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Their story began unlike any other, unfolded like the thick pages of an enthralling novel. What began as an innocent friendship soon blossomed into something more—something profound and passionate, something only both the Duke and the Lady could not see nor realize for themselves.
And so, in the heart of the Court of Fontaine, a love story unfolded that could not be defied by the conventions of time.
—•••—
A young lady no more than nine wandered through the manicured gardens of her manor, bright violet eyes skimmed through the bushes of flowers searching for the mechanical squirrel her papa bought for her.
Papa always told her to keep her ears to the ground for the cranking and whirring of the toy. It had wandered off when her maman called for her attention. Making the young girl bit her lip in worry of losing the precious gift her papa gave her.
The sound of bushes rustling made the young lady gasp, followed by the sounds of the mechanical toy turning off, she narrowed her eyes at the shaking bush before she called out. “..Who’s there?”
The girl takes a broken branch before gasping at a tuft of black hair suddenly emerging from behind the thick bushes. She could only stare at the boy who seemed to be around her age—perhaps a few years older—with a stunned gaze, lowering the makeshift weapon as she tilted her head at him.
The boy had his arms up, one of them still holding the mechanical toy—now quiet and still. The boy’s hair was messy and his clothes dirty, there was dirt and scratches around his face.
She briefly wondered how he got here. The walls around her parents estate were, after all, towering and the gates were slippery, surrounded by her papa’s guards no less.
The boy eventually spoke first, albeit carefully so as to not alert the guards. “Um, sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Here, this is your toy right?” He scratched his neck, slowly outstretching his hand to give her back the toy.
The young lady nodded, still wary of this odd looking disheveled boy. “Thank you. I thought I lost him.”
“Did you fall through the gates?” She asked curiously, eyeing the gate behind him—if one were to squint their eyes, they could see the piece of shredded clothing hanging onto one of the bars. Presumably, the boy’s shirt.
Observant. That was his first impression of her. The boy offered a meek smile, nodding. “Yeah, I was running away from the Maison Gardiennage. Hope you don’t mind me hiding in here for a while.”
The girl’s eyes widened at the mention of the Maison Gardiennage. “You were..? What did you do to get chased by them?”
“I–uh.. took some coins from the Fountain of Lucine?” He replied slowly, slightly wary of the stranger in front of him. Though, yes he was the one who entered this stranger’s abode without permission, it still doesn’t hurt to be cautious.
Upon seeing the girl’s raised eyebrows—curious and innocent, the boy quickly added. “It’s not as if they use them for anything! They just leave them there. I have no idea why those people won’t take em’ for themselves.”
“Papa told me the coins mostly go to charity.”
“Exactly, mostly.” The boy grinned, dusting the leaves from his pants. “They won’t miss a couple of coins, right?” He showed the girl a glimpse of his coin pilled bag.
The young lady tilted her head for a while before shrugging, “Hm, I suppose you might have a point.”
The boy huffed before asking her when the gates to her estate will open. She blinked and told him it’ll be open soon, considering it was the time of day where her papa would return from his afternoon riding session.
“Oh, it seems the gate is open now.” He pointed at her right, but before he could leave, the young lady called out to him. “Wait– um, what’s your name?”
“Wriothesley. And yours?” The boy asked.
“Clorinde. Be careful, Wriothesley.” Clorinde says quietly, glancing at the dried wound on his knee. Wriothesley nodded, smiling as he ran off towards the gates, earning a couple of shouts and ruckus around the estate.
Clorinde wonders how he could run so freely and with so much energy even though he had a wound on his knee. She fiddles with her toy before heading back inside. It was getting late after all.
—•••—
The next time they met was more or less a similar situation. Clorinde had been playing with her mechanical squirrel toy before she heard a loud thump amongst the bushes. Before she could put down her toy and seek out the source of the sound. A familiar tuft of hair peeked out, waving at her from a distance.
