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As Wriothesley had hoped, a balmy weather graced Fontaine the day he’d surfaced from the fortress and brought himself to Clorinde’s door as promised. They’d spent the afternoon at the quiet parts of the beach out east of the Court, walking barefoot along the coast and dipping their toes into the water. When he’d grown weary of the sun, they’d huddled together on their blanket beneath a mallow tree with sand between their toes, taking turns feeding each other bites of sweet profiterole and wine in between a game of cards and conversation until sundown.
Now they walked the streets of the city, the golden light of the fading sunset lighting Clorinde’s hair and her violet gaze—staring, now, inquisitively at him. Wriothesley started, realizing they’d reached her townhome all too soon. Despite this, he managed a smile for her. He could have an entire day with her and it would still feel like it’s not enough.
“Well, here’s you,” he said, sliding his touch from her palm to her fingers with a gentle squeeze. “Was date number seven to your expectations, milady?”
“Mhm, it felt too short,” drawled Clorinde.
“Eh, you know what they say: time flies when you’re enjoying yourself.”
“Is that so?”
“It is so, because I certainly had a good time. I could only hope you did, too,” he said with a small laugh, and he bowed his head as he raised her hand to his lips, brushing a polite kiss on her knuckles. “Thanks for spending time with me today.”
Wriothesley pulled away, and saw that her teasing mien had mellowed into something more serious. He dropped their hands, but Clorinde slid her fingers through his and held firm. Her other hand also clung to his wrist.
“I was remiss. I should’ve thanked you first for our date—thank you,” she said. Her tone was impassive as always, but there was no missing the earnest sheen in her gaze. “I had a great time today with you, too.”
“I’m glad to hear it! Dare I hope for a next time, then?”
“Write me another heartfelt letter, Your Grace, and maybe I’ll consider it.”
“Alright, then prepare to be swept off your feet!” he said, and the corners of Clorinde’s lips twitched too, and she raised her chin with bright, expectant eyes. How beautiful. Next time—and Wriothesley was confident there would be a next time—he would get her flowers the same shade as her eyes.
Reluctantly, Wriothesley hefted the picnic basket back up and studied the darkening sky with a frown, missing how she’d taken a step closer. Loath as he was to part ways, it was getting late, and Clorinde already gave him her time of the day. There was always a next time, another day to spend with her.
“Well, I won’t keep you any longer,” he said, withdrawing his hand from both of hers. “I’m off. Good night, Clo—”
“Wait.”
Clorinde refastened her hold on his hand and tugged. She was frowning. “Did I forget something?” Wriothesley asked her.
“Yes. No. I… wanted to ask if you wanted to stay a little longer,” she quietly said. Wriothesley raised both brows—she sounded almost shy, and for good reason; several weeks and dates had gone, and this was the first time she had asked him to stay. “Rest a bit. It’s a long way back.”
“Okay, so ask me—properly, please. That one doesn’t count,” he teased.
Clorinde rolled her eyes. Darling girl. Wriothesley closed the distance, the two of them nearly toe to toe and he privately enjoyed the startled look on her face at their proximity. He could pull her in, kiss her at this distance. Would her kiss be as fierce as her spirit, or as soft as her kind heart?
For all he’d uncovered about her during this courtship, he could admit he often lied in bed wondering how she would taste like, how she would feel like. Will she swoon or will she overcome him? Would it be like drowning, or would kissing her breathe life into his lungs? For now he put on a guileless expression, dispelling such thoughts with a placid smile.
“Hmm?” he prompted, tracing the ridge of her knuckles.
“…Must I, Your Grace?”
“Oh, you don’t have to, but it would be terribly rude of me to barge into your home without a formal invitation, no?”
“You’re overthinking it. You are always welcome into my home.”
Hah, that could be no more a clearer statement if he’s heard one—she could be so blunt about the things that mattered. Wriothesley bit his lip, trying in vain to contain a smile as Clorinde peered up at him, her expression inviting. “Won’t you stay a while, Wriothesley?” she added, and what choice did he have but to accept?
“Alright, guess I’m hanging out with you for a bit more,” said Wriothesley, affectionately tucking strands of her hair behind her ear.
Clorinde turned swiftly to unlock the door but he saw the pleased smile on her lips all the same, her hand around his as she led him through the door. She only let go to hang their coats while Wriothesley looked around her foyer, politely ignoring the urge to gallivant around and peek into every door. She had asked him to stay, and if she wished to show him the innermost folds of her life as well, he’ll wait for her to take his hand again and lead him through every step of it.
“I’m sorry for the mess, but please make yourself at home,” she was saying, lighting the hearth with a controlled spark of electricity. “I didn’t have time to clean up…”
“I won’t judge a home that is lived in, Clorinde,” he said, and Clorinde turned around to look at him. “And besides, you’ve witnessed Sigewinne’s almighty temper when I left my teacups out too long.”
“Respectfully, Your Grace… I think that situation is more about you being a slob than having an office that is… ‘lived in’.”
Wriothesley smirked at the barb. Respectfully, she says! “Slob? Tch, so that’s how it is. You know, I was trying to be polite for your sake?” he exclaimed.
“I like you better when you’re honest.”
“The last time I was honest with you, you gave me the cold shoulder for two weeks straight. I’d hate a repeat of that.”
“You can bear it.”
“No, you give me too much credit, Clorinde—I’ll miss you.”
