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Steven Rogers, 8th Baron of Grant, had been a small, sickly child – which caused his father no end of disappointment in his frail child, and his mother no end of fear that he be taken from her early. Although his constitution meant that he could not take on the hobbies of normal healthy lads his age, such as riding, hunting, shooting or anything requiring him leaving his sickbed – he did have a strong will and a quick mind which his tutors were keen to fill with everything a country baron may need to know.
He was too ill to be sent away to school when he was of age, and it seemed unlikely that his health would improve enough for him to go to Cambridge, or Oxford, as his father, and grandfather, and great grandfathers had done before him.
His father had been a large, heavy set man with a strong jaw and broad shoulders, who spent and drank more than he should and talked about his son only if pressed.
Steven Rogers grew up knowing he was a cause of disappointment to one parent and a constant source of fear in the other. Should he die, Sarah Rogers would have failed in her only role in life, to provide her husband an heir.
It seemed very likely that the Barony would fall to a distant cousin, and for this reason (and his own love of excess) the 7th Baron of Grant spent more than he should have, running his land and title into the ground.
His horse threw him while his sickly son was laid in bed with scarlet fever, and his last thought had been that at least he wouldn’t have to deal with the shame of dying without an heir.
But Steven survived.
He sometimes wished he hadn’t.
“What do you mean, it’s gone?” Steve said, sitting up in his father’s chair, in his father’s study. Across the desk his accountant was sitting, a sheen of light sweat over his brow.
“The bank failed.” He said, dabbing at his sweaty brow. “There was nothing we could do,” He said, shaking his head. “There are still the investments, but…” He sighed, “I would suggest perhaps mortgaging some of the land? You may yet be able to save something, if economies are taken.”
Steve nodded. “Of course.”
There was no point in telling his accountant that the land was encumbered already, and selling impossible. His late father than already taken out as many loans and mortgages as he could in his last years, leaving Steve and his mother nothing but debt and worry.
His mother was in her own little drawing room, sewing on her lap, when Steve had finished his meeting. There was a tray of tea beside her, forgotten, and he could see by her agitated and uneven stitches that she knew whatever he would say was not going to be welcome.
“Mamma,” He started, and was unsure how else to proceed. For all of his education, he felt tongue-tied and awkward when relaying bad news. “Mamma, I think we have to make some further economies.” He started. “The bank has fallen, and it seems that we have… very little… in the way of funds.”
Her nod was tired, resigned – and Steve’s weak heart felt like it was breaking.
The 3rd Duke of Barnes walked into the breakfast parlour to find his three younger sisters already sitting at the table. His head, hurting from a long night of cards and excess, was not prepared for the giggling of three very silly girls, and he very nearly turned on his heel to leave.
“Don’t you dare, James,” Becca, younger than him by four years but the older of the girls, said, voice cutting through her sisters giggling. She was a grand beauty, the reigning belle for five seasons. “You promised you’d take us up in the curricle this morning and we’re already late.”
His groan was mostly for effect. He loved his sisters to distraction, doted and them and spent vast amounts on their happiness. This should have resulted in them becoming highly unmanageable, spoilt things, but they loved their brother almost as much as he loved them, and tried to keep their behaviour (in public at least) very demure and ladylike. This resulted in them being highly sought after for dances and parties, and James spent a great deal of time telling unsuitable people that they could not marry his darling sisters.
“Let me eat first, you ungrateful brats.” He said, but the fondness in his tone was unmistakable and his sisters giggled and joked with him about his head.
“You were singing.” Winnie said, practicing her prettiest blush. It was her first season and with two older sisters she was very much ahead of the curve when it came to flirting. She worried him greatly.
“I was?” He said, filling his plate from the loaded sideboard.
“Indeed.” Janey said, picking daintily at her toasted bread. “Very educational.”
“Ah, dreadfully sorry.” He lied, kissing the tops of their heads as he made his way to his seat. “Won’t do it again.”
They laughed, sweetly and well aware that their brother would do nothing of the sort.
“Will you take us to Almaks tonight?” Becca asked, “Our new dresses arrived this morning.”
“And the bills too, I assume.”
“You can afford it.” Becca said, “Now come along, we want to go to the park.”
While the Duke Barnes sat in his set of four, his three sisters comfortably seated in the back, dressed in expensive silks and muslins befitting their station, the Baron Grant looked at the letter in his hand and scarce could believe his eyes. As a sickly child, his one passion had been art, and he spent many long months convalescing by painting everything he could see from his sickbed. As his health slowly improved, he would (on days where the weather would allow it) sit in the garden and paint the grounds, sometimes adding in details that were now missing. He painted the old stable, which only housed a single hack, bursting with life and horses as it had been when his father was alive. He painted his mother, walking alone in faded, well-worn dresses, surrounded by friends and fine silks. He painted the fallow field’s golden and resplendent, wheat waving in an unseen breath of air.
His mother believed his art to be very good, and encouraged him to send some pieces away. Now it seemed that they had been very popular and had garnered a lot of interest, especially his gardens. Several people wished to commission him to paint their town gardens. He was being offered money enough to rent a small apartment and perhaps even stay for the rest of the season.
“You must come also,” He told his mother, who was sewing in her drawing room. Their strict economy had meant that her ladies companion was gone, and the house consisted of only Cook and Harvelle the butler, and Harvelle’s niece, who cleaned. “You miss London.”
“No, I shall visit my sister.” She told him, in even tones. “She wrote to me last month, but I thought I mustn’t go if you were here.”
“Ireland?” Steve said, blinking. His aunt had married well, better than his mother, and they often wrote. He had heard many things about his aunt and her lady wife, but had never thought his mother might wish to visit them.
