Chapter Text
"Laugh as much as you choose, but you will not laugh me out of my opinion." Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice.
1810s. England.
Everyone is different. Everyone has different opinions, different preferences, different likes, and different dislikes. Some people enjoy spending their days at big parties, dancing and socializing with new people they never seen before, others enjoy spending time with their family or friends, and for others, the only good company is themselves.
Mr. Duke Oliver Richard was precisely one of the latter types of people. He was not attracted to balls, dinner parties, social gatherings, or meeting new people. He usually spent his time sitting in his spacious study at his country house, The Hill View Hall, immersing himself completely in his work. Sometimes he attended the obligatory social events that he had to attend because of his title, sometimes he spent time with his few friends, but he preferred solitude. Oliver led a quiet country life: he managed his estates and needed nothing more.
But then his dear friends began to find brides and settle down, immersing themselves completely in romance and family life, devoting much less time to other matters, such as their regular meetings, and the Duke could not ignore this for long. It was not that he wanted a wife and children, he simply felt obliged to his family to provide his own lineage. But women were a burden to him, and the search for a wife promised to be the most annoying occupation in the world.
Oliver's view of women was that they were pretty, decorative creatures who didn't really understand anything. He much preferred the company of men, who knew how to talk about real things. Women, on the other hand, did not talk about anything of substance. They discussed fashion, gossip, the weather, and themselves in a vague and emotional manner, often all at the same time. This was enough to drive a man mad. His own mother was the epitome of feminine perfection, and he adored her more than anyone else in the world, but he still did so condescendingly. After all, men were smarter than women. At least that's what he thought, whether it was true or not, he was confident in his point of view.
But still, for the past five years, his mother had been relentlessly pestering him with questions about marriage. And when his best friend, Henry Montgomery, got married last month, she was simply relentless, pointing out that Henry was younger than him and already had a family, and how sad it was that Oliver would be the last of his friends to get married.
"I'm quite happy with my life, mother," he said at dinner on one such occasion. "Henry may have married a pretty young thing, but he has a whole life of meaningless chatter ahead of him."
"That 'pretty young thing' has a name, you know. Eva is charming, and Henry couldn't be happier. And she lives not far from us. You could do with finding a wife who is at least half as decent as she is. But to do that, you need to get out of the house."
Oliver rolled his eyes. His mother, Hannah, was a sweet woman, and he knew she only wanted what was best for him, but her constant nagging got on his nerves. "I don't want to court someone just because you want grandchildren. I'm fine without a wife."
His mother just clicked her tongue. "You say that now, but when you're an old bachelor, you'll regret not listening to your mother. And I worry about you. It's not healthy to spend all your time locked in your study studying those account books. You need a wife, someone to keep you company and bring a little joy into your life."
"I'm not just 'studying these account books'. I'm also very carefully studying literature in more detail, especially contemporary literature published in literary newspapers." He leaned back in his chair in protest.
Hannah just smiled. "Yes, yes, all that literature. You've always been such a bookworm, poring over those dusty old volumes in your nursery. But you know, you need to get out of the house more, meet people, find a nice young lady to court."
Oliver frowned. His mother just sighed and reached for the teapot on the table between them. "Your father would be heartbroken if he knew you weren't giving love a chance," she muttered as she poured herself a cup of tea.
Oliver's father had died when he was eighteen, but the mention of him made the Duke pause. He knew his mother was right about one thing: his father had been a great romantic, loved his wife with all his heart, and believed that love was what made a human truly human. And he wanted so badly for his son to find that same love. But with each passing year, Oliver became less and less interested in romance. He was a practical man, and romance seemed like a silly waste of time to him.
"Father was a sentimental fool, and you know it," he said harshly. "He spent his whole life chasing some idyllic idea of love. And where he's now?"
His mother's jaw immediately tightened and her gaze became stern. "Don't you dare talk about him like that. Your father was the most loving, God, the best man I ever knew."
He clenched his jaw, feeling a rare pang of guilt. "I'm sorry," he muttered after a moment. "I didn't mean to speak ill of him, I went too far."
Hannah sighed again before speaking, her voice softening. "I will not allow you to defile your father's memory in this house, or anywhere else for that matter."
The man nodded silently. He did not necessarily agree with his mother about love and romance, but he loved his father and knew that his mother still deeply mourned his loss. Even ten years after his death, she still wore that same gold ring on her finger. But even as he apologised, he knew his views hadn't changed. Love was a lie, a myth, a waste of time. He didn't want to chase some stupid idea of romance when he could be doing more useful things.
Oliver exhaled sharply through his nose and pushed away from the table. "I'm done," he muttered, avoiding her gaze.
His mother's voice followed him as he left the dining room: "Fine. But mark my words, Oliver Richard, one day you will meet someone who will make you question all your false ideas about women."
He didn't reply, mainly because he was partly afraid that she might be right. The mere thought of falling in love terrified Oliver. It was a loss of control, a loss of reason. He prided himself on his practicality, his logic. He was a man of reason, not a romantic fool like his father or any of his friends. Entering his study and pouring himself a brandy, he tried to push the thought away. He had no intention of looking for a woman who would make him question his ideas about love. It simply wasn't going to happen.
The weeks dragged on slowly, and the routine of work and solitude became almost meditative for Oliver. His mother still occasionally lectured him about finding a wife and starting a family, but he ignored her and continued to live his usual life. He looked after the estate with his steward, dined with the local nobility, and spent long hours in his library studying the latest books and essays. One morning, he was sitting in his study sorting through a pile of correspondence when a knock at the door interrupted his work. Without waiting for a reply, Hannah entered.
"I knew you would be here, as always." Her voice was even but warm. "I have news for you, my dear son."
The man looked up from his work, raising an eyebrow. "What news?" he asked curiously. His mother's face was determined, and he knew she was up to something.
His mother sat down on a chair opposite his desk, adjusted her skirt, and looked up at him. "Our dear neighbours, the Bolter family, are hosting a ball," she said casually. "And they have invited us."
The Duke's expression immediately darkened. "A ball?" he repeated, as if she had suggested he attend a public hanging. His mother just smiled sweetly, the kind of smile that made him want to hide in his study for weeks.
"Yes, a ball," she said cheerfully. "And you will go."
He opened his mouth to protest, but closed it immediately when her gaze narrowed slightly in warning: Do not test me on this matter. He snorted irritably. "Mother, you know how much I hate balls," he complained. "They're noisy, crowded, and full of meaningless chatter. I find them utterly unbearable."
His mother's expression remained unchanged, and her eyes sparkled with quiet triumph. "Yes, I know you hate them. That's exactly why you have to go."
Oliver froze in mid-protest because it sounded suspiciously like a threat.
She continued smoothly, "Just imagine: a ballroom full of enviable young ladies who will be delighted to meet the Duke Oliver Richard." Her smile widened slightly when she saw that he had realised how horrified he was.
His mother merely sighed and rose from her chair with her usual grace, already knowing that she had won this round before it had even begun. "Very well." She smoothed a crease in her skirt, as if considering something completely insignificant, and added, "I simply wanted to offer you... a kind of agreement."
Oliver raised an eyebrow suspiciously. "What kind of agreement?" he asked warily.