Chapter Text
Rupert Campbell-Black had become accustomed to a certain kind of lifestyle.
Smoulder. Sass. Sex. Sleep. Repeat.
That was the expected regime anyway. Apparently if you sleep with more than five women in the Cotswolds, you are immediately decreed a Casanova, and have a mile-long queue trailing out the door. It wasn't that he minded sex - Rupert adored it - but it was just that he was not the sex-fiend the Scorpion had painted him to be. Though once one develops a reputation, it is awfully hard to clear.
Rupert resigned himself to living up to his playboy persona. The world fell in love with the Hedonistic Olympian-turned-MP Rupert Campbell-Black. He felt compelled to hide that side of himself which adored horses, often preferred solitude, and missed his children more than he could ever articulate.
He supposed things were better that way. Gives the likes of Tony Baddingham less ammunition against him. It was rare for Rupert to sit with a glass of whiskey and mourn the future he felt he'd never have - a partner who would see him for who he truly was. He had Lizzie, of course, but Lizzie is...Lizzie. Always the exception.
The last thing he expected was for his entire routine and worldview to be thrown out of the window during a simple game of naked tennis.
The day itself had been fairly unremarkable. Sarah Stratton was proving an abysmal partner, she didn't even have a good backswing, when a thin whisp of a girl emerged from the garden as if she had every right to be there. The kind of girl who'd inspire Renaissance paintings.
It rather took Rupert by surprise when it became immediately apparent she was no graceful muse, but a spitfire. She'd been shy and naïve, there was no question of that, but her heartfelt concern for the local wildlife took even him by surprise. Despite his growing annoyance, he couldn't help but feel amused at her cry, and almost wanted to hear more. It was a shame the fire engines turned up when they did. Certainly, she’d caused quite the headache with the fire brigade, and chasing off dear Sarah Stratton before the game had even finished, but Rupert wasn’t that much of a bastard. The girl had good intentions.
She clearly wasn’t from the Cotswolds, but he could hardly hold that against her.
Rupert fully intended to ask Lizzie if there'd been any new arrivals, but fate intervened early. He normally basked in the attention he received whenever he arrive spectacularly late to any party, and Hell would certainly freeze over before he showed Baddingham any form of decency. Rupert had barely scanned the crowd before his eyes drew like magnets towards hers, his sprite, his muse.
Tony ignored Rupert's late arrival, and continued to boast about his new hire: Declan O'Hara, joined at the party by his wife Maud and daughter Agatha.
Agatha O’Hara. Sounds like a girl from a fairy tale.
O’Hara glanced away, but seconds later met his gaze once again. It felt electric.
It was as if he'd lived in grayscale, and colour had just started blotting in.
Agatha O'Hara was a star, and Rupert had been in the shade for far too long.
~~~~~~
Taggie O'Hara - as she introduced herself in the garden - was still as compelling as when they'd first met. He could have easily revealed the secret of their little rendezvous, but he didn't want to. The world knew of his conquests, and yet he wanted to keep the truth of Taggie O'Hara to himself.
Taggie Taggie Taggie. He couldn't help but repeat her name. The name rolled far too easily off Rupert’s tongue. That should have perhaps been the first warning sign. She was to be no ordinary conquest.
The way she apologised after Beattie took the car? She’s too good to be true. Definitely from a fairy tale.
Rupert would be the first to admit he'd made...a few mistakes in his courtship of Taggie O'Hara. A comment. A touch. An argument.
He seethed quietly in frustration as Taggie drove off, leaving him alone with the taunting voices inside his head. There was no denying she was interested - he'd caught her watching him twice now - but Rupert had made the critical mistake of assuming she was like any other Cotswolds girl. She was his fairy tale girl after all.
He changed tacks. Dropped the mask of The Right Hon Rupert Campbell-Black, and considered what the quiet and reserved Rupert would do. He put his plan into action over the course of Christmas, and more than reaped the rewards.
A present. A conversation. An embrace. A dance. A promise. A hand drifting down her back. An almost-kiss (interrupted by Gertrude, damn her).
The night of New Year's Eve passed in a blur. Before he knew it, Rupert found himself tucking his lady in red into bed. Despite her evident fatigue, and the droop of her eyelids warning sleep would soon come, Tag offered him a beaming grin. It warmed him to the core. There was no denying that Tag was his sun, and he wanted to bask in all the warmth she had to offer. He leaned closely, and carefully mapped every freckle and speckle in her eye, until the sun slowly creeped in. Rupert turned away to close the blinds (and release the breath he didn't realise he'd been holding), and peered back around. Tag had fallen asleep.
