New Cain fic - special Valentine's Day edition!
Yep, as promised, here's my V-Day offering to the Cain fandom. It would have been up yesterday, but the power went off. -_- If I can gather the courage to post it, there'll be a Zelda V-Day fic up today or tomorrow as well.
Note the warnings for this fic - spoilers for the end of the manga! Also, het, which I know is not some people's cup of tea, but surely I'm not the only one who thinks this pairing is adorable, right? Right? :( If it's not your thing, do feel free to skip. Next fic will be a return to the usual Cain-Riff-Merry antics. :D
Title: Sitting, Waiting, Wishing
Fandom: Count Cain.
Characters: Merry, Oscar, OCs.
Prompt: 023 - Lovers.
Word Count: 1,254.
Rating: G
Summary: Two old friends meet at a ball.
Warnings: Het. Implied spoilers for Godchild Volume 8 - don't read if you don't know/don't want the end spoiled.
Author's Notes/Disclaimer: Count Cain and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Yuki Kaori-sensei. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others.
It was a warm evening for early April in London, and the youth of that city were grateful for it. Tonight was, after all, the celebration of Lady Amelia Sutton’s birthday, and only the top echelon of society had been invited. The dancing had begun as swiftly as was appropriate; the swirling dresses of the ladies provided a colorful backdrop to the party, the bright lights of the chandeliers above only accentuating the glittering beauty below. Soft conversation did not overwhelm the light, cheery tunes of the musicians, nor did the gentle clinking of glasses as toasts were raised to honor Lady Amelia. Overall, it was the epitome of a fashionable night for London’s finest.
He had caught her eye while dancing with a girl he did not like. She had correctly read the frozen look of politeness on his face for what it was - the masking of a grimace - and he had seen her smirk. As soon as the dance was over, he escaped his partner’s clutches as quickly and as civilly as he could, so he could find her again.
She was sitting in the chairs provided for resting dancers, one elegantly gloved hand holding a champagne flute, the other resting demurely in her lap. As he approached, still breathing heavily from the dance, she raised her head, blue eyes twinkling in mirth. “Good evening, my lord,” she said mildly.
“My lady,” he bowed, then took the seat beside her without waiting for an invitation. Between the two of them, there was never a need for such formality. “I have not seen you in almost two months, madam. How have you been?”
“Very well. I had business to attend to in Cornwall, but I finished it quickly so that I could attend the ball tonight.”
“I did not - you did not tell me you would be here tonight.”
“And disappoint Lady Amelia with my absence?” Her smile widened minutely. “Never.”
“Oh, I know that you are friends with the lady - I simply - it is not your - you are not overly fond of such large balls, I know.” He stumbled over his words, cursing his thick tongue. Why did he always make a fool of himself in front of her, of all people?
She glanced at him, smile sharpening into a familiar impish expression. “Ah, but how could I miss the opportunity to observe a night that will certainly provide gossip for months to come?” She nodded slightly towards a particular couple on the dance floor. “Why, just look at how Amelia is dancing with Roger Gray, and she betrothed to his brother, too!”
A chuckle escaped him at her imitation of the tone of many society women. “My lady, you know that the baron specifically asked his brother not to let his fiancé dance with anyone else while he was away in France.”
“You know that and I know that, but I can guarantee you that there will be rumors of a more sinister nature for days.”
“And how can you be so certain?” he asked, merriment once more relaxing his manner. “I have been attending balls such as these for far longer than you have been allowed, my lady, and I believe no such thing.”
She blinked at him innocently. “As to that, my lord, perhaps I am simply a faster learner, or at least a more observant spectator, than you.” He spluttered, torn between amusement and indignation. She ignored him and continued, “But it is quite easy to see from where these rumors will come. Is not the Lady Martha Brooke watching them dance?”
He tore his eyes from hers with some difficulty and glanced around. True to his companion’s belief, he spotted Lady Martha, a dark haired girl with an unpleasant curl to her lips, standing with a gaggle of other young women, eyes clearly fixed on the hostess and her partner. Even as he scrutinized her, she turned to a girl next to her and made some harsh remark. The other girl’s eyes widened, fan suddenly increasing its speed, as she whispered in the ears of the woman standing beside her in turn.
“And there they go,” the lady next to him said with no little satisfaction.
He willingly returned his gaze to her. “I should think you would be more upset over such accusations as she is sure to make,” he pointed out. “You and Lady Amelia are quite close.”
She took a sip of her champagne nonchalantly. “We are, but Amelia and Edmund are also very much in love. He will not believe such rumors, she will not notice them - you know how naïve she can be, if good-hearted to a fault - and soon other groundless scandals will replace them. Why should I spoil her evening by rowing with Lady Martha?” She returned her attention to the dance floor, but he could see her glancing at him from the corner of her eye. “Besides, Lady Martha is only jealous. You know she had had her heart set on the baron for months before his engagement was announced.”
He stirred uneasily at the intentional stress in her words, even knowing that she referred to Edmund Gray. He would sooner attend a hundred balls attended only by affianced women than have a viper like Lady Martha after him. That trail of thought reminded him of why he had come to her in the first place. “And why are you not dancing, my lady? Afraid of gossip affecting you as well?”
She giggled, as he had hoped she might. “When have I ever let gossip affect me, my lord? But as for dancing, I have had little inclination for it this evening.”
“And how long have you felt thus? I have never known you to be so fond of sitting when you could be doing a waltz instead.”
Her long blonde hair hid the expression on her face from his searching eyes. “I cannot ask myself to dance, my lord - someone must first ask me. And it is most impolite for you to remind a lady that she has not been asked to dance!”
He shook his head, refusing to let such falsehoods distract him. “Do not lie to me. Merely while we have been speaking, I have seen at least half a dozen gentlemen looking at you as men look at women who have rejected their offers. I would be willing to guess that they are not the only ones who have asked you, and been refused, tonight.” Her head was fully turned away from him, now, and her hand was clutching the stem of her glass so tightly it was trembling. He wondered how their conversation had become so serious so suddenly but he would not waver. He had to know.
“Perhaps I have not been asked by the right gentleman,” she finally whispered.
He blinked, almost disbelieving his ears. There was a short pause before he realized that was the closest he would ever get to an invitation from her, then he rose from his chair and walked to stand before her. She stared into her glass, refusing to meet his eyes. He bowed. “May I have this next dance, Countess Hargreaves?”
Merriweather looked up at him, delight once more shining in her eyes. “I thought you would never ask, Baron Gabriel.” She allowed him to help her stand, not objecting when he placed one hand at her waist to guide her to the dance floor.
She had, after all, been waiting all night for this.
END
My Little Damn Table.