’t ye want to get into something more comfortable before we clean this stuff up? Those skirts mus’ be gettin’ in your way.”
“N-no!” Grelle protested with such vehemence that Bard took a step back in consternation. “I d-don’t want to take it off!”
Silence descended as Grelle realized what he’d said and clapped a hand over his mouth, trembling. Bard cursed inwardly. Why didn’t I keep my stupid mouth shut? Now Grelle was scared and upset, and a cold shiver raced down Bard’s spine as he wondered whether the butler might try to hurt himself again. He quickly grabbed Grelle by the shoulders.
“’s all right, Grelle. Tha’ doesn’t bother me.” Bard had encountered all types in the army, and he’d soon learned that there wasn’t time to get bent out of shape over people’s differences in war. No matter who they were, everyone bled the same in battle. “I was jus’ curious.”
Grelle lowered his hand and scrutinized Bard intently. The butler’s gaze grew sharper, more canny, as if he was coming to an important decision. In an instant, that strange sharpness vanished, and Grelle’s eyes were wide and doe-like again.
“If I tell you,” he whispered gravely, “you mustn’t tell a soul, Bard. Promise me.”
“O’ course,” Bard agreed, puzzled. A dark secret? Grelle was turning out to be full of surprises.
Grelle tilted his chin determinedly, back straightening. “I’m a woman.”
Bard went slackjawed. Now that was not what he’d expected to hear.
“Yer…a woman?” he repeated bewilderedly as he tried to process the statement.
“I may not look it, but here,” Grelle placed a hand over his (her?) chest, “I’m a woman. I’ve known it since my youth. Having a body like this is often…hard for me,” a shadow of pain flitted across Grelle’s face, “but if I do things like wearing dresses, it…it helps ease the pain, a bit. I feel more like my real self.”
Bard had never heard of anything like this. Someone who appeared to be a man actually being a woman? Was Grelle pulling his leg? But the brunette seemed to be in deadly earnest. Bard didn’t pretend to understand it, but if that was how things were…
“So, really, yer Miss Sutcliff?” he asked tentatively. Grelle’s face lit up in a smile, and Bard’s heart beat a little faster. He—no, she—wasn’t merely pretty when she was happy; she was beautiful. “Yes, that’s right,” she affirmed, nodding vigorously.
“Well, then,” Bard replied, giving her a reassuring grin, “yer secret’s safe with me! An’ when we’re alone like this, I’ll call ye ‘miss.’ How does that sound?”
“Perfect,” she declared, eyes shining with grateful tears. “You’re a kind man, Bard, you know that?”
Stunned, Bard shook his head awkwardly and stared at his feet. Kind? Him? Calling someone ‘miss’ when they wanted you to didn’t strike him as anything that grand or noble, just basic decency. Besides, if Grelle knew what horrible acts he’d been forced to commit as a solider, not to mention what being a Phantomhive servant really entailed, she’d probably be disgusted. Kind? He’d blown people to bits.
Desperate to rid himself of those dark thoughts, Bard wracked his brain for something, anything he could say to change the subject. On the battlefield, he’d needed to be quick on his feet, able to adapt at a moment’s notice. If his gut told him something, he went with it—pausing for reflection was an easy way to get killed. He was technically a civilian now, but Bard still thought like a solider. That was one of the reasons the young master had hired him. So when the idea first occurred to him, he blurted it out at once.
“Well, I have me a gal, an’ I have me a ballroom. Would ye like te dance with me, Grelle?”
She graced him with another smile, and Bard’s stomach did somersaults. Shit. He shouldn’t be letting Grelle make him feel things, but it was hard to resist when a lovely lady was looking at him that way. “I’d be delighted,” she trilled.
Her touch was strong and sure, hand intertwining tightly with his. Bard was fully prepared to have his toes stepped on. For better or worse, Grelle probably had two left feet. To his astonishment, however, Grelle proved herself to be a graceful dancer. Her posture was perfect, and her steps were quick and effortless. If anything, she was better than he was! The elegant ballroom, quiet except for the sound of Grelle’s humming (she had taken up the tune again), his partner’s lustrous, intensely green eyes…they lent a kind of magic to the moment. Bard almost felt like one of those princes in the fairy tales. Nonsense, of course, but a servant could dream, couldn’t he?
Looking at Grelle’s shiny, dark brown tresses, Bard was seized by a mischievous impulse. Before Grelle could realize what was happening, he reached over and undid her white hair-ribbon. “You scoundrel!” Grelle squealed as her locks flew free, but she laughed as Bard twirled her around. She had such long, pretty hair. Why had Bard never noticed it before?
All too soon, their dance drew to a close, and Bard shyly stroked her hair. It was so soft. Grelle regarded him tenderly as she placed her hands in his, unwilling to break contact. Grinning, she teased, “I have myself a prince, and I’m in his arms…” She got up on her tiptoes, bringing her mouth within a hair’s breadth of his own. “Would you kiss me, Bardroy?” she murmured, breath tickling his face.
It wasn’t proper. He should probably refuse.
“O’ course I would.” He was as good as his word, relishing the feel of lips that were as delicate as rose petals against his own. She tasted of strawberries and cream, tongue warm and eager…
“Oh, blast!” she pulled back abruptly, pouting. “Sebastian’s come to spoil things. How rude of him to ruin the mood!”
“Wha’ d’ye mean?” Bard asked, slightly dazed. Basking in the glow of Grelle’s unforeseen kiss, he failed to feel his usual trepidation when Sebastian’s name was mentioned. Surely Grelle was mistaken.
But no. His heart sank as Sebastian’s telltale tread sounded against the polished floors. “Dammit,” he swore, realizing in dismay that there were still dozens of decorations that needed to be removed. Grelle took back her ribbon and hastily put her hair up before the Phantomhive butler appeared in the doorway. Sebastian pursed his lips in disapproval.
“Would you care to explain why this,” he pointed a long finger accusingly at Miss Elizabeth’s handiwork, “has not been dealt with?”
“It was my fault, Mr. Sebastian,” Bard blurted out, quickly placing himself between Grelle and the manservant. “I..uh…started talkin’ with Grelle about this an’ that, an’ got us a bit, uh, distracted…” He knew better than to mention the dance, and he didn’t want to get Grelle in trouble. Mr. Sebastian definitely wouldn’t approve.
The butler gave him a withering glare. “There is no time for shilly-shallying,” he interrupted brusquely. “The young master expects the manor to be spotless come morning, and so do I. Could you at least try to do your job properly?’
“Yessir,” Bard mumbled sheepishly. After delivering his parting volley (“When I come back in an hour’s time, I want this gone, do you understand?”), Sebastian turned on his heel and stalked out. Chastened, Grelle and Bard set to work, though not before Grelle put her hand on Bard’s shoulder and breathed a quick “thank you” in his ear.
Despite Grelle’s blunders (her clumsiness had returned with a vengeance), they were able to complete their task to Sebastian’s satisfaction, more or less. With great reluctance, Grelle finally went off to change back into her butler’s attire, though not before turning back to look at Bard. “That was our first dance, dear, but I have no intention of it being our last,” she purred, giving a coquettish wink and blowing him a kiss. She left Bard standing stupefied, head spinning.
Clearly, there was more—far more—to Grelle Sutcliff than met the eye.