Archive of Our Own

“Miss Stark?” one of the maids calls, bustling into the room. “Miss Stark!”

Sharon turns her head to look at her, narrowly avoiding Kate plunging her earring through her cheek instead of her ear. “Sorry, Kate,” she apologizes. “Yes, um…?” She winces, having forgotten the girl’s name. They hired new staff for their return to London, and she’s still learning who they all are.

“Rose, ma’am,” the maid says, curtseying. “I can’t find your brother, and the footmen are pulling the carriage around now.”

Sharon exchanges an amused look with Kate. That’s the other problem with the new staff: they don’t know her brother’s habits yet. Of course, if her brother were anyone other than who he is, there very well might be cause for concern. But Tony is both dutiful and an omega, not a rakish alpha out terrorizing the city somewhere. Terrorizing their house is another matter, but at least it’s quiet today.

“It’s alright, Rose,” Sharon assures her. “I know exactly where he is. Kate, am I ready?”

“You look lovely,” Kate says, smiling warmly at her. “You’ll make a fine match this season.”

Sharon’s own smile fades at the reminder. It isn’t that she minds the thought of marriage. She has always known that her purpose as an omega is to wed, and she is as dutiful as her brother. Rather, she minds the thought of having to wed this season. After Tony’s failure to secure a match for himself, the Duke of Dauntsey had pinned his hopes for an alpha heir on his newborn daughter. Now that their parents are gone, Sharon knows that it’s only the queen’s love for their mother that has kept their title from passing into the hands of someone else. But even the queen can only wait for so long, and now that Sharon is a debutante, she must make a match as soon as possible and secure an alpha heir.

“Miss?” Kate prompts.

She’s been silent for too long, she realizes. She gives her a reassuring smile and says, “Thank you. I’m sure I will. Now, let’s go see about finding my brother before he makes us late.”

“You know,” someone says teasingly, startling Tony out of his fugue state, “you’re meant to be escorting me to Buckingham Palace right now.”

“My most sincere apologies,” Tony says, turning and giving his sister a onceover. She’s lovely all the time, but today she’s absolutely resplendent in her white presentation gown. “I completely forgot.”

Sharon levels him with a look that reminds him so much of their mother it aches. She’s been gone this last decade but every day he sees more and more of her in Sharon. “You’re not nearly as hilarious as you think you are,” she informs him, looping her arm through his as they make their way out of the workshop.

“You’re right,” he agrees. “I’m funnier. How did you know I hadn’t really forgotten?”

“Tony, you despise formal omega wear,” she says, plucking at the long tunic he’s wearing. “You much prefer trousers, but here you are, dressed up. And you’re working on a musical clock in your workshop instead of on a new plow at the forge on the grounds? I’m not so unobservant as to miss what that means, though I could have done without you losing track of time.”

“My apologies,” he offers again while he locks the door to the workshop. Truth be told, he hadn’t really lost track of time. He’s been dreading this season for ten years—longer than that, even, ever since he had to concede defeat on the marriage mart and accept his status as a spinster. He had tried—he truly had—to find an alpha, having heard from his father his entire life how much of a disappointment it was that he was an omega and not a proper heir, but he had been no one’s idea of a proper omega to make any match at all, let alone a suitable one.

He had been too tall. Too intelligent. Too well-read. His interest in music lay in making musical clocks instead of playing the pianoforte. He could never keep a hat on his head. He made boats out of his napkins and set them sailing on the creek on their grounds.

He’d spent six seasons looking for an alpha, and by the end of them, he’d had several failed courtships to show for it, but that was all. Sharon had been born in the middle of his sixth season; as soon as it became apparent that she would survive her infancy, the Duke had informed him that his time on the marriage mart was over. Tony had met that news with a mingle of relief and sorrow: relief that he could give up on trying to be someone he wasn’t and focus his efforts on Sharon’s presentation instead, and sorrow that he was never going to find anyone to spend his life with. Tony had never considered himself much of a romantic but as he’d entered season after season and his hopes had dwindled, he’d realized that a companion would have been nice.

It wasn’t to be though, and he reminds himself sternly that it’s better this way. Who knows if his alpha would have been willing to take Sharon in after their parents’ deaths?

“How do I look?” Sharon asks anxiously, just before he hands her into the carriage.

A thousand things flit through his mind—she looks like their mother, like the jewel of the season, like she’ll have no trouble at all finding an alpha—but he doesn’t want to add to her troubles. He knows how worried she’s been as she’s grown older about her own presentation and what will happen to them if she fails. He wishes he could reassure her that everything would work out fine, but the queen has only been able to shield them for so long. Tony hears the whispers at court when they return each season; they say the duchy has sat for too long in the hands of an omega, never mind that their lands are far more profitable now than they ever were under his father. Sharon does have to find an alpha, preferably as quickly as she can.