He had been a child when it had been explained to him. “Such marriages are to secure lands and titles,” His tutor had told him. “Often a younger member of the family, or a child ward, will become adopted into this union and thus an heir is secured. It has saved many a noble family – and is often preferred by many as a more practical arrangement.”
“My sister will send for me in a week if I ask, and I will stay a few months, at least.”
Steve nodded. The practicality of the arrangement was ideal, they could close the house and use any savings from their board to go some way to repairing the vast debt that was now owed. “And you may find London very grand.” She said, with a faint smile. “Perhaps you’ll meet someone.”
“Perhaps.” Steve agreed, although they both knew it was unlikely. “A very rich someone, ideally.”
“Well, of course.” She shrugged, “What else for my son?”
James watched his sisters dance with many very fine and eligible persons whom he’d be more than happy for them to form a lasting attachment with, while he kept to the side on the room and desperately tried to stay out of the way of the matchmaking mammas. Unmarried still, with a great fortune and an easy-going, welcoming attitude had resulted in him being a much sought after groom-to-be.
“I’ve money and time enough to be picky.” He told Becca, who agreed. Now in her 5th season, she too was in no great rush to marry. He believed that her friendship with the Miss Carter was perhaps more than met the eye, but wisely kept his mouth closed on the subject. They were dancing together, whispering and laughing. He hoped she was happy.
Tucked away as he was, with clear sightlines to the hall, he didn’t expect to be disturbed. He certainly didn’t expect to be jostled by a child, nor did he expect to find himself liberally drenched with a glass of wine.
“What the hell!” He managed, trying to sidestep and grab the child at the same time, only to result in more wine falling from the glass and onto his buckskins.
“Oh gods,” A deep, masculine voice said, and only then did James realise that the child who had drenched him in wine was not a child at all. “Oh hells bells, I’m so sorry!” the younger man continued. “I’m, oh god. I thought this alcove was empty, I’m such a klutz, I’m terribly sorry.”
James blinked. The young man couldn’t have been taller than Winnie, his youngest sister, and was even marginally thinner than even the waifish of ladies spinning around the room. His skin was slightly tanned, perhaps from sitting in the sun too long, perhaps from traveling – and his hair was poorly styled but a soft golden honey colour that would be the envy of any young lady. But his eyes…
James had often been told that his, and his sisters, had eyes as blue as sapphires, which he agreed with in the privacy of his own head, but he had never in his life seen eyes the same hue as a summer sky, bright and sparkling and deep as any ocean. Framed with thick lashes a shade or two darker than his hair…
James had never seen a man look so masculine and yet as pretty as any woman, not once in his life, and he had often seen many men dressed in the modish gowns his sisters liked, men who painted their lips and powdered their cheeks to a rosy hue. This man stole his breath and his sense, and all he could do was stare.
Steve had been invited to Almaks as a guest of Earl Barton, who had commissioned him to paint his town garden, with his pride of exotic birds. His country clothes and style so obviously marked him as a poor relation to the glittering social elite, but his manners and education had kept him in good stead, although he was out of place, it was still obvious he was a gentleman, and titled at that. In a room of Dukes and Earls, a country Baron was no great boasting matter, but at least he would not be lumped as a mere Mister, a social interloper.
But he knew this grand event was not for him, and sought to find a place out of the way and secluded to watch the dancing. His glass of wine had been overfilled by the Earl Barton, and he walked carefully around the edge of the room to ensure that he did not trip and spill it.
It was all for nothing, spying a secret alcove, he made his way to it, eyes on the glittering couples on the main floor, and did not see that the alcove was already occupied until after he had knocked into the figure there, spilling his red wine down some pale breeches and almost landing himself on his rear.
The man who had grabbed at his arm to stop him from falling and making an even bigger fool of himself, was taller than Steve by at least a head, looking understandably annoyed that his very fine clothes were now dripping with deep red wine. Through his own shabby coat, Steve could feel the strength in the grip, and found himself looking up at the man he’d so rudely fallen over.
He had spent only a week in London, and had thought he had never seen such good-looking people in his whole life, but now he realised that he had been deceived. Obviously London had been hiding much more devastating specimens of perfection than his eyes had made out, for the man holding his arm was nothing short of a grand beauty. Everything about his face, from his full lips and square jaw, to the thick brown of his well styled hair and deep blue eyes, were perfect.
His breath caught in his throat and Steve had never been less a master of a given situation as he was at that point. He felt he gaped liked a landed fish.
His mind, blank but for the beauty in front of him was suddenly assaulted on all sides, as three very lovely misses appeared at his side. “Oh, whatever happened to you?” They asked the man, who was still holding him tightly by the arm. “Have you been hiding again?”
“It seems I failed to do so well enough.” The man said, voice rich and warm and lovely.
“Shocking.” One of the girls said, and then as though the ruining of fines clothes (probably beyond repair) was some trivial matter, she carried on. “I want to go home. Lord Rumlow is here and apparently he believes that his suit is welcome.”
“I’ve already told him that he cannot marry you.” The man said, eyes flickering from Steve’s for only a second. “I thought the matter settled.”
“Not so.” The lady said. She looked at her brother (Steve assumed it was her brother, he was far too young to be her father) and then pointedly at Steve, before rising her eyes at the man still holding onto his arm.
“James is being very rude, Mister…?” One of the ladies said, perhaps the older of the three and very attractive, although Steve personally felt that their brother was heaven sent.
“Rogers.” Steve said, finding his tongue after several long seconds. “Um, Steven Rogers, Baron of Grant,” He managed. “Miss…?”