Clorinde snorted an undignified noise—if her maman heard her letting out such a noise, she would’ve spent another few hours worth of tiresome etiquette for young ladies. When he stepped closer—she noted the matching wound on his left knee, the girl furrowed her brows at the gash. Had he gotten the wound from falling from the gates again? She wondered to herself.
The boy looked less disheveled that day. Clorinde asked why he was here. After all, he could get into trouble again if her papa’s guards were to find him.
“You looked lonely and I noticed you seem to enjoy playing with those mechanical toys.” Wriothesley said, sitting beside her on the bench. He gestured towards the toy squirrel in her hands, “Do you like them?”
Clorinde nodded, “Yes, my papa gave it to me as a birthday gift. It’s really helpful for hunting traps and such, he likes to take me with him. But, most of all, I like how it moves.” she shows him by turning the gears as it shakes and moves along the bench.
Wriothesley hummed as he relaxed further onto the bench, “You know, I can make something similar to that one. I’m a craftsman’s apprentice so I know how to make the toys move and all!”
Clorinde blinked her violet eyes up at him, twinkling with quiet excitement and curiosity. “Can you really..?”
“Yeah, but it probably won’t look as detailed as the one you have though.”
The young girl looked down at her toy. She had watched her papa make it for her in his own workshop—though maman discouraged giving her the toy—something about how young ladies should not play with boys’ toys. He still insists on Clorinde having one. Telling her that it used to be his favorite toy to play with and till this day he uses them for his hunting sessions.
But, with how busy her papa is as of late, Clorinde could only play by herself when she isn’t attending her etiquette lessons. Other days she would just hold onto the toy while she quietly reads.
“Do you want me to make another one for you? Maybe we could play together if I successfully made one.” Wriothesley chimed, noticing how Clorinde got quiet. The girl pursed her lips, “Are you sure it’s alright?”
Wriothesley chuckled, giving her a boyish grin. “Of course, just say the word and I promise to make one for you.”
After that day, Wriothesley kept coming back to her estate—climbing the gates, again—and Clorinde waited for him on the same bench every single day. A newfound secret friendship that only they know.
It took weeks to complete the mechanical toy, but eventually, Wriothesley came back one day and gave the young lady her new toy—just in time for her tenth birthday.
“Happy birthday, Clorinde.”
Clorinde hugged her new friend as she stared at the dog toy with wonder in her eyes. It looks different than how her papa used to make it. But the rugged edges gave a durable appearance and to Clorinde, Wriothesley’s craftsmanship has its own charm.
—•••—
“It looks like you.” Clorinde had said one day when they were no more than seventeen and nineteen.
Wriothesley, who was lying on her lap, opened his eyes momentarily and gasped. “How dare you.” He puts a hand to his chest, as if he was offended by her words.
The young lady rolled her eyes at his dramatics and continued. “Have I never told you that?”
“No, and I am offended that you thought so, my lady. You know, some thoughts should never be verbalized.” Wriothesley shot her a lopsided grin, earning a scoff from Clorinde. By now he had gotten several cuts and scars from dealing with the Maison Gardiennage and constantly climbing up Clorinde’s gates.
Clorinde had even taken it upon herself to learn how to patch up wounds from her chambermaid and made sure to keep a supply of first aid beneath her bed.
But Wriothesley still won’t learn his lesson. Does he really enjoy climbing the gates so much?
She had asked that question some time before, but all she received was his boyish grin and Wriothesley telling her in a sincere voice, “If I had to climb the gates just to see you. I would do so every single day in a heartbeat. If it means I can make you smile and accompany you.”
That had made her heart pound and her stomach churn—wondering if the butterflies in her garden had suddenly infested her insides. Clorinde was thankful to have a friend she could confide to at least. After all, she was nearing the age where she would have to debut and officially enter society.
Clorinde frowns at the thought of not being able to see Wriothesley again.
“Wriothesley.” Clorinde called out softly. The dark haired boy hummed in question, raising his brows up at her.
“Can you still make those mechanical animals that I loved as a child?” She asked, absentmindedly playing with the messy strands of his black hair, feeling the rough yet thick strands through her fingers.