But he knows that she knows that. Reminding her of it will only serve to make her more nervous, possibly resulting in a poor presentation. They need all the help they can get.

He smiles and simply says, “Lovely.”

Sharon beams.

Steve feels absurd in this room full of omegas and betas. He is an alpha, he has no place here. But Yelena needs someone to present her to the queen now that Lady Barnes has passed, and everyone else is unable to do so. Becca, the only other omega in the Barnes family, is too young and Natasha has not yet returned from her trip abroad. Bucky, as the heir to the barony, would be an appropriate choice but the queen’s steward—meaning the queen—had expressed concerns over an alpha heir being allowed in the room with the other omegas and eager parents. Steve, of course, is an alpha, but he is also a second child and, more importantly, an adopted child. In the eyes of the ton, he is harmless to the reputations of the young omegas in this room.

If only they knew how wrong they were.

“Stop fussing with your feather,” he says in a low undertone to Yelena.

“I can’t help it,” she complains. “It looks ridiculous.”

Steve doesn’t disagree, but that’s not the point. “It’ll look even more ridiculous if you go in there missing half the vanes because you couldn’t stop messing with it.”

Yelena’s answer is drowned out by a flurry of whispers when the doors open and the Starks enter, the people nearest the doors drawing away as though they’d be tainted through their closeness. Steve straightens. This is something the ton has been waiting for since Miss Stark turned six-and-ten last autumn. Steve is too young to really remember the furor around Lord Omega Stark’s failure to secure an alpha, but ever since he entered society, Steve heard the whispers following their family.

“Gossiping biddies,” Yelena mutters sullenly. “Steve, may I go say hello to Sharon?”

“I think that would be an excellent idea, yes,” Steve assures her. Let the ton gossip about that. There is still one family left in London not afraid of associating with a spinster.

Yelena grins at him and rushes over to her longtime friend. Steve follows at a more sedate pace. Despite Yelena and Miss Sharon’s friendship, he’s never actually met the elder Stark. Though not granted the title in his own right, Lord Stark had assumed the responsibilities after his parents’ deaths, which had kept him too busy to join the Barneses at their home when Miss Sharon did. Lady Barnes had chaperoned the two girls, and later, after her passing, Miss Sharon’s maid.

“Lord Omega Stark,” he says respectfully, bowing slightly.

“Mr. Rogers,” Lord Stark replies, eyes widening. “I hadn’t realized you were back from France.”

“Yes, well,” Steve says, not sure how to admit that his adopted father had informed him his inheritance was contingent on his wedding this season. It seems crass to say that when he’s been allowed into this room because he’s safe. “Lovely weather we’re having, is it not?”

Lord Stark’s mouth twists downward. “If one likes January, I suppose.”

“You’re not fond of the winter, my lord?” Steve asks lightly, surprised at Lord Stark’s candor (but that, he supposes, is why Lord Stark failed to secure an alpha during his time on the marriage mart; few alphas would be alright with an outspoken omega).

“I much prefer the autumn,” Lord Stark says.

Steve, however, would love an outspoken omega. He wants to be able to have a conversation with them, not just sit there while they meekly agree with everything he says. “As do I,” he remarks.

Lord Stark seems deeply unimpressed with his comment, and to be fair, it’s a fairly inane conversation. Steve had only picked it because he’d had no idea what else to say. Unfortunately, he has a terrible case of putting his foot in his own mouth because the next topic his mouth decides on is:

“And do you seek an alpha for your sister this season? So that you don’t lose the dukedom?”

Lord Stark gives him a sharp look. “Is that what the ton is saying?” he asks. There’s something knowing and resigned lurking in his eyes.

Well, Steve has never known when to stop, and he won’t now. “It’s true, then?”

“Many things are true,” Lord Stark snaps. “That does not mean they’re relevant.”

Steve blinks, taken aback, but then he supposes he can’t blame a cornered animal for striking back. The Starks’ precarious position at court has long been known. He can’t imagine how much that must have weighed on Lord Stark’s mind all these years, and there Steve had gone, blundering into a delicate situation like a bear in a thicket.

“My apologies,” he starts to say, but Yelena cuts him off before he can get more than the first syllable out.

“We’re next,” she says, looping her hand through his arm and steering him towards the door.

Just in time, too, because the herald is calling out, “Miss Yelena Barnes, presented by her brother, Mr. Steven Rogers.”

Steve thinks that Yelena makes a perfectly acceptable showing to the queen, though the queen seems as politely interested as she does in all the young omegas presented to the her. Her curtsey is lovely, her smile demure in a way that she can only manage for the queen herself (she certainly can’t at home).

The real intrigue comes in the following minutes when, as Steve is ushering Yelena out the door, he hears the herald call, “Miss Sharon Stark, presented by her brother, the Lord Omega Stark.”