“Barnes.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Barnes. And Miss Barnes… and… um… Miss Barnes.” He paused, aware that the ladies were more than likely laughing at his attempt at politeness. His country manners were good, but not up to par with the town darlings, as he thought these ladies must be. “Mister Barnes.” He said, nodding his head at the man who still held onto his arm and seemed unlikely to release him any time soon.
“Lord Barnes.” One of the girls said, the middle one, probably, Steve thought. “James Buchanan, Duke of Barnes.”
“I can make my own introduction, Janey.” The man said, and Steve realised too late that he was currently standing between one of the richest Dukes in London and his three very successful sisters. Dear god in heaven, the man could buy and sell him a hundred times over and still be rich as nabob.
“Yes, but you aren’t.” She teased, and Steve wished very much to sink into the floor and never be seen again. To spill a drink on a person was terrible enough, but to spill one on a Duke was… well… Steve wondered if he should retire to the country and never be seen again.
The hand that gripped him was suddenly gone, and it was only through the grace of God that Steve didn’t end up sprawled at the feet of four of the most beautiful people he’d ever seen in his life.
“So, Lord Grant, what brings you to London? I’ll admit it odd we have not yet been introduced.” The elder Miss Barnes said, and Steve wondered if she could not see the red wine on her brothers’ coat and britches or if she was simply making fun of him.
“I don’t…” He started, before stopping and taking a breath. “It’s my first time in London.” He said, trying his best to sound calm and collected. “I’ve been commissioned by Lord Barton to paint a scene of his gardens.”
“Oh, an artist?” The elder Miss Barnes asked, sounding thrilled. Possibly still teasing, Steve had no experience with such ladies. Any ladies, really. Or Gentlemen. His country lifestyle and childhood sicknesses very much stopped him from dancehalls and flirting. “I think I recall Lord Coulson mentioned an artist come from the North, was it you? He was very much impressed.”
“Ah, yes, it was Lord Coulson who invited me.” Steve agreed. “And introduced me to Lord Barton and Lady Romanov.”
“Oh, we love Tasha, don’t we?” The younger Miss Barnes said, seemingly very excited to hear this news. Steve was now quite convinced that he was being made sport of.
“We do.” Lord Barnes cut in, “However, this is not the time to be talking about it, as I know it hasn’t escaped your notice but I am drenched in wine.”
“So you are!”
“Indeed! I see now.”
“But you didn’t say a thing, I hardly noticed.”
All three girls looked as though they honestly had not noticed their brother and his stained, wet clothes, radiating honesty and genuine surprise. Steve wondered if perhaps they had not been teasing him, but their brother through him.
“Excuse my sisters.” Lord Barnes said, looking exasperated. “They were brought up in Bedlam.”
“What wit!” The elder miss said.
“What wit?” the middle miss smirked.
“Exactly.”
James had to listen to his sisters on the blessedly short ride back to their town house teasing him ruthlessly for his behaviour.
“James, it was shocking, you were holding him so tight I thought you might plan on throwing him over your shoulder and making off with him!”
“I was doing nothing of the sort.”
“Terrible! And not to even introduce us!”
“I hadn’t a chance to talk to him before you hellions arrived!”
Silence greeted this statement.
“Ah… James?” Winnie said, sounding conflicted. “I know we are teasing… but…” She looked at her sisters, eyes wide. “You were standing there for several minutes before we interrupted.”
He rolled his eyes. “Doing it a little too brown.” He said. His breaches were sticking to him in a most unpleasant way, and he was well aware he stank like a brothel.
“Bucky…” Becca said, soft, using his childhood nickname to soften whatever she was about to say, “James, it was several minutes at least.”
“Good Morning Rogers,” Lord Barton said, seemingly unaware that it was well past noon. Steve had been let in by the Butler who wasn’t half as imposing as Harvelle was, for all he looked down his nose at Steve’s shabby clothes. “How goes the grand design?”
“Very well.” Steve nodded. Lord Barton had a large and varied aviary and had designed his town garden to house as many species of birds as could be expected in the built up space. He wished Steve to capture this so he could hang it in his ballroom, which he thought would be a pleasing focal point for those not dancing. It was by far the largest painting Steve had attempted and he was trying to complete it within the timeframe he had originally estimated. He was starting to fear it would take him much longer.
“Capital. Coffee?”
“No thank you, I have some tea here.”
“Ah, I’m no use to man nor beast without coffee.” Lord Barton admitted. “I say, the Misses Barnes wrote me this morning.” A pause. “Never can tell them apart, the younger, or middle one… regardless, they want to commission you too.” He paused. “You’ll finish this first, though?”
“Yes of course.”
“Ah, good.” A pause. “Well, I’ll let you be.”
Steve was washing his brushes when Lord Bartons Butler advised that he had been invited inside. He neglected to advise Steve that the reason he had been invited inside was that Lord Barton had callers.
Namely, Lord Barton was being called upon by the Misses Barnes and their brother.
And he was wearing paint-stained clothing. That was several years out of style for the country, never mind Town.
Lord Grant, who, James had learned after three days of a subtle questioning of his friends and not so subtle questioning of his accountant, was a well-liked country Baron in the North, who had been very sickly as a child and not expected to last over his 10th birthday. From all accounts, he was clever and kind – his tenants had no complaint that he did not arrange to satisfaction, and his living style was so modest that it must have been impossible for him to come to London without the patronage of Lord Coulson. His art was stunning and fresh, and well liked – James liked it enough to invite his sisters to see for themselves, and it was a general agreement that he paint them something.