“Yes, why? Would you like me to make you something?”
Clorinde hummed, placing a flower she plucked on the top of his hair. “Could you please make me a cat this time?”
Wriothesley stared up at the younger lady, the latter darting her eyes away as she tried to avoid his gaze—it was as if he was studying her. The boy noticed how unusually quiet Clorinde has become—not that she wasn’t before. She seemed a bit..forlorn.
“Of course.”
“Promise?”
“Hey,” Wriothesley sat up, taking her hand in his as he squeezed it with reassurance. “I always keep my word.”
That was the last day they had sat together as just Clorinde and Wriothesley. One without the weight or bearings of titles and responsibilities.
Clorinde had grown into a graceful and poised lady, entering society—knowing fully well she was entering a den of lions. Alas, she could only hope that she would soon see Wriothesley again.
It didn’t take long for her to find him. As news reached her ears that her childhood friend had been adopted by the late Duke of Meropide and would soon take over as his only heir. Clorinde’s first reaction was to chuckle behind her cup of earl grey tea. Finally realizing what he meant by 'apprentice' back in the day when they first met.
Clorinde only wished he could’ve told her sooner. But she digresses, Wriothesley has his own reasons and he will tell her once he’s ready.
Perhaps then, they could sit together and have his favorite tea once more. Until then, Clorinde yearns for the day of their reunion.
—•••—
The one place that Clorinde would never expect to bump into her childhood friend again was somehow the place she never thought he would be at.
The Fountain of Lucine.
Clorinde and her chambermaid usually strolled along the boulevard in the evenings, just before sunset. The young lady draped in her usual violets and whites had stopped in her tracks as she neared one of the landmarks in Fontaine.
Standing there with hands in his pockets—tall and brooding, dark hair just as messy and ruffled as the ones she remembered running her fingers through when they were younger.
“Wriothesley?” Clorinde’s voice just below a whisper.
The man—now a Duke, turned towards the source of whisper and the familiar scent of Pluie Lotus.
“It really is you..” she says once more, letting herself take in his much taller and muscular build. The two took careful and slow steps towards the other—not wanting to ruin this moment nor scare the other away.
Wriothesley exhales gruffly as he studies her beautiful features—archons, she looks even more breathtaking than the last time he laid eyes on her.
“We meet again, my lady.” And she feels her heart melt at his boyish grin—something she never knew she missed until now.
“Indeed, Your Grace. How are you faring on this lovely evening?” Clorinde returns his smile in a heartbeat, letting his new title roll off her tongue. And she muses to herself, how fitting.
“My evening would feel much more complete if you would do me the honors of accompanying you to an impromptu promenade…that is, if my lady wishes to?”
Clorinde hums a pretty sound. “That sounds lovely. You know I would never deny you, Your Grace..”
—•••—
Clorinde smiled as she brought the mechanical cat to her eye level—it was as big as her palm, she let out a gentle laugh as she pretended to stroke the cat’s head. “You made this.”
Weeks after their reunion, on one of their weekly afternoon tea parties—Wriothesley insists it to be called as such, much to Clorinde’s amusement—she had hinted on a promise he kept all those years ago. Wondering if he even still remembers. Much to her relief, he kept his promise, and even provided a reason as to why he never told her of his title back then.
The Duke had feared for the worst—that Clorinde would never look at his eyes again, betrayed and bitter. But, it was the opposite. She had listened to his story—of how a nobleman took it upon himself to adopt Wriothesley as his own one day.
Today was one of their scheduled afternoon tea parties, Wriothesley—the man of dramatics that he is, had closed Clorinde’s eyes before presenting her the gift that he promised years ago.
“For you, my lady. I always keep my word.” He grinned, leaning on the doorframe as Clorinde huffed in amusement, watching how the usually reserved lady was reacting to the gift he made—how those only closest to Clorinde notices the slight quirk of her lips accompanied by the twinkle and crease of her eyes to know if the young lady was genuinely delighted.
