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Chapter Text

When Claude asks Byleth to come with him to Derdriu, it's a purely strategic decision. Between the distrust regarding his lineage and war tensions, he had barely been holding the Alliance together the past five years. To convince Leicester’s houses to aid him against the empire would be a challenge.

True enough, she does say yes, Claude immediately gets to work making arrangements for the roundtable while Hilda, Lysithea, Marianne, and Lorenz take turns making sure she has everything from a workable knowledge of Leicester’s politics to an outfit suited for an acting Archbishop. The four would then leave to exert their influence on their family’s houses, while Claude and Byleth would leave together after a few days to arrive just two days before the roundtable. The rest would defend the newly captured bridge in their absence. It’s a sound plan, with everything accounted for.

Or so he thinks.

The moment Byleth settles herself behind him on the wyvern, he realizes just how much he overlooked. Everything from how soft she is pressed against him for hours, to how right her arms feel around him, to the amazed wonder she looks at the stars with when he finally dares steal a glance at her–it’s blissful torture that sends him swinging between indulgence and restraint. He’s so wound up by the time they reach Derdriu that when Nardel makes it a point to wag his eyebrows while mentioning the “good things” Claude’s said about his professor, the Alliance leader briefly considers throttling him with his bare hands.

This is hardly what I need right now, he groans mentally. While her five year absence had made him realize the depth of his feelings, there were too many things they needed to get done, and there were certain … things about him she still didn’t know. Their friendship was too important to both him and their army to risk, and thus he decided to hold off any romantic pursuits until after the war was over. Over the past months, this choice of his had proven both incredibly motivating and utterly distracting–more so the latter.

In fact, it’s so distracting that he plans his next moves extra carefully. That’s how they end up the following day with him at the desk in his study while Byleth reads on Leicester’s history a good three meters away on what happens to be the only other chair in the room. It’s intentional, if not slightly excessive, distance because saints help him, he can't afford to lose any part of his brain to a lovesick fog with the roundtable so close.

The plan seems to work–they settle into a calm, productive silence, only interrupted by the scribble of his writing and the rustling of paper. Claude’s almost forgotten her presence when a sharp rap on the door makes them both look up.

“Come in,” Claude calls. The door cracks open, and one of his staff pokes his head through the doorway.

“Duke Riegan, another set of … letters .” The man looks at him pointedly, and Claude cringes at the sight of fancy envelopes adorned with ribbons and elegant handwriting. He hopes his skin is dark enough to mask the slight flush that must have risen to his cheeks.

“Ah, just leave them in the usual pile,” he tries to say as nonchalantly as possible. The messenger nods and without hesitation drops the letters into a box.

“Aren’t you going to read them?” Byleth asks him once the door closes. She sets down her book.

“Those letters aren’t important,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand. He’d long formed a subtle system with the messenger to indicate which were letters of pressing matters and which were of … unimportant ones.

“How do you know?” Before he can stop her, she crosses the room and picks one up from the pile. She inhales deeply. “This smells good. May I? Or are these another one of your secrets?”

He looks at her, amused. Well, if she wants to see what was written in them so badly, why not? “They’re not secrets exactly. If you really wanna sort through my mail, be my guest.”

She looks at one curiously, and proceeds to open it. He watches as she unfolds crisp parchment, and scans the letter. To his entertainment, her eyes widen, her mouth drops open, and her face morphs into a look akin to mortified horror as she blushes crimson.

“Th-These are … marriage proposals ?” Her voice is squeaky, and Claude revels in catching her in a rare moment of floundering.

“Surprised, Teach?” He flashes her a toothy grin. “Afraid that someone’s going to steal me away from you?”

There’s a small pang in his chest as he says this, a bit of longing that maybe she would mind him running off with someone else. It’s immediately washed over by delight, however, as she gets even more flustered at his teasing.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be sticking around for a while.” He winks at his friend, who still hasn't seem to have regained the ability to form words. "I owe you that much for dragging you into this whole war. Besides, we still have a lot to do."

An odd look crosses her face, like she wants to say something and then decides against it. Instead, she focuses her attention on returning the parchment in her hand to its envelope. She sets it aside. “These are … a lot of proposals,” she finally says, looking up at him. She almost sounds strained.

He shrugs. “Fódlan politics. The leader of the Alliance being unattached is an opportunity, as I’m sure you can see. And so your favorite little Deer is now Leicester’s most eligible bachelor.” His lips curl up into another smile, only because that’s the expression that matches his words.