However, it was glaringly obvious that the late Baron, Stevens’ father, had ruined his family. The debt, which it seemed the younger Baron had been trying to pay by selling his art and living on less a year than James’ sisters spent on ribbon alone, was perhaps a slight amount to him, but he was quite aware that for Baron Grant it would be an insurmountable object.
As far as James could find out, the younger Baron had no lasting connection with anyone, did not attend balls, or assemblies, and had very rarely travelled further than his own land.
Of course, now his shabby country style was not so much a stand against the modish dressing of town excess but a simple case of not being able to afford the cost of a whole new wardrobe, which Bucky was more than willing to overlook – but when Baron Grant arrived into the presently appointed drawing room wearing paint stained clothes, he could feel his sisters eyebrows rise without even looking.
“Ah, here you are.” Lord Barton said, obviously unaware that Barton Grant was certainly not attired to be meeting with the sisters of a Duke. Rogers, of course, looked mortified.
“Ah, Good morning,” Rogers said, looking at his feet. “I’m… so sorry. I’ve been painting. I… I’m not dressed for guests.”
“Oh, we don’t mind at all.” Becca said, causing Bucky to blink. Becca was a sticker for social rules, always had been, while Winnie and Janey followed her lead. “Of course you should be painting, why, James is often the same, when he comes back from his rides, with mud and goodness knows what.” Becca carried on, as though Bucky would ever show his face in company that wasn’t his close family in anything less than his best.
“Ah, well…” Rogers said, looking no more at ease than before. “I really should…” He waved at the door, already starting to back out of the room.
“Oh, well, we were just inviting Lord Barton to dinner.” Becca cut him off, stopping his retreat. “You must come, of course. Just a small thing.”
“Well, I,” Rogers stammered, and then seemed to collect that there was no real way he could refuse without causing offence. “Of course.”
“Wonderful!” Winnie clapped. “Oh, it’ll be such a jolly little party – Lady Romanov and Sir Banner and Coulson, and Lord and Lady Stark.”
James watched as Lord Grant took this information in, perhaps counting the cost of a new coat. There was no way of offering to loan him the blunt without causing serious offence – James was quite enamoured with trying to cause the Baron as little discomfort as possible.
Steven bought himself a new coat, in a muted blue superfine cloth. He had spent a long day enquiring where one might find a tailor who would give him a stylish cut without destroying the credit he’d been painstakingly working on keeping. In the end, Lord Barton was able to direct him to a place that catered to a man with a military style, and his coat was well fitted and unadorned with fobs and buttons. On his small frame, it would be highly distracting, so he folded his cravat in a more elaborate style to make up for his lack of adornments. No doubt the ladies Barnes thought he was a deplorable clod, and he did not think for a moment that they would be fooled by his new coat after seeing him so shabbily dressed. However, what’s done is done, and he had no way of replaying the day’s deeds – he simply hoped that he wouldn’t further shame himself and his name.
The square that belonged to the Barnes title was large and opulent and spoke of the wealth and success of the old family name. Although Steve was proud of his land and title, he knew full well that being a good landlord on a smaller holding was nothing in the uncommon way – as a Duke, Lord Barnes was far out of his social reach. It had only been through his knowing Lord Barton that he had even been invited. Rather than depleting his meagre pocket funds, he decided to walk. The London air was not good for his lungs at all, but thankfully his health had been much improved over the years and he hoped the walk would clam his nerves.
When he arrived at the door, he lifted up his gloved hand to knock, only to find the well-oiled hinges swinging open.
“Lord Grant?” A butler asked, looking at him as though perhaps Steve was a strange creature to be examined under a microscope.
“Ah, yes.” Steve said, giving his best smile. He had found over the years it always paid to be polite to servants. After all, without them the grand houses would fall into shambles.
“Follow me, please.”
Bucky spent too long fussing over what coat he should wear. He didn’t want anything too outlandish, anything that would further highlight the difference in styles of living between himself and the young Baron. His sisters had no such qualms and had been bustling through their rooms in silks and elaborate shawls, hair perfectly styled by their abigails.
In the end, he settled on a moss green, cut to a clean and simple design that highlighted his figure and the span of his shoulders. He waved off trinkets, which he rarely wore as it was, and settled for a simple emerald pin in the dead centre of his cravat. All in all, he felt he looked well, relaxed and at ease, even though his stomach felt unsettled at the thought that Steven Rogers, Baron of Grant might soon be looking at him home and his person with perhaps a critical eye.
Would he find Bucky too elaborate? His home too opulent for his country tastes? Would he think Bucky’s sisters too outspoken or find fault in Bucky himself?
It seemed that he shouldn’t have worried. He had been entertaining his other guests when Giles announced that Baron Grant had arrived, and when he walked through the doors, Bucky was once again struck by how well he looked. Fashionably pale with a slight colour in his cheeks that could have been from nerves or a brisk walk – and his coat was obviously new. Bucky hoped he had not gone deeply into his funds to pay for it.
“Your Grace.” Steve bowed, greeting James first as was proper. Before he could move on to the others, Bucky stepped forward.
“Glad you could make it, Rogers.” He said, holding out his hand. “My sisters didn’t leave you much chance to refuse I’m afraid.”
The smaller man smiled, and his grip was strong and warm. “I’m sure you’re already acquainted with the others.”
Although Steven agreed, Bucky found himself easily walking the room with his hand on the smaller man’s shoulder – perhaps closer than might normally be permitted – re-introducing the Baron to his other guests.
Becca, much too clever for her own good, saw what he was doing, and carefully moved counterpoint to them, so that his neglect of his other guests would not be quite so noticeable. However, he was quite aware than Baron Grant had noticed the lapse in protocol.