“What? You didn’t think I would forget our agreement, did you?”
“Of course not.” Clorinde replied, eyeing the details of the mechanical cat. To her, the Duke was no noble. Not that she thinks he isn’t fit to be one, no. Wriothesley was every bit of a noble she envisioned. In her eyes, Wriothesley was still that boy that dreamed of being a craftsman. One that could make things out of scraps and a toolbox, providing joy to young children and perhaps—even a lady like herself.
“How do you like your new pet cat?” Granted he didn’t have any violet or lavender paint to complete the ensemble, but he supposes the amethyst gems on its eyes was enough to earn the pure delight in her eyes.
The response afterwards was something even Wriothesley would never expect from Clorinde. It was as if time stopped itself and he could feel his breath caught in his throat—almost choking him out of his reverie.
“It is everything I’ve ever wanted. Thank you, Your Grace.”
Then came the gentle curve of her lips, revealing endearing dimples he had never seen before. If Wriothesley thought Clorinde was akin to a moon before—the radiant glow that she exuded currently could rival the sun’s warmth.
And Wriothesley thinks about how captivating his childhood friend was, he couldn’t help but be entranced once more by her unwavering beauty and the sincereness she carries with her.
Perhaps the last straw was, Clorinde—sweet, beautiful Clorinde—who gently places down the cat next to the mechanical dog that he made for her tenth birthday. The very first gift he made by hand.
Oh, he realizes.
As Wriothesley eyes the two mechanical toy animals that sit on her windowsill. A cat and a dog—one with amethyst eyes and one rugged around the edges.
The Duke of Meropide is in love. Terribly and unbearably so.
—•••—
“His Royal Highness has decided to propose to Lady Navia tonight.” He says out of the blue.
Clorinde widened her eyes, blinking up at the Duke. “Baron Callas’ daughter? So soon?”
“What can you say,” the Duke shrugged and Clorinde resisted the urge to stare at his broad and muscular shoulders. “Prince Neuvillette is in love. Both of them are.” He added, whispering his words as the both of them watched the two individuals dance around each other.
“And you..? Do you have plans of your own, Your Grace?” Her tone was unusually hesitant and timid.
…when are you finally going to ask me?
“Ah. I’m afraid only time will tell, my lady.”
I cannot answer that, Clorinde.
Clorinde furrowed her bows at the vague reply the Duke provided, the wine left a bitter aftertaste in her mouth.
—•••—
Lady Navia stood near her dearest father, occasionally stealing glances at the prince from afar. Offering the sheepish man a blinding smile that was only reserved for him and no other. Her sea-born eyes bore deep into the handsome prince’s heart, wishing the royal would reach out his heart to embrace hers in front of his people.
Showing and proving their love to many, just like the ballads that Queen Furina sings for her citizens—that ballad specifically was rumored to be directed towards her younger brother and his lover. Everytime Wriothesley teases the prince about it, the man turned red in response.
Twas a similar dance that both the Duke and Lady Clorinde shared. Similar yet so different. Where the prince and the baron’s daughter knows of their eventual fate—one that they themselves had paved together and one that would end like any other ballads that the queen sang of.
It is not everyday one gets to see His Royal Highness pace around the room with such a mix of nervousness and uneasiness, until he finally receives a push from his sister—Queen Furina—to finally approach Lady Navia with a newfound determination.
And when Lady Navia accepted the prince’s hand with a sunny grin and a graceful curtsy, Clorinde inhaled a short breath before her lips melted into a smile. For she knows that as soon as the Lady of Spina di Rosula had accepted his hand to a waltz, their hearts had finally intertwined.
Wriothesley handed Clorinde a fresh glass of champagne when the waltz ended with a proposal. Cheers and bubbly drinks passed around the ballroom as the queen raised a toast to her brother and future sister-in-law.
Prince Neuvillette’s proposal held not only the promise of love but also the weight of duty and the expectations of an entire kingdom. The echoes of generations past whispered in the grandeur of the room, as if the walls themselves bore witness to the pivotal moments in the history of the royal lineage.