Byleth’s eyebrows furrow, and he knows she sees right through him. Sometimes he forgets just how good she’s gotten at reading him. “You don’t seem to enjoy the attention,” she says bluntly, She walks back to her chair. “Why?”

He raises a brow. “Do you take me for a ladies’ man, my friend?”

She remains unfazed. “You weren’t exactly unpopular around the monastery. And you knew that very well.”

He chuckles. “Flirting around at school is all in good fun. Political marriage proposals, not so much. As it turns out, being universally wanted and unwanted based on your bloodline are surprisingly just two sides of the same coin.”

It’s been quite the experience for him, to actually be sought after instead of despised and yet still know he can’t trust them. Unfortunately for them, he’s all too familiar with the use of charms and sugary words for personal gains. The very idea that any of those bumbling fathers stand a chance at manipulating him is laughable.

Besides, he knows the proposals are born out of ignorance. His family, his actual political status isn’t exactly what a typical Leicester noble would want to marry into. Should any of them be privy to the truth, he’s willing to bet he’d lose whatever influence he’s amassed quicker than he could fire an arrow.

“What do you tell them, then?” Byleth’s voice cuts through his thoughts.

He blinks. “Hm?”

“How do you turn them down?”

“Oh. I say that I’m occupied with the war. Which is true. You of all people would know that, seeing as we spend a lot of our time strategizing together.” He leans back in his seat, tucking his hands behind his head. “You know, you seem quite invested in this, Teach. Might even say you’re jealoouuuuus,” he drawls.

He gets an irritated eye roll for that, but it's a break from her usual calm countenance, so he still counts that as a win. He decides he'll try to push a little further.

“Anyway, enough about me. What about you? Ever thought about marriage?” he prods.

She seems to consider this. “Jeralt gave me his ring. He said that he hopes I’ll be able to give it to someone I love as much as he loved my mother.” Her eyes dart away, and Claude thinks he sees some pink tint her cheeks. “Maybe I’ll do as he hopes someday.”

“And who might be the guy who’s up and stolen Teach’s heart?” he wonders out loud, his own heart beating erratically. 

“I didn’t say there was one.” She’s stone-faced. “You know, you seem quite invested in this, Claude. Might even say you’re jealous.”

His mouth drops open in shock, and he sees her celebrate her victory with the slightest smirk. Heat creeps up into his cheeks. “Well-played, Teach,” he says with a grin of his own. “I guess I’ll have to believe you about that.” 

A devilish look twinkles in her eyes. He’s still suspicious about some mystery guy, but he’s too impressed–and gods help him, attracted – to continue pressing her about it. He decides to let her have her win and pushes a different topic.

“You know, I didn’t peg Jeralt as a romantic guy. But I guess he’s like my own father in that aspect.”

She tilts her head. “I take it you’re the opposite?”

He puts a hand to his chest in mock offense. “You wound me, my friend. I do exist out of inconvenient love turned marriage, after all.”

“You could say the same about your problems,” she points out.

“And also of my dreams,” he counters smoothly. “To be clear, I don’t fault my parents for their marriage–I think the world has to deal with the fact that love goes beyond borders. They fought for their love against all odds, and I’ve always admired them for that.” The corner of his lips pull up in a small smile. “That’s another reason I’m fighting this war. I can’t help but hope that I’ll get to enjoy the peaceful, borderless world I’m striving for with–” He stumbles a bit, catching himself. “--with the person I love.”

Realization sweeps across her face, and it dawns on him that he could stand to be vaguer with his choice of words. “That’s the real reason you don’t pay any attention to the proposals, isn’t it? You already have someone in mind.”

“And if I do?” He says it almost like a challenge. 

Their eyes lock. He searches her mint eyes, looking for a tell of anything. But she is a worthy opponent–she has on that poker face she’s mastered so well. “Then I wish you the best. You know I’ll always walk in step with you until you reach your dreams.” She pauses, and her mask cracks ever so slightly, betraying a softness he wasn’t expecting. “You deserve to be happy.”

Her words disarm him, all bravado and mirth drained from him in an instant. All his life, he's been pushed to prove himself worthy of everything, whether it be power, status, or even just existing. While he’s experienced the unlucky extreme due to his blood, it’s Almyran culture to earn your place in society. To be told that he deserves happiness of all things simply because—well, that’s almost unthinkable.