No one would be so crass as to murmur in the queen’s presence at the announcement, and yet they murmur anyway when the queen leans forward, places her finger under Miss Sharon’s chin, and pronounces her to be, “Flawless.”

Steve catches a glimpse of Lord Stark’s expression just before the door closes. It’s fleeting, but unmistakable: triumph.

Steve is still wondering at that quick expression when he arrives at Lord Omega Reynolds’ ball that evening. Lord Reynolds always holds the first ball of the season, an honor granted to him by the queen for their long years of friendship. It’s always some sort of jeweled theme, and this year is no different. Yelena is stunning in her emerald green gown, gold jewelry glittering around her throat, and Steve sets her loose with a proud smile on his face. He has no doubts that she’ll make a fine match, though he’ll support her if she decides not to pursue a courtship with anyone this year. He knows that she still has her doubts about marriage.

To his pleasure, he sees that Miss Sharon Stark, equally beautiful in a slightly lighter shade of green but very flattering cut, is surrounded by suitors, all willing to ignore her family’s precarious position if it could mean snagging the season’s incomparable. He’s always been fond of Miss Sharon, from the numerous times she’s been over at their home, visiting with Yelena and Natasha. In fact, now that he’s thinking about it, he supposes that fondness isn’t such a bad thing to build a marriage on. He doesn’t think that he would ever be able to love her, but Sharon needs to wed as badly as he does, and he’s almost certainly the best of her options, which sounds bad even in his head, but at least half the alphas surrounding her keep omegas on the side and the other half frequent the brothels. He, at least, can promise he won’t cast her aside like that.

Steve joins the throng surrounding Miss Sharon, hoping she still has a space on her dance card, though he isn’t sure how much longer it’ll be open with all these people around her. To his relief, though, as soon as Miss Sharon sees him, her eyes light up with genuine warmth.

“Mr. Rogers,” she calls, curtseying.

“Miss Sharon,” he says, making his way closer to her. “I wonder, is your dance card already full for the night?”

Miss Sharon doesn’t even bother with the pretense of looking at her dance card. She simply smiles at him and says, “I believe I have one dance available right now, in fact.”

“In that case, may I have the pleasure?”

She casts her gaze over her shoulder—to her brother, Steve realizes with some startlement, not having noticed him there in the shadows. Lord Stark raises an eyebrow amusedly and nods at her. Miss Sharon turns back to him with another smile.

“I would be delighted, sir,” she informs him, placing her delicate hand in his.

The dance is a waltz, to Steve’s great relief. He isn’t much of a dancer, though he knows how expected it is. Unfortunately, his dancing instructor grew despondent trying to teach him. The waltz, however, is easy enough to remember so long as he doesn’t let his conversation with Miss Sharon overshadow his counting.

“It’s alright, Mr. Rogers,” she says, ducking her head to hide a smile. “I have plenty of practice pretending to follow while secretly leading.”

“Your brother?” Steve asks, intrigued. He has no idea what exactly made Lord Stark so ineligible an omega, but he can’t imagine it was an inability to dance. Plenty of alphas are terrible at it.

“Oh no,” Miss Sharon laughs. “My brother is a divine dancer. Our footman, with whom he made me practice.”

“I see,” he replies. “He is good to you, then?”

“The very best.” She grows somber. “Mr. Rogers, I hope it isn’t too forward of me to make this assumption, but I must let any alpha who courts me know: I will not see my brother ousted from his own home. He has run our estate well for the last ten years. It would be unkind to force him out simply because an alpha who knows nothing of our family has come into possession of our title.”

“Unkind indeed,” Steve murmurs. He couldn’t fathom such an injustice himself—he would have words with any alpha Miss Sharon wed if they tried to do so. He may not know Lord Stark well, but he has weathered the ton’s disdain as best as anyone could and raised such a fine woman as Miss Sharon. “I would never want to force your brother out.”

“Good,” Miss Sharon says, sounding very satisfied indeed.

“I hope you do not think me presumptuous,” he returns, “but I hope that your query means you would be amenable if I called on you tomorrow?”

Miss Sharon smiles sweetly at him as the dance comes to an end. “I would be delighted, Mr. Rogers.”

Opening secured, Steve bows and takes his leave, allowing the next alpha on her dance card to take his place. To his surprise, he finds himself making his way to where Lord Stark is standing in the shadows.

“You’re not dancing,” Lord Stark observes, eyes not moving from his sister dancing with Lady Danvers.

“Neither are you,” Steve points out.

The corner of Lord Stark’s mouth twists. “No one ever asks spinsters to dance.”

And that seems ridiculous. Even elderly widows are asked to dance. Really, it isn’t as though spinsters have a disease.

“Well, then,” he says to himself. Lord Stark starts to frown. “Lord Stark, would you do me the honor of this dance?”

Lord Stark blinks at