Amidst the festivities and dancing, Wriothesley stayed with her. None uttered a single word, not even when Clorinde could feel the Duke’s battered knuckles brushed against her gloved ones. His touch was akin to a ghost’s touch, so gentle and light. If she were to drink a few more drinks—she would barely feel it.
At that moment, time stood still. The world around them faded into the background, only his harbored breathing and the rustling of her silk gloves rang through their ears. Wriothesley lowered his gaze just a bit, to see—no, to make sure that what he was doing was not out of line. He had to know. Even if Clorinde only gave a gentle turn and stretch of her fingers, the Duke would know that his touch was welcome.
Clorinde held her breath when she deliberately outstretched a finger—just an inch, barely touching his rough hands. The Duke clenched his jaw in understanding—unsure if it was an invitation to hold her hand. Clorinde was far from the fragile damsel people thought she was. She is far from that, he thinks.
But right now, Wriothesley fears how Clorinde would break if he were to take her hand in his. Even if he knows it would not be the case.
Wriothesley lets his fingers to finally touch hers—their fingers communicating a silent poetry, struggling to convey their emotions and feelings toward the other with a single ghostly touch.
The sharp call of her name from across the room made Clorinde gasp at the loss of contact. Wriothesley lets his hand fall into a fist as he watches Clorinde’s maman and what he knows to be one of Clorinde’s suitors striding towards their way.
The Duke of Meropide steps behind Clorinde as he whispers a momentary goodbye, to which the younger lady nodded in return—still flushed and dizzy from their private moment.
Before her maman could bother her with another suitor, she stole a last glance at Wriothesley’s retreating figure before putting on her facade once more. In the back of her mind, Clorinde silently wished someone could bear witness to her very own love story. If they were even depicted as such in people’s eyes.
—•••—
“I heard about Duke Pierre’s proposal to you at Queen Furina’s ball a couple of nights ago.”
Was I too late?
Clorinde stood still, unconsciously clenching at her purple silk dress. Her gaze was fixated upon the night sky before them. “..I declined his proposal.”
No, no you were not.
“Ah, you must’ve caused quite a stir then, my lady.” Wriothesley let out a teasing chuckle, though he could feel the air in his lungs return with newfound ease. His heart however, was thumping wildly against his chest—it remained unsettled, an uneasy cadence that betrayed the calm facade he was putting on for her.
Oh? And why did you decline the proposal from an honorable nobleman like him?
“Do not get me wrong, he is a good man. Kinder than any noblemen that has vied for my hand and attention. But, he deserves someone who truly loves and cares for him. And though I am flattered. I..could never reciprocate his feelings and advances.”
He is not the one I wanted..
He is not the one my heart beats and longs for…
She dug her gloved fingers onto her long skirts, playing with the silk fabric between two fingers, catching a stray string as she pulled and twirled at it. Her mother would throw a disapproving glare at her for ruining the dress. No matter, her mother was disappointed at her enough for rejecting Duke Pierre’s proposal. Clorinde just wished His Grace would say something soon.
Ask her something.
Anything.
Those dreadful words she has long been accustomed to. But none she wished to hear anymore from anyone other than from Wriothesley’s lips. Perhaps then, Clorinde could finally find solace in his arms, where she could finally close her eyes and breathe with ease.
A hush settled between them. The weight of unspoken words hanging upon the air as if it were a delicate veil, threatening to tear at any moment.
The night breeze was getting terribly chilly by the minute. The Duke took note of how Clorinde clutched the sides of her waist. Her dress tonight was thin—too thin for the cold autumn weather. Without a moment to spare, Wriothesley took off his thick coat and draped it around the lady’s shoulders with gentle care. In response, Clorinde clutched the Duke’s heavy coat tighter around herself, pulling the collars up to her chin, eyes downcast—a silent gratitude that only His Grace was familiar with.