But then again, she always has a way of surprising him.

She averts her eyes. There’s a sort of pensive air about her and he’s so damn tempted to just let go of all his plans to wait until after the war. He wants to just go over to her and tell her that she’s the one he’s talking about. To kiss her senseless as he says that he wishes for her to keep walking in step with him long after his ambitions are realized. That she of all people deserves happiness the most–and oh, how he longs for her to choose to find that with him.

But he doesn’t. It’s not the time for this, and he can’t risk things. He can’t .

“Thank you,” he chokes out instead, his voice shaking with emotion. He won’t be able to articulate the actual depth of it, but he'll certainly try to convey what he can. “But you know, even with everything going on, I think I actually am happy in a way. I get closer to my goals with each day, I have dependable allies and friends, and I have you again.” An unguarded smile blooms across his face, but he feels safe enough in this moment with her to let it happen. It’s not something he’s used to, but he decides it’s rather nice to loosen his grip for a change. “You’re my best friend, By, and you deserve to be happy too. I hope you know that.”

The look on her face is tender, and he melts under it. “You’re mine, too.” And when he sees one of those rare smiles light up her face, he’s more certain than ever that even the unified world of his dreams would be lackluster without her to share it with him.

Chapter Text

The roundtable goes well, with Byleth playing no small part in it. Many a time had he started to butt heads with the other lords (most especially Count Gloucester), only to have Byleth’s calm voice intervene and bring up another angle to Claude’s proposal, which sounded much more convincing coming from the Archbishop’s appointee. When the lords start nodding, Claude is so ecstatic he could kiss her.

But he doesn’t, of course. 

He instead escorts her after the conference, as is only proper. She loops her arm through his and together, they make their way to the grand ballroom for the feast that awaits.

“You did absolutely amazing out there, my friend. I’m forever in your debt,” he says almost reverently. Maybe he could get onboard with the Church after all if Byleth is the one leading it. “You make quite the Archbishop.”

An odd look crosses her face, but it’s gone so quickly he thinks he may have imagined it. She purses her lips. “Not really a role I want to keep up.”

He sighs apologetically. “I’m sorry for … well, using you.” He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. He’s embarrassed to say it, but there’s no getting around it. Teach was, is, and always would be his greatest asset and advantage in this war. “I guess there’s no other way of putting it.”

“No, if this is how I can help, then I’ll do it. I want to help.”

“You went above and beyond. I seriously can’t thank you enough," he says earnestly. "I don't think just anybody could pull off what you did. The way you commanded the room, you were so att–at ease.”

He mentally curses in Almyran. It’s not like him to slip over his words like that. 

Thankfully, Byleth doesn’t seem to notice. "I guess it's not so different from commanding a difficult battalion. Or wrangling a class full of rambunctious students."

Before Claude can respond, she loses her balance, almost falling face first if not for him steadying her. “Saints above, this outfit will be the death of me,” she mutters as she adjusts her headdress. “How do people wear such long robes?”

The duke chuckles. “Well, for what it’s worth, you do look stunning in it. And judging from the looks I saw during that roundtable, I’m not the only one who thinks so.” His mouth twitches as he remembers the appreciative stares he saw, and how they made him want to smack everyone away from her.

But it’s not like he can fully blame them. The fancy long dress, the floral ornaments adorning her hair, the extravagant headdress, and the makeup do bring out a different beauty to her. She looks ethereal and regal, utterly divine–even more than usual, and that’s saying something.

She snorts, interrupting his thoughts. “I look like Rhea," she says flatly. "Do you have a thing for Rhea?”

He has a visceral reaction at the very suggestion. “Oh, gods , no,” he sputters.

A self-satisfied smile plays on her lips, and he decides fighting off the nausea is worth it if it entertains her so much.

Post-roundtable feasts are usually the Alliance events of the year, and between his Almyran and Riegan blood, Claude makes sure that he throws the grandest ones possible given the war. This year, he’s gone even more all out–only the best meat, the best cakes, the best decor, the best cutlery. After all, with Leicester finally at his full disposal, they’re starting to have a real, solid chance at winning the war, and taking that huge step towards his dream. Given the state of things the past 5 years, a win like this ought to be properly celebrated.

Plus, he does have an esteemed guest of honor in his home this year. He grins affectionately at the acting Archbishop seated next to him. She gapes for a few seconds at the sheer amount of food being served to her before proceeding to stuff herself.