His guest was looking at him, up through lashes thicker than any woman’s, framing those summer sky eyes. Bucky couldn’t help but smile down at him, wondering silently how a man he had only met twice before could have such an effect on him.
Steve wasn’t exactly sure what was happening, but he knew one thing. Duke Barnes was paying him a marked attention that would not go unnoticed if he carried on in such a way. In his own home, perhaps he was more relaxed and less formal, but his other guests must see that his seeking out (and remaining with) Steve was not in the normal way of things.
Especially when Steve found himself seated beside the Duke at the table. It was dictated by tradition that on the Dukes left should be the highest ranking guest (lady Romanov) and not some country Baron. However, no one seemed to pay it any mind at all.
The elder Miss Barnes was seated between Lord Barton and Lord Banner, and their conversation was apparently varied and interesting, as the whole table had fixed them as the focal point of the conversation.
But not Duke Barnes.
“I saw your collection at the Royal Society.” The Duke was saying, pulling Steve’s attention. “The girls and I thought you wouldn’t mind painting something for us.”
“Oh, not at all.” Steve agreed. Afterall, he had a great many bills and debts to pay – and it was common knowledge that the Duke was wealthy and indulgent. Steve could do much worse in a patron. “As soon as I am finished with Lord Barton’s scene I shall make myself available for you.”
“It seems unlikely that a gentleman of such talent has remained un-wed, however.” Duke Barnes carried on, smiling at Steve was what could only be described as fondness. “Your title is well enough respected, and your ability not in question.”
Steve blinked. Was Lord Barnes insinuating that Steve was somehow not above board? “Excuse me?” He managed feeling his temper rise. He fought to control himself, he could not afford to fall foul of a man who could easily ruin him and his good name without so much as a second thought.
Lord Barnes though, smiled some more, as though he had not made any insult. “I mealy seek to enquire if your lack of spouse is through situation or choice.” He said. “If the later, I would of course, respect your decision – if the former, I would happy to call upon you.”
Steve blinked.
He blinked again.
Lord Barnes could not be serious. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am.” The Duke shrugged. “It must not have escaped your notice that I have been intent on securing your attention this evening.”
Steve managed a nod. He was out of his depth completely.
James was aware that he could have handled the enquiry of Baron Grant’s marital status with more finesse and subtlety, pointed out and laughed at in great detail by his sisters once their guests had left.
“Oh you utter clod!” Winnie laughed, “Could you be more aggravating?”
“You’ll be lucky if he ever agrees to be in your company at all.” Janey said, shaking her head at his idiot nature. “You cannot wade into such things as you do business transactions.”
“You need to woo him!” Becca said, rolling her eyes and then throwing her book at him. “I cannot believe you are such a… a…”
“Clod.”
“Idiot?”
“A simpleton!” She finished, “About such things.”
Bucky glared at his sisters. “I may be your brother but I am still a Duke, and I do not appreciate being treated so poorly. I asked a question to which I wished to know the answer.”
“Duke or no, you acted terribly.”
“I wager he thinks you wish him as a… a… companion, and not a spouse.” Janey said, and Bucky’s blood turned to ice.
Had the younger Baron assumed that Bucky had been simply arranging a… physical relationship and not a more intimate, loving one?
It was that fear that had him calling on the Baron early the very next day.
The lodgings were not in an area of Town that his coach would normally visit, nor were they of the quality or size that he would have liked to find himself living in for any length of time, but he understood that funds were a priority and he was in no situation to be squeamish over such things. He had laid his head in worse places when touring.
It was also obvious that Baron Grant had not expected visitors. He appeared after a short wait where Bucky cooled his heels in the cramped receiving room, dressed neatly but in an older style coat that spoke more of his country living that his Town polish.
“Your Grace.” He said as he entered, bowing properly as was expected. James nipped that in the bud.
“Please, Bucky if you like, or James – Lords and Sirs are for strangers.”
“Bucky?”
“Yes, for my name is James Buchanan and it is a moniker that has stayed with me from my school days.” He had a fear that he had overstepped propriety when the younger Baron looked at him for several moments.
“Then you should call me Steve. No one calls me Baron Grant back home, not even my mother.” He paused. “I should advise you though, that I will not be available for commission until I complete the painting for Lord Barton, and I am several days – at the least – from doing so.”
Bucky grinned, “Of course. I simply thought you might like a tour of the Town. As far as I’ve been able to find out, you’ve hardly been seen anywhere at all.”
Steve blinked owlishly. Bucky was fully aware that at this point, his interest in the Baron was pointed and obvious. At this point, should the younger man not wish to further their acquaintance, he would be compelled to do so ime-
“You are quite right.” Steve smiled, cutting through Bucky’s thoughts like a hot knife on the butter plate.
The Duke – Bucky, he corrected himself – seemed to wish to make Steve as comfortable as possible. Although he had brought his horses and a curricle, which he managed with ease in the bustling streets, once they come to the shopping district, he gracefully stepped down.
They walked at a leisurely pace, it was still early and most of fashionable London would still be at the park, or in bed. Steve had not been able to change his country sleeping patterns and woke every morning bright and early, which Bucky had commented that he thought might be the case.
“And of course, Barton doesn’t wake until after noon if he can help it, so you must find yourself at a loss in the early morning.” He was saying. Steve nodded. He could have pointed out that he used that time to draw for his own pleasure, but then perhaps to do so would make Bucky think that he did not welcome the change of pace. “Today I’ve been employed by my younger sister to buy her some laces and a new shawl; I hope you don’t find it too tedious.”
“Not at all.” Steve demurred. It was the truth, walking beside Bucky, who radiated warmth and openness was a before unthought-of pleasure, the way he would sometimes place his large hand on the centre of Steve’s uneven spine if someone walked too close, or how he would tell a joke and watch Steve carefully to make sure he laughed.