“And what about your parents? Have they begun searching for another swoon-worthy and eligible suitor for you?” Wriothesley’s heart clenched once more at his own words.
Do I still have a chance? Or was I too late again?
“Maman is currently nursing her headache.” Clorinde winced as she remembered how her mother slumped onto the chaise lounge with a dramatic sigh that night. “Papa on the other hand..” she lets herself smile for a moment before adding, “He wishes to leave me be for awhile. Papa doesn’t wish to impose me with matters of engagement anytime soon.”
No. You are never too late.
Wriothesley’s gaze softened at her small smile. No grand ball or courtly affairs could distract him from the thoughts of her—her gentle quiet laughter, the sparkle in her eyes, and the subtle grace and sharpness in her every movement.
The Duke of Meropide was vulnerable—even more so when Clorinde placed down her hand onto the grassy fields between them. Wriothesley thinks back of the missed opportunities and the moments where he thought he almost lost her to somebody else. Somebody kind, earnest and loving. Someone brave enough to wear their heart on their sleeves and asked for her hand in marriage.
It took a few minutes before the Duke placed his hand down next to Clorinde’s. As they reveled in the moment, the world outside ceased to exist, and the boundaries between them blurred into a private moment once more.
Wriothesley steels himself when Clorinde leans her head onto his shoulder. The Duke nudges his nose playfully at her hair—earning a soft chuckle from Clorinde. It encouraged him to nuzzle her head with his own, careful not to ruin her hair.
And perhaps it was at that moment when they both knew that their feelings were the same.
How Wriothesley’s heart skipped a beat when Clorinde tucks her head in the crook of his neck, exhaling softly as she did so—like a cat purring in content.
“Clorinde…?”
“Yes, Your Grace?” Clorinde sat up, gazing at her childhood friend with quiet longing.
Wriothesley takes her hands in his, bringing up her hand gently as he kisses it with love in his eyes. “We never did get to dance at the ball.”
At any ball or social events, really. He wanted to add. For the Duke was a frightful man, afraid that Clorinde would reject and despise him, were he ever to confess his feelings for her.
“May I have this dance, my lady?” He whispers.
Clorinde smiles and nods, "I would love to, Your Grace." gasping when Wriothesley whisks her up and twirls her into an impromptu waltz. Their movements were a seamless blend of grace and spontaneity, a dance choreographed by the unspoken words of their hearts. The grass yielded and swayed beneath their steps, the stars and the moon became their witness.
Clorinde’s dress fluttered as the Duke brought her to a twirl and finally, into his arms, where the lady closed her eyes and feel. Breathless and enraptured, Wriothesley unwillingly pulled away from their embrace.
Clorinde ignored the slight disappointment in her heart when he pulled away. Only to gasp when she turned around to see the love of her life kneeling before her—a velvet box in a trembling hand, an Amethyst stone placed upon a rose gold ring. Clorinde gazed upon her Duke with quivering lips and glassy eyes.
The Duke of Meropide had finally made his choice. His one and only choice. There was never a need to rethink or reconsider. For when he knows that his one and only love was Clorinde. For she was his sun and his moon, the Duke—with his free hand, took her hand and kissed her fingers—remembering the times where they yearned and longed for each other’s love and touch.
“My lady, Clorinde. Will you do me the greatest honor of becoming my wife and my love?”
Clorinde exhaled the breath that she had been holding before finally giving him that smile of hers, the one reserved for him and only him.
“Yes.” Clorinde nodded, laughing breathlessly as her lover spun them around. Leaning their foreheads against each others’ before melting into a kiss that intertwines the strings of their beating hearts. “How could I ever deny you, Your Grace..”
“My love, my sweet Clorinde…”
“Thank you for waiting for me.” They whispered to one another, the words carrying the weight of their history and childhood filled with longing and yearning and the promise of a future entwined in each other’s arms.
Their story spoke of patient love and hushed intimacies. From whispers to lingering touches and glances—Wriothesley and Clorinde savored the beauty of their relationship that they had patiently waited for.