The corners of her lips twitched again. “…Let me get you a drink,” Clorinde said over her shoulder, and Wriothesley recognized the rare bout of timidness as she fled to another room, presumably the kitchen. He watched her go with barely suppressed fondness—some smugness, too. It usually took more time to coax her from the rigid discipline she held herself with.
“Would you like some water, coffee, tea, or me?”
“Tea is fine,” he replied distantly, preoccupied from the portraits of her family, the multitude of awards from sharp shooting competitions. Archons! She could probably run a gold factory from all these plaques and medals on display—
Would you like some water, coffee, tea or me?
Wriothesley had only just gotten comfortable on the couch, but he jolted out of it the moment his brain fully parsed her question. “Hey, what did you say just now?” he sputtered, gawking at the empty doorway where she disappeared.
“I said nothing.”
“You said—”
“You might have misheard me!”
Oh, he most definitely did not. A foreign feeling bubbled in his chest, something like elation and a thrill, and Wriothesley simply cannot allow her to live this down. Disbelieving laughter spilled out from his throat as he swiftly followed Clorinde into the kitchen, skidding to a stop at the sight of her in the middle of steeping tea. She turned enough to send him a coy glance over her shoulder, and a blush rose up his neck.
“I don’t think I misheard you,” Wriothesley said, approaching her slowly.
“Probably not.”
“I changed my mind, too. I don’t want tea anymore.”
When he got close enough to smell her hair, his heartbeat thudded in his chest when she turned around and he wasn’t ready, not really, for their sudden closeness and the hands he placed on either side of her hips on the counter was more for his sake than some insipid attempt to corner her. Maybe.
Wriothesley leaned forward, and she held the steaming cup of tea right under his nose. Floral and mellowed sweetness, with notes of straw, honey, and apples… he groaned aloud. It was Sumeran chamomile, one of his favourite blends!
“What an ingrate. After all the work I did making your tea?” drawled Clorinde, and he couldn’t contain a smirk for all he tried. This was a diversion, a stalling tactic—a rather tempting one, for sure. “I’ll just drink this myself, then.”
“Oh, please do! I promise it’s very good tea.”
With dancing eyes, Clorinde even took her time with it; leaning against the counter he had cornered her against while she savoured the tea that should have been his and he watched her all the while, patient, immoveable, devoted.
Damn the tea, he could make it whenever he wanted it, however he wanted it. This moment in time, the emotions stirring under his rib cage and the loveliness of seeing them reflected back in her gaze—this was not something he could not let go.
Her painted lips left a rogue imprint on the teacup’s gilded edge and his mouth went dry.
“It is good. Sure you don’t want any?” she teased.
Wriothesley chuckled. “Finish your tea, Clorinde.”
Except she lowered the cup, the tea only about halfway gone, and offered it up to him. He took the cup only to set it aside and leaned in, their foreheads touching. Clorinde breathed a pleased sigh, and he could not stop staring at her mouth where some of her lipstick still remained. He ached, with increasing urgency, to kiss it off of her.
“Are you done?” he asked softly. “Is it my turn to choose?”
“I believe so,” murmured Clorinde.
Wriothesley raised a hand to cup her cheek, and he still hesitated long enough for Clorinde to tilt her head with an impatient little demand of, “hurry, please.”
Grinning, Wriothesley cupped her face in his hands and finally, he kissed her. Sweet warmth, softness. No fanfare and fuss. All his wonders about what her kiss would be like—oh, Wriothesley did not remember them all when there was no room to think about other than this: her hands clutching the back of his shirt, the inviting part of her lips beneath his, and the low noise from her throat when he caressed the back of her neck. Sensitive?
“…At last,” she murmured when they parted, tremulous in the small space it took to breathe.
“At last,” he echoed, and he kissed her again. Again, and again, and again.
He didn’t care for the lingering taste of tea, not at first, not until he felt her tongue on his lip and he tasted her tongue. They groaned in unison, and the next kisses were significantly far less chaste. More heat, more feeling. His fingers clawed through her hair, and she chased after his mouth every single time he parted for breath, gasping, only to be taken back by her eagerness. Oh—when had he gotten her up the counter?
He tensed when her knees squeezed around his hips, her chest rubbing against his, and an icy shock of awareness shot down his spine when he realized his hands were sliding up her blouse.
Ah… it was really too soon for that.
“Clorinde. Love, wait—”
“What?” she gasped, a wanting hitch in her breath as they separated.
The taste of tea, of her, lingered in his mouth. Clorinde licked kiss-swollen lips as if she thought the same and he swallowed down the craving, hungry for her still. Wryly, he smirked at the flush on her skin even though he didn’t fare any better himself, and her hands cradled his face to tenderly stroke his lips. It drew his eyes to her mouth again, boyish triumph blooming in his chest to find he’d kissed off her lipstick.
“We could have been doing that ages ago,” she breathed out.
“Okay, darling, let’s slow down,” Wriothesley replied sheepishly, his hands rubbing her hips. “I haven’t even asked you a very important question yet.”
“Do you want to be mine, Wriothesley?” she said bluntly, and he half-sighed, half-laughed. She really does waste no time.
“Damn it, Clorinde, you gotta stop beating me to all the important questions.”
“You’ve yet to account for the future ones. I leave those to you.”
Her gaze was meaningful, and it shone with pleasure when he pulled Cloinde tightly to his body, knowing full well what she meant. Her arms looped around his neck, and he felt her ankles cross behind his thighs, holding him captive in every way. As if he was going anywhere.
“You already have me. Are you mine?” she asked.
“…Yes, I’m yours,” said Wriothesley, smiling uncontrollably. “All yours.”