If it had been the country, Steve would have been convinced that the Duke was trying to court him. However, he was fully aware that in Town, things were quite different. His country ways, and lack of attention from either sex, must not colour the way this new friendship developed. He must not fall into the trap of falling in love with the first person to show him friendly affection.
Courting a man was quite different to a woman, Bucky thought, reviling in the way he was able to take Steve out in the morning air without chaperones or hangers on. He could touch and be touched without some busy-body tutting as they walked past, drunk on revelry. Steve was quick with wit and stories of his own, the dramas of the country no less scandalous than that of Town, and his smiles were harder to come by but worth more for the work.
Had Bucky fallen so deeply for a woman, he would be heavily restricted in what he could and could not do, but not so with Steve. With Steve he could do as he would like to – invite him to clubs and play cards and attend the theatre together, be seen at the park… and all without the weight of a chaperone. Not only that, but Steve was easy to talk to, he had an eye for colour that Bucky lacked – and the way he treated others, from the salesman who tried to convince Bucky that his sisters would die for a new pair of hideously coloured kid gloves, to the older lady whom he delicately helped up into her carriage. Nothing was too small a kindness, and Bucky fast could see just how wonderfully Steve would become a much adored member of his household.
He knew, of course, that his attachment had been too strong and too sudden for any decent sort of courtship, and he did not think for a moment that Steve felt as deeply as he had, but when the younger man smiled up at him, he did dare to hope.
Two weeks into his friendship with Bucky, Steve was aware that people, people whom he had never before had a conversation with, were talking about him. More specifically, talking about the nature of his friendship with Bucky. It was only by chance that he overheard a conversation between a Lord Rumlow, who Steve had already singled out as being a social climber (and was aware that many people thought the same of him) and another gentleman Steve did not know.
“Of course, the little Baron of nowhere has his feet firmly under that table, Duke Barnes doesn’t see how it looks, hanging after such a… a… country bumpkin.”
Steve, who had been trying in vain to curb his attraction to Bucky, felt his heart sink. Of course people must be talking, talking and whispering, for Bucky had brought him to gaming houses and Tattersalls, they’d even danced at Almacks – pressed closer than was proper – and been to a great many events and parties together. Steve, who assumed that the Duke was simply showing him around, trying to be a good friend to a country Baron new to the city –now saw that other people wished to tarnish this friendship with base remarks.
He resolved immediately to ensure that his new friend would not be brought low by Steve’s obvious lack of funds, polish and title.
“Baron Grant expresses his apologies, but he will be unable to attend.” Bucky read, looking at the simple cardstock in his hand. It was the fourth time in as many days that Steve had begged off their social engagements. Bucky knew it was not because he was ill, for he had been seen several times at Bartons, working on his painting, and even had been seen by Bucky’s sisters as they were shopping. They reported that he had been polite but distant, and Bucky was… hurt.
“I don’t understand!” He said, pacing back and forth as his beloved sisters watched him. “I paid him every attention! I attended to him at every opportunity and he seemed to enjoy… was I wrong?” He asked, not really waiting for his sisters to respond. “Perhaps I… maybe angered him? Or caused him some slight.”
“I don’t think…” Becca started, and then drifted into silence, unusual for her – unusual enough that Bucky turned to face her.
“Think what?” he encouraged.
“I… don’t think he thought of your friendship in a romantic way.” She said, looking at her neatly folded hands. “He very often… he would talk of you sometimes as a good friend, not… not a lover.”
Bucky found himself blinking, mind reeling from her admission. “That… that cannot be correct.” He told her, shaking his head. “I don’t dance with my friends.”
“Well, no, but of course, he might not know that.”
Bucky nods, and instantly sets out to correct whatever misconceptions Steve Rogers, Baron of Grant, had developed over Bucky’s courtship.
Steve wasn’t at his rented rooms in the shadier part of town, nor was he at Bartons, nor playing cards at Blacks. He wasn’t at the gallery or the park, where he would spend long hours sketching and ignoring interested looks from its patrons. By the time he doubled back to the rooms Steve had rented, it was becoming dark and Bucky had become increasingly irritated.
“Duke Barnes to see Baron Grant.” He told them man at the door, who hesitated. “Spit it out.” Bucky glared. He’d been sent on a fool’s errand all day and didn’t feel much like spending kindness on anyone not Steve.
“The Baron left this morning with his paints and aint returned.”
“Did he say where he was headed?”
“The park, your Grace.” The servant said, “But he’s been longer than normal, an’ his dinners all but ruined.”
Bucky nodded, turned on his heel, and stalked past his carriage. “Take it back.” He glared. “I’ll walk.”
“Your Grace,” his footman started, “If I might, we will follow. This area…” He looked around. “We’ll follow behind, your Grace, and if we chance the Baron, then it will be easier to transport him and his paints?”
Bucky nodded. Of course, Steve had managed to work his way into the affection of Bucky’s staff. His kindness and ability to remember names and faces meant that at any time Bucky invited him to dinner (most nights, until he started begging off) he would smile and greet each servant by name and with a smile.
As he walked, footsteps making a steady beat, he let his mind wander over things he had not let himself linger on through the day. Had Steve been unaware of Bucky’s intentions, his desires? Perhaps the smaller Baron had truly thought of Bucky only as a friend, and that this new distance between them was deliberate – to cool Bucky’s ardour and politely advise him that his attention was unwanted.
How far he walked, he couldn’t rightly say, only that he could hear the steady pace of the horses behind him – until something caught his attention, on the cobbled road, by a dirty alley.