There’s something about the way she eats like a hungry wolf that he’s always found cute, and just like back at the monastery, it isn’t long before he’s forgotten about his own food. He’s thinking he could watch her devour steak all night when someone places a hand on his shoulder.

He whips around instinctively, tense, then relaxes when he realizes who it is. “Nardel! I hope you’ve been stuffing yourself silly. Tonight is a night to celebrate!”

His retainer smiles in a … weird, knowing way that Claude thinks he’ll ask about later. “Of course, Master Claude. And I trust that our guest has been enjoying herself as well?”

Byleth looks up mid-chew. “Mm-hmm,” she gets out, and Claude laughs at how full her cheeks bulge with the amount of food in her mouth.

“I think enjoying might be an understatement,” Claude says teasingly. His smile grows wider as the her face flushes with color, making her look even cuter.

Byleth swallows her mouthful, then clears her throat. “It’s been a wonderful feast,” she says formally.

Nardel laughs as well. “Don’t be shy around us, Archbishop. Trust me when I say that Duke Riegan and I know that the harder you work, the more you eat.”

She glances at Claude’s plate. “The Duke must be very lazy, then, because he’s barely touched his food.”

It’s his turn to blush. “This is my third plate, Teach.”

“And this is my fourth,” she says cooly.

Claude opens his mouth for a rebuttal, but Nardel speaks first. “And definitely not your last, my lady. Please, if you would allow me to borrow the Duke for a moment, so that you may enjoy your food without him pestering you. I’ll have him back soon.”

“ Excuse me? ” Claude says indignantly.

“By all means,” Byleth tells Nardel, waving him off. Claude looks to Byleth in shock as he stands, only to see a small smirk on her lips as her body shakes from holding back laughter.

Oh, he’ll get her for this. He immediately runs through possible scenarios as he follows Nardel away from their table.

His retainer leads him to a relatively secluded spot by the wall not too far from where they were earlier. He glances back at Byleth, displeased to see a couple of nobles seating themselves next to her. She throws him a sullen look, and his displeasure morphs into smugness as he winks back at her.

The universe is getting back at her for him just fine.

“Kiddo.” Claude turns back towards the gruff voice. Nardel has an unexpectedly serious look on his face. “You are positively glowing.”

“We just secured assistance from the Alliance! Of course I'm ecstatic!” he says, not even caring about the nickname. “Now what’s all this?”

“Ah yes, congratulations on the roundtable of course.”

Nardel’s blatant ignorance of his question does not go unnoticed. After all, that’s his thing. “I get the impression your earlier statement was about something else.”

Nardel breaks out into a grin. “As observant as ever. You have a different aura to you, you know, ever since you arrived. Who would have thought, a snotty lil' kid like you?” He shakes his head.

“I’m not sure I follow,” the young duke says, utterly confused.

“You remind me of your father. Love is a good look on you both.”

Realization floods him and he feels his face grow hot. “Not so loud,” he hisses immediately, eyes flitting around the room. No one seems any the wiser to what was just said, and he takes this as a good sign. He looks back at Nardel, and his shoulders slump in defeat. “Is it really that obvious?”

The older man guffaws in response. “Don’t worry, I can see why you’re so smitten. She’s impressive, that woman. Might give your own mother a run for her money."

Claude chuckles. "That's not completely unfounded. Teach is a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield."

"On the political battlefield as well, it seems. She’ll make a fine duchess." Nardel pauses and drops his voice an octave. “I daresay she’ll even make a fine Queen.”

Claude looks at him carefully, jaw tight. "You're quite optimistic, Nardel, in more ways than one."

"I’d be hard-pressed to think it hasn’t crossed your mind."

Bringing Byleth to Almyra, seeing her in clothes made of their traditional silks, introducing her to his parents, besting his stepsiblings for the throne to make her his Queen as she cheers him on?

Oh, he's definitely thought about it. Not to mention kissing her until she can't think straight in the royal chambers, tracing and memorizing every inch of her body, hearing her fill the cool Almyran night with the sounds of her–

He shakes his head, blushing deeply. "It doesn't matter. They're all fantasies at this point."

Nardel looks at him with something akin to disgust. "Really, kiddo? For all your lofty goals, it seems you've got nothing on your father after all. At least he wasn’t one to give up so easily."

“We’re kind of in the middle of a war, you know,” he says, irritated. “Not to mention the two of us are kind of the leaders of the Leicester army.”

“And?”