As Rupert descended the stairs, and passed all the people who'd passed out in the midst of their drunken revelry, he could no longer deny the evidence before him. This had been perhaps the most uncharacteristic way he'd ever spent a New Year's Eve party, and it all related back to her:
- Instead of drowning out the droll speeches for the O'Hara boy by chatting up the nearest person with a pulse, as Rupert normally would, he instead watched Taggie reverently. She stood out like a sore thumb in her t-shirt and jeans, and yet she was the one person Rupert's eyes were drawn to over and over.
- He didn't join in with the partygoers to drunkenly slur and butcher Auld Lang Syne - Rupert chose to rebuff Sarah, and sneak downstairs to convince Taggie to dance.
- He felt compelled to be honest to Taggie. Rarely did Rupert consider his flaws, and yet her eyes were the clearest mirror he'd ever seen. Perhaps he felt compelled to be a better man for her, but he hadn't the first clue how to begin.
- Whilst he'd normally be the one causing damage, Rupert was instead offering to pay for the damages and services he wasn't even responsible for. Just to alleviate the frown marring Taggie's face.
Rupert did not pine, that was below men like him. But it was very clear that he was indeed pining - and perhaps more. Rupert was no creature of love, knew himself to not be in love, but he wasn’t stupid enough to disregard the evidence in front of his very eyes: Rupert Campbell-Black could very easily fall in love with Taggie O’Hara.
He’d even confessed Tag was different to her fucking mother. Who was trying to fuck him, as it happened.
There was no denying Rupert craved her company. He sought Tag out at each opportunity. Her house. Baddingham’s pheasant shoot. When he couldn’t, he would leave notes. The Valentine’s Card he’d left for Gertrude had been a particularly inspired idea of his.
The best part? She seemed to care for him back (now that the initial misunderstands were cleared up. Far more quickly than in Pride and Prejudice. Take that Mr Darcy). He'd taken to calling Tag his angel - and guardian angel she was, for she tried to convince him time and time again to refuse the Declan interview. He'll be sure to listen to his angel next time, for Rupert is certain it was only Tag's advice during half-time that prevented the show from continuing as Declan (and Tony) had initially planned.
He shuddered to imagine what evidence Declan had saved for later.
God truly must be a bastard then, for just as Rupert was deciding how best to approach Tag that evening, Declan O’Fucking Hara appeared. It was his own fault, he supposed, for staring at Taggie so obviously.
“I want you to stay away from Taggie,” Declan stated, very matter-of-fact. “She’s young enough to be your daughter.” Judging by his stare, and the tense posture, Rupert knew this to be a fight he couldn’t win. Not now.
He glanced down, mulling over Declan’s words. “Yeah, of course,” he replied, staring straight ahead. His grip tightened around his glass.
Declan seemed satisfied, exuding all the confidence suggesting he believed the matter had been settled.
It was very much not settled.
~~~~~~~
Rupert's next encounter with Tag almost killed him.
He hoped and prayed he wouldn't encounter Tag for several days or weeks, as agonising as that would have been. The weeks would have given him time to prove himself to Declan as a serious suitor, or simply serve as an excuse for when he did eventually ravish Tag.
Rupert is awfully good at playing the oblivious playboy. "Me? Promise to not touch your daughter? Can't remember that I'm afraid." Parliament had taught him the odd trick or two after all.
His heart therefore sank when he heard her sweet song of a voice in the woods, a mere day after the interview. He clutched his reigns fiercely, especially when he heard Tag muse aloud about how she would offer her roly-polys to Rupert.
God is definitely a bastard for this.
Rupert gritted his teeth and curled his toes at the way Tag's face fell when he refused her offer for a roly-poly. The excuse sounded lame, even to him. His heart sank watching her visibly trying to remain upbeat, cordially offering a treat to Bas as well, who wasn't under oath to refuse her. Rupert considered himself an expert on masks, and he saw through her brittle smile easily. Behind her façade, it was as if the clouds had formed over her and blocked her usual rays of sunshine.
All he dearly wished for was to leap off Rocky, and to apologise profusely. But if he did so, Rupert would have found himself betraying his promise, and ultimately castrated before nightfall. And Rupert was awfully fond of his private member.
He resigned himself to watching her shoulders fall, her morose walk away, and to dealing with Bas’ relentless teasing.
Rupert knew he could never cut Tag from out of his life. He craved her like a sunflower craved light. And whilst there was breath in his lungs, he would try to make an ally of the O’Haras, so that one day his courtship would not be dismissed out of hand.
Until then, Rupert made a vow. Whilst he would not touch, he would still look.
For the sake of his ever-dwindling sanity.