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Archibald was not totally superstitious, but there remained the truth that he had grown fearful of the ghosts of past-loved ones. Though he rarely thought to linger in a moment of meditation, whenever he crossed the boundary into Stourhead he found himself musing on all of whom sought to haunt the old Bradley House, that thus lay empty if not for a handful of servants who looked after the place. Whenever he looked at Hermione, he thought of Mary, and how she had left him aged only six and twenty years, and how if she had never married him she may have yet been alive and well. Whenever he saw the other three (Victoria, Clementine, Teddy) he thought of Vesperia, and how much she would’ve adored helping Hermione into her debut the following year. So, who could’ve been surprised to know that Archibald thought of Eugene Carrington whenever he looked at Philippa? Though, he had to trust her in her conclusion that he would not wound the deceased by being honest, even if he doubted it.
His face flinched a little at the idea of Eugene’s affection, his dark eyes flickering instead to the picnic blanket as the horses grazed the grass nearby. Had he, too, carried such worth for such a man? In some ways, yes, but Archibald rarely entertained friendship if it did not include acts of a sexual nature, if only because he paired trust with intimacy even if he did not fancy the person entirely. It was a skewed vision of the world, he knew that, but that was the truth of it. Though his honest gaze returned as Philippa displayed her affection between them, her heart mentioned as if it were but a thing in passing, rather than a treasure that Archibald often mistreated. If she looked away for a moment, he stared at her in turn, gazing on as if trying to figure out what made her tick beneath such a pretty face.
He had been in love once, to a woman who had hurt him terribly, the love had rendered him stupid for a month or two before he resumed the usual activities… Such a love had burned since his youth, for years and years he had pined for her in the quiet between ample breasts and hard cocks, and yet it had been extinguished all too quickly for him to fully understand it. Sometimes he awoke thinking it a dream, other times he forgot all about her entirely. It was a strange way to be, straddling that line of what could’ve been, what was and what never had been.
Still, he did not speak, and only looked at her before making his own answers to her own bare questions. The truth was that Archibald didn’t know, and had never known, what he wanted past the need of his desire. Still, her declaration rang true between his ears, that she would not be his lover had been an obvious statement — one that he had respected if not teased. He was not disappointed, how could he have been? But something, some primal instinct of questionable confusion lured beneath, a monster wanting to demand what he wanted was but a creature of his being. After all, a Duke rarely found himself faced with rules and stipulations! And yet, he carried himself forward, leaning over to take her hand into his — holding it with such tender care that it would have almost carried utmost affection before he raised it to his lips to kiss, a kiss so soft that one may have guessed that it ever took place, before he lowered it back to the floor with such care.
“I would never hope to have you think that I would mistreat you so sorely, Philippa… And I agree, I do not wish for a wife unless it is…” he paused, lingering over chosen words despite the fact that he was not and never would be a thespian with a great thesaurus to hand. “Unless it is to the true matter of the heart, of which I do not know if I am quite privy to… Alas, one must hope,” Archibald smiled, that rare honest smile that near never graced his person before he went to sip what was left of his own drink, a sigh emptying his chest so he could finally relax, as if he had held in such a breath for far too long. “So we won’t be lovers, we will be friends, and you will indeed help me with Hermione, won’t you?”
Archibald was not totally superstitious, but there remained the truth that he had grown fearful of the ghosts of past-loved ones. Though he rarely thought to linger in a moment of meditation, whenever he crossed the boundary into Stourhead he found himself musing on all of whom sought to haunt the old Bradley House, that thus lay empty if not for a handful of servants who looked after the place. Whenever he looked at Hermione, he thought of Mary, and how she had left him aged only six and twenty years, and how if she had never married him she may have yet been alive and well. Whenever he saw the other three (Victoria, Clementine, Teddy) he thought of Vesperia, and how much she would’ve adored helping Hermione into her debut the following year. So, who could’ve been surprised to know that Archibald thought of Eugene Carrington whenever he looked at Philippa? Though, he had to trust her in her conclusion that he would not wound the deceased by being honest, even if he doubted it.
His face flinched a little at the idea of Eugene’s affection, his dark eyes flickering instead to the picnic blanket as the horses grazed the grass nearby. Had he, too, carried such worth for such a man? In some ways, yes, but Archibald rarely entertained friendship if it did not include acts of a sexual nature, if only because he paired trust with intimacy even if he did not fancy the person entirely. It was a skewed vision of the world, he knew that, but that was the truth of it. Though his honest gaze returned as Philippa displayed her affection between them, her heart mentioned as if it were but a thing in passing, rather than a treasure that Archibald often mistreated. If she looked away for a moment, he stared at her in turn, gazing on as if trying to figure out what made her tick beneath such a pretty face.
He had been in love once, to a woman who had hurt him terribly, the love had rendered him stupid for a month or two before he resumed the usual activities… Such a love had burned since his youth, for years and years he had pined for her in the quiet between ample breasts and hard cocks, and yet it had been extinguished all too quickly for him to fully understand it. Sometimes he awoke thinking it a dream, other times he forgot all about her entirely. It was a strange way to be, straddling that line of what could’ve been, what was and what never had been.
Still, he did not speak, and only looked at her before making his own answers to her own bare questions. The truth was that Archibald didn’t know, and had never known, what he wanted past the need of his desire. Still, her declaration rang true between his ears, that she would not be his lover had been an obvious statement — one that he had respected if not teased. He was not disappointed, how could he have been? But something, some primal instinct of questionable confusion lured beneath, a monster wanting to demand what he wanted was but a creature of his being. After all, a Duke rarely found himself faced with rules and stipulations! And yet, he carried himself forward, leaning over to take her hand into his — holding it with such tender care that it would have almost carried utmost affection before he raised it to his lips to kiss, a kiss so soft that one may have guessed that it ever took place, before he lowered it back to the floor with such care.
“I would never hope to have you think that I would mistreat you so sorely, Philippa… And I agree, I do not wish for a wife unless it is…” he paused, lingering over chosen words despite the fact that he was not and never would be a thespian with a great thesaurus to hand. “Unless it is to the true matter of the heart, of which I do not know if I am quite privy to… Alas, one must hope,” Archibald smiled, that rare honest smile that near never graced his person before he went to sip what was left of his own drink, a sigh emptying his chest so he could finally relax, as if he had held in such a breath for far too long. “So we won’t be lovers, we will be friends, and you will indeed help me with Hermione, won’t you?”
word count: 777