“Are you mad? We can’t afford to be distracted.” He looks away. “Besides, I have reason to believe she’s eyeing someone else.”

The general scoffs. “You already look at her like she’s the brightest star in the sky.” Claude blushes again, but he can’t help a small smile at the fitting analogy. 

He steals a glance over at Byleth. She looks rather uncomfortable in the presence of several nobles talking to her. When he finally catches her eye, he shoots her an apologetic look. Ten minutes, he mouths, raising ten fingers. She pouts at him–which looks so damn adorable, he thinks–and nods. He sees her gaze shift to Nader, brow furrowing slightly before turning back to smile at something one of her tablemates says.

“As for your lovely professor,” Nardel says, bringing his attention back to him. “I can definitely sense she’s not above slicing me in half if I harm a single hair on your head.” Nardel even sounds impressed, and Claude lets out a short laugh. Count on Teach to impress Almyra’s greatest general with one look.

“That’s Teach, alright.” He sighs. “She’s my best friend, Nardel. I don’t want to ruin that,” he admits softly.

“I’ll be honest with you, Claude. I have no trouble describing how you two look at each other because that’s exactly how your parents were.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a good thing. You keep talking like everything is easy, but I’m in a much more precarious situation than my father, don’t you think?” He crosses his arms. “And their relationship wasn’t exactly a walk in the park either.”

Nardel raises an eyebrow. “She doesn’t know?”

“She knows about my origins. She figured it out herself and I just confirmed it,” he says. “But not my uh, connections, no.”

“I think you should tell her, kiddo. The specifics.” Nardel tells him. “It doesn’t seem like she has the usual Fodlan mentality, anyway.”

Claude opens his mouth, then shuts it again. Nardel has a point. Here he is, dragging her into his schemes that make her uncomfortable all for the sake of his pipe dream. Which still might not even happen, unless he plays all his cards right. Sure, she had agreed to it willingly, and yes, she said she’d do whatever it took to help, but the guilt pierces Claude because he never really told him the full extent of what she was signing up for.

She deserves even more than just him baring his secrets, he thinks. She deserves to feel appreciated, valued–not just as a part of his plans, but for who she is as a person. She deserves to know just how much she matters to him. Okay, that one maybe with reservations, Claude thinks sheepishly.

He sighs. “You’re right, she doesn't. Honestly, she deserves more than that.” He steals another glance at her. “Definitely more than dealing with Leicester’s nobles. We both enjoy a good feast, but I know she especially dislikes big crowds like these.”

“Then get out of here and do something for her that she actually enjoys!” Nardel exclaims. “Have you even shown her around Derdriu?”

He blinks. “I uh–” he stammers. “The schedule was packed and–”

Nardel clicks his tongue. “I’ll have to talk to your childhood etiquette teacher. This is just abysmal hosting behavior. You can bet your mother will hear about this.”

Claude scowls, but now that Nardel mentions it, he does remember offering to show Teach around Derdriu back during monastery days. The way her eyes lit up back then as he described the aquatic city had filled his thoughts for weeks . 

He figures if Teach could come back from the dead to make good on her promise of a reunion, he has no excuse not to keep this one.

The scheming part of his mind immediately gets to work. Slipping out in a disguise in Derdriu of all places might prove a bit difficult for him. And hiring a carriage would allow them little privacy. Yet they’d cover too little going on foot. Maybe they could take …

Wait.

“Nardel. You brought her over, right? Like I asked?”

The general's initial confusion is replaced with realization after a few moments. “Of course. Wasn’t that easy, but when I said it was for Duke Riegan, people seemed to let some things slide.”

“Excellent.” If she’s here, then that makes things so much easier. On multiple levels. “Thank you … Nader.” His voice drops to a whisper when he says his retainer’s real name. “I owe you.”

Likewise, the older Almyran speaks in a hushed tone. “Don’t mention it … Your Majesty.” He strokes his beard, and Claude notices an odd twinkle in his eye. “Actually, you could stand to mention me to the Hero of Daphnel. Judith, right? I think you and your father might have the right idea with Fodlan women.” He winks, eliciting an embarrassed groan from the prince. Nader claps him once more on the back before nudging (or rather, shoving) him back in Byleth’s direction.

He stumbles a bit from the force, but recovers his balance just in time. He quickly makes his way over to Byleth and announces his presence by clearing his throat. “Gentlemen, I’m sure you’ve all been having a wonderful time with Lady Byleth. I’m so sorry to have to steal the acting Archbishop away from you, but it would reflect on me poorly as a host if I didn’t offer her a single dance.”

