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The good thing about being the beloved ‘spinster’ sister of a sometimes surly Viscount is that the gossipmongers don’t harass you about your marriage prospects.
The bad thing about being the beloved ‘spinster’ sister of a sometimes surly Viscount is that one can become a slight bit complacent about the idea of remaining unmarried.
It appears that your sense of peace in such matters is finally at an end. Just minutes before your guests were set to arrive, your kind, generous, conflict-avoidant brother brought up the touchy subject of matrimonial bliss. Not only did he express doubt that you could live a fulfilled life as ‘merely’ the aunt to his delightful children, but he framed the question as one of your own happiness. He even dismissed your argument that a person can live a fulfilled life without a spouse, as his dearest friend is quite content being unmarried! The only difference between yourself and Lord Anthony is that of gender; you are perfectly well set up by the inheritance your father laid aside for you before his untimely death.
Bruce, clever as he is, knows you wouldn’t risk setting off his temper right before a gathering, so now the damnable concept of marriage will float above your head like a cloud throughout the picnic.
You settle yourself with a small basket in a quiet section of the picnic grounds, near enough to a copse of trees that you could retreat with a book if necessary.
The peace doesn’t last.
“There you are! Your esteemed brother--”
“No.” You don’t even allow Lord Anthony to continue, because as always, here there be dragons. The man is a roadmap to frustration, even if the journey is frequently amusing.
“My dear lady, I’m affronted!”
“You will recover, my lord,” you inform him, spreading some honey on one of the scones in your basket. With a bite of sweet and a deft subject change on your part, Lord Anthony will forget his foolish mission and remember he is also your friend.
“How would you know, you’ve barely laid eyes on me,” he says, feigning petulance.
You raise your eyes to regard the man. He is, as always, impeccably dressed, handsome as a satyr, and the architect of your own heart’s ruination. At ten years your senior and your brother’s dearest friend besides, there’s no hope for that, so you school your features to neutrality as usual, offering him a cool nod.
Then he smiles at you and all resolve is lost.
Twisting your lips to the side to avoid smiling from the joy he sets loose in your chest, you hold up the scone. “Bruce is merely suffering from a fit of conscience. It will pass.”
“He wishes for your happiness.”
“I wish the same for him! The best way to achieve that is for the subject to be dropped.”
Speaking with his mouth full, Tony says, “He told me he may need to look to his peers for a good prospect.” You rise to your feet, instantly furious, but your tormentor holds up both hands in surrender. After a few seconds of glaring stand-off, he starts to lick honey off of his thumb.
You turn your back on him in a show of pique, as well as to conceal your reaction to his display.
“If you’re so distressed, I suppose I could offer for your hand,” Tony says casually.
You’ve never spun on your heel faster in your life. “You wish to end your friendship with both of us so thoroughly, then?” you gasp out, hurt at the level of cruelty in his jest.
“How so? It seems the simplest of arrangements to me,” he says, pulling out his handkerchief to dab at the corners of his mouth. You’re certain he’s doing it to hide his amusement, so you step forward, accusatory.
“Bruce will threaten to tear you limb from limb for the very suggestion, and I--”
Tony’s expression sharpens, eyes fixed on yours. “And you?”
You scoff, speechless. How dare he mock you and sully his association with your family in this way? Without speaking a word, you gather your skirts and stalk off toward the trees to signal the end of the conversation. You’re a wounded animal, struck in the heart, and you wish to be left alone to bleed out.
He calls your name, but your steps don’t even falter. Only when you’re surrounded by the familiar trees in this part of the grounds do you stop, resting your back against one and bowing your head.
Tony says your name softly, his voice very close.
“Leave me be,” you whisper. “Take your japes elsewhere.”
“I haven’t made any.”
You hug your arms, feeling defensive and exposed. This is nothing like the casual banter and deep philosophical discussions the two of you usually engage in. “I would rather you tell Bruce he’s lost all sense and to forget the whole business than give him the impression you would ever--” your resolve falters. Naming a thing gives it power, when there are so many possible descriptions of it. Lord Anthony would likely pity you if he could discern your true opinion of him.
“Go on,” Tony says. His tone is low, as he steps closer. ‘Dangerous’ is as apt a descriptor of him in this moment as any ever has been.
Escape hadn’t worked, so it’s time to fight back, it seems. “Your presence in this area is practically a scandal, friendly association with our family or not,” you tell him, lifting your chin.
Tony steps forward again, resting his hand on the tree next to yours to lean in and whisper, conspiratorially, “I thought I just proposed to you.”
You’ve burned for him in secret for years, and now he’s put you in a position to argue against his farce of a ‘proposal?’ Your fury is incandescent.
“You manifestly did not! You--”
Tony dips his head and swiftly steals the words right from your lips, pulling back to declare, “I did. You must not have been paying attention.”
Your lips are buzzing, your head is spinning, and you can’t breathe. You close your eyes tightly. “You have had too much sun, my lord. I suggest that you--”
This time you have the barest of warnings before his lips touch yours, the soft brush of his fingertips angling your face toward him. This kiss is nothing like his earlier teases. There’s heat, intention, and oh, a sweetness that has nothing to do with the honey you know he’d just had.
If it wasn’t for the tree at your back, you don’t know how you would remain upright--but just as you think this, Tony catches your clenched fist in his hand and brings it to his collar. The act is fond, familiar, and you pull your head back to blink up at him, charmed but confused.
“I have had too much sun,” Tony says, his brown eyes more sincere than you’ve ever seen them. “You shine brighter than any other jewel, and I cannot allow you to be placed in any other setting than mine. I had thought to trick you with a mutually beneficial agreement and woo you into complacency, but I lost my head.”
“I--I don’t know how to believe you,” you whisper, but the shock-melted pleasure in your veins calls you a liar.
Tony brushes his nose with yours in a mischievous caress, then pushes off of the trees, throws his arms out beside him and says, “Have my hand, fair maiden? My heart, however tarnished, is already yours.”
Your own heart aches, for though this is more believable, it’s still in the realm of Lord Anthony Stark’s well-known impish sense of humor, however cruel that might be. Before you can speak, though, he lets out a long breath and nods.
“No, I see, I recognize-- I am quite serious. All you see here, the lightness, the jesting, it’s fear. My happiness lies in your hands, you see. It has for quite a while. When your brother expressed his concern, I--”
“You panicked,” you realize aloud. “Oh, Tony. I know that fear quite well. It inhabited me every summer the marriageable young ladies flocked to your banner. If you--”
“No ifs!”
You finally feel strong enough to stand on your own two feet without the tree or Tony to bear you up, so you step toward him, lifting your eyebrows. “Aha! I could make up anything to finish that sentence of mine, and you would be caught, my lord.”
“A more pleasant outcome couldn’t be fathomed,” he teases back. Then, quietly, “Marry me?”
Your smile of teasing pride is matched only by Tony’s when you respond, “I do believe that can be arranged.”