A tray of watercolour paint, smashed almost beyond recognition, ground into the stone. He almost walked by it, brain not quite understanding what his eyes were seeing until he had almost walked past. Those were Steves, he knew – had seen him carry them often enough – the care he took of his supplies spoke of how prized the simple set was. Bucky had once asked how he could paint such beautiful things with what was ultimately a child’s starter set of cheap paints, and had gotten a shrug in reply.
“I have better paints in my rooms, but...” He had said, carefully folding everything away, “I like them. My mother bought them for me.”
Steve would never allow them to be smashed in the street, and Bucky’s step faltered. Instinct, not mind, drew his eyes to the alley, unlit and dank – and the shape that was there, small and broken.
Steve woke up in a bed far too soft to be his own. His head hurt, even with the light of many candles diffused by the curtains around the bed, and for a long while he simply lay still, trying to keep his breathing easy and even. Voices, pitched low, he could hear – but it hurt far too much to strain to pay them any attention. He blinked, once, and his eyes were too heavy to keep open – he fell back into sleep.
When he awoke again, it was to the press of something to his lips, and Steve had been in his sickbed so often that it was second nature for him to part his lips and swallow the mixture – bitter sharp and too sweet to be pleasant. Dimly he remembered trying to say ‘Thank you,’ but it hurt him to talk, and whatever was in the mixture was strong, he was already being pulled back under.
He awoke to the distant sound of laughter, drifting up through the floors and walls, and brighter than the sunlight that was softly showing through the weave of the heavy drapes. It was not early, he knew that already, but he could see no obvious proof of time.
The bed he was tucked deep into was not his own, far too plush and large for the rented rooms that he could afford – and much nicer than any of the sickhouses that he had attended in his life. He could see, carefully lain out, a shirt and britches that looked as though they would fit him well, but obviously too fine to belong to him. As he gingerly sat up in the warm, comfortable bed, he tried to take better stock of his surroundings.
The décor was fresh and bright, and obviously fairly recent – it was a current fashion to use whites and soft wood, very Greek. It obviously wasn’t Barton’s home, which used a lot of older fashioned pieces, well looked after but aged – and it became very clear that none of his other patrons had money enough to have such elaborate furnishings in a guest room.
Which could only mean that he had been staying for an unknown number of days at Duke Barnes residence. It took him much longer than he would have liked to dress himself, and he was not fond of the uneasy feeling that he had when pulling on clothing that had obviously been made for him, but was not actually his. The cloth was fine, much finer than anything he could afford, and it made him feel as though he had been a case for extended charity, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.
On the bedside was a bottle of tonic, dark green and pungent, snapping at Steve’s senses and obviously much stronger and better than anything he’d been able to get from his country doctor. On the table by the bottle, there were clear handwritten instructions on how often Steve should take the liquid, and signed without flourish by ‘Erskine’, whom Steve had never before heard of. Steve was fairly sure that the bottle on the cabinet was not the only bottle; he had dreamy recollections of more spoonfuls than had been taken from the current bottle.
The sound of laughter was drifting up to his room from somewhere below, and, stocking feet making no noise on the richly carpeted floor, followed the sound.
Bucky was wearing only his shirt and britches, having thrown on whatever was at hand upon waking – much to his valets distress. His sisters were only slightly more clothed, but they had kicked off their shoes and were probably causing their abigails heartattacks as he pulled them across the polished floor.
For nearly five days, Steve Rogers, Baron of Grant, had lain in bed. For five days, Bucky had stood watch over his frail body – watching bruises bloom over milky skin, fever deep in his bones. Doctor after doctor came, until Erskine arrived with a bottle of something sticky and green – and at long last, Steven had started to breathe better.
“His bones are not broken, but it seems that he has contracted water of the lung.” The doctor said, frowning. “This should help.”
It had, through the night Steve’s fever had broken and the pent up emotion that had been holding Bucky and his sisters together had as well.
The ballroom was a thing of beauty when filled with people, fine silks and flowers, music playing. In the morning light, empty and quiet, it seemed quite different. In his stocking feet, Bucky leaned back; putting all of his weight on the red sash tied around his waist, and tried to step backwards. His sisters, also in their stockings, were holding on to the other end, and slowly started to slide forward. It was a game for children, something their father used to play when they were little, his bulk pulling them with ease. Bucky laughed at their attempts to pull him back, until all three pulled together, and he slid several feet at once, his sisters sprawling on the ground with the unexpected slack.
Their laughter filled up the room, giggling bordering on the hysterical, but a welcome release after their tight smiles and pinched expressions. Grabbing at Winnies foot, he pulled her up, up and over his shoulder. She was the youngest, and despite how society saw her as a young woman ready for marriage, Bucky only saw a little girl – especially when she let out a godawful shriek at being thrown over his shoulder. Janey and Becca were in stitches as he jogged around the room, pretending to slide to make his baby sister scream and the others laugh like loons.
It was only when he’d set her back down beside Becca and Janey that he noticed that one of the doors to the ballroom had been pushed open.
“I’m sorry,” Steve said, blushing – colour in his face that hadn’t been there for the whole time he’d been slipping in and out of awareness. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Can you believe this beast?” Winnie groaned, shoving Bucky’s shoulder playfully. “Did you see how he carried me around like I was a sack of flour?”
“We didn’t wake you, did we?” Becca asked, looking amused and happy, exertion making her cheeks just as pink as Steve’s. “Come over, come on.”