The lords murmur in agreement (“Of course, how unbecoming of the Alliance!” “Well said, Duke Riegan”) and start bidding their goodbyes, some even kissing her hand. Once formalities are over and done with, he takes her free hand and expertly weaves them through the crowd and onto the dance floor.

“Leading me away to dance. Familiar,” she remarks, and he grins at the memories that wash over him. The ball had been a highlight of his academy days, right up there with their shared moment at the goddess tower that same night.

“Reliving memories, are we? Hang on, there’s something missing.” He winks exaggeratedly at her, and she giggles. Stars, getting laughs out of her was downright addicting.

He clasps one hand in hers, and brings the other to her waist. Byleth rests her free hand on his shoulder, and he hopes to any god who could hear him that she won’t catch how his heartbeat goes mad at their contact.

“I hope you’ve at least gotten better at these silly noble dances,” she tells him as they start moving. “I obviously haven’t, but I don’t need to relive how you spun me around and we knocked poor Ashe to the ground.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know my Fodlan dancing is loads better now,” he says indignantly. “You won’t believe how much I had to do over the years to keep up with these nobles.”

“I think I have a rough picture,” she says dryly. Guilt washes over him yet again at the reminder that she’s completely out of her comfort zone. For him.

For Fodlan’s future, he corrects himself.

“Sorry again, by the way,” he murmurs. “Had a few things to discuss with Nardel.” He looks into her seafoam green eyes, which soften at his apology.

“You seem to be apologizing to me a lot tonight, Duke Riegan.”

“That I am,” he agrees ruefully. “So let me make it up to you.”

She tilts her head to the side, looking at him curiously.

“I know you’re not one for noisy crowds, and I’ve already gotten what I need from these lords, so how ‘bout you and I amp up the nostalgia a bit and slip out of this ballroom?”

Surprise colors her face. “But–”

“Nardel can handle the guests. There’s not exactly a Goddess Tower here, so I’ll meet you in an hour by the balcony near your chambers,” he tells her with a wink. “And you can get rid of this ostentatious Rhea get-up beforehand. Actually, I insist.”

She stifles a laugh as she smacks his arm. “Even if it looks stunning?”

His eyes are bright. “My friend, you look stunning in just about anything. Besides, you’ve done more than enough pretending today. Come as yourself.” I will too, he thinks.

She blushes prettily, and Claude can’t help but pull her closer. He sees her hesitate for a moment before fully resting her head on his shoulder.

Claude’s world goes still.

“Is that your heart? It seems to be beating pretty fast,” she says. “Is it normally like this?”

Drat. He’s thankful that his face is out of sight. “Well, any time you fancy a listen, I’m pretty sure it’ll always sound like this,” he says lightly. It isn't a lie, he tells himself.

“Hm.” There’s an edge of doubt to her voice, but she makes no further comment on the matter.

The music slows as if on cue, and he rocks them gently from side to side. As he holds her, he can’t help but think about how right she feels in his arms, and that maybe they could just stay like this and scrap the whole evening he had planned. Too soon, he feels her pull away, but before he can think, her bright eyes are looking directly in his, with her lips mere inches away. His breath hitches.

“Byleth,” he murmurs. Goddess, she’s so beautiful . He realizes too late that his thoughts have escaped his lips, and Byleth’s eyes flutter shut in response.

They’re drawing closer. He’s absolutely overwhelmed, all his senses focused completely on her.

A part of him screams that this is wrong, that it’s too early, that it’s not according to plan. That she has someone already, whoever that is, and this is just going to break his heart in the end. Hell, he foggily realizes that they’re completely surrounded by the who’s who of Leicester, but frankly, he can’t care less. 

Right then, however, the music reaches its end, and the ballroom erupts in applause. This snaps them out of whatever trance they were in, and he’s the first to pull away.

He clears his throat, plastering on his signature easy smile. "Well, my dear acting Archbishop, many thanks for the dance. But alas, I must take my leave.” He drops his voice to a whisper. “Just let me bid these nobles a good night and then—" He tilts his head towards the door.

Her earlier widened eyes now narrow in suspicion. “What exactly do you have planned?”

He grins. “I’m just keeping an old promise.”  He lifts her hand to his lips. "I'll see you later."

He turns around and walks away, but not before seeing her blush one more time.