It wasn’t proper, Bucky knew, for his sisters to be wearing their oldest dresses, the bottoms of their stocking feet dirty from all the sliding around they’d been doing – Bucky with his shirt half undone and hair falling about his eyes, but when Steve walked over, feet making no sound and looking sleep mussed and… Bucky swallowed. It probably wasn’t a good idea to throw himself at a man who had so recently been delirious and ill. Especially not in front of his sisters, they had enough ammunition to tease him for life as it was.
“Doctor Erskine told us you may be back on your feet at some point today,” Bucky said, arranging himself so he looked less like he was sprawling over the floor. “He wants to talk to you about a few things.” He added. Doctor Erskine was a competent doctor whose elixir had worked, which was better than any other of the doctors Bucky had called on to help Steve.
Steve blushed. It was good to see colour on his face, and Bucky had to swallow his tongue to stop himself from saying so. “I… I’m so terribly sorry for being such a drain on your hospitality, he said, looking between his stocking feet and his hands. “I don’t recall… I don’t remember how I became to be here.”
Bucky grinned. “Ah, you see, I was annoyed that you had declined our invitation to dine with us, and I set immediately to find you and garner some explanation as to why you suddenly found my – and my sisters! – company unworthy of your time.” Bucky told him, grinning hugely. “And after a merry chase, I finally found you beaten half to death in a dank side street.” He was aware that his tone was too jovial. “And took it upon myself to carry you back here.”
“He had a carriage.” Janey said, rolling her eyes at him.
“Although as far as we can gather, he did carry you into the house.”
“I heard it from Lady Hill.”
“We were shopping.”
“It’s all anyone is talking about. Very romantic.”
“I have been known to be quite romantic when required.” Bucky pointed out, trying not to notice how Steve was starting to looking paler the more he heard.
Steve was freaking out. All of his plans, his careful distancing of himself and his heart from Duke Barnes, had fallen around his ears while he was unaware. He had been trying to keep gossips from turning Bucky’s polite affections into a romantic bent, and now… now it was common knowledge that the Duke had carried him into his home, in full view of a gossiping crowd it seemed!
“I’m sure,” He managed, “I am quite sure, that once it is explained that… that you were merely being… gallant… that such rumours will be silenced.”
He watched as Lord Barnes’ sisters dissolved into more giggles, and blushed hard. Obviously his one sided infatuation with Bucky was common knowledge in their home, and knowing that did not make it better for him.
“I am quite happy to have the general public see me as a romantic hero rather than a heartsick fool.” Bucky said, grinning from where he was sat on the polished floor. “I think it suits me much better.”
“Well, yes, of course, but not with… not with me!” Steve said; face probably the colour of a beetroot.
There was a long moment of silence, stretched thin and brittle, before the elder Miss Barnes spoke up.
“Well of course with you!” She said, looking confused. “Who else?”
“Anyone else!” Steve found himself saying, words falling from his lips without his mind controlling them. “I am no one! Everyone knows the debt I am in, my situation! I am nothing – any connection between us beyond… beyond… polite conversation is tainting and lowering!” He took a breath, “I will not be the cause of a mésalliance!”
After Steve’s… unfortunate… outburst, Bucky got to his feet. “Come, come on, to the garden, I think a conversation is long overdue.”
His sisters, who could be overbearing but infinitely understanding, took this as it was meant, and suddenly found things that they ought to be doing, and in a few moments, Bucky and Steve were walking towards the doors that led to the gardens.
The sun was high, and Bucky had no qualms about allowing Steve to be outside even after his prolonged illness – Doctor Erskine had told him at length that getting Steve active and outdoors would improve his health much quicker than a prolonged convalescence, that the good weather would improve his lungs. As the man had managed to provide a tonic that not only broke Steve’s fever but had him walking around after only a few days, Bucky felt that he knew what he was about.
There was no trace of the rain that had fallen the night before on the stones that paved the garden, and so Bucky had no issue with walking over them without shoes.
“I think perhaps we have had a misunderstanding.” Bucky said, as they walked. Steve was being careful of each step, as though to save the fabric of his stockings, as though Bucky would not immediately buy him more. “I thought I had been very clear in my intentions – I like you a great deal, and although I am aware that your heart is not mine, I have been endeavouring to show you that being married to me would not be a chore.” He took a breath. “I am in a position that your debts are not any hindrance to my suit, I can guarantee your comfort and that of your mother.” He paused. “And I have already taken the liberty of having doctor Erskine on retainer, so should you become ill he is available to us.”
“But-” Steve started, stopping in his tracks. His eyes were large, and when Bucky stopped to look at him he could only stare.
“I know, I know that your heart is not mine.” Bucky managed. “But in time, perhaps you will see that a marriage would benefit both of us greatly. I am convinced that-”
He got no further.
Steve was shorter than him by a head, but that did not stop the smaller man from reaching up and pressing their lips together.
“My heart is yours.” Steve said, pressed against him. “Of course it is.”
They did not return from the garden for some time, and the servants were under strict orders from the ladies of the house not to disturb them for any reason.
The wedding of Duke Barnes was a lavish affair, and was much talked about. Of course, the fact that his choice of groom was some simple country Baron, and Irish to boot, was exciting and novel. However, those who were lucky enough to attend the ceremony left with a deep understanding that the two men were both devoted to one another, that there was no chance that their marriage was either political or monitory.
Marrying for love was a rather exciting prospect, and the two young men were the subject of much interest long after the topic of the sudden match. In later years, after the wedding of his younger sister, Duke Barnes announced that they would be adopting a distant cousin of Steve’s, a young lad with little prospects but a quick wit and a sharp turn of humour that had Bucky doubling over with laughter in the most inappropriate places; mostly Church, which had pious Steve frowning at them both. Only those seated near the prestigious family could see the laughter dancing in the smaller man’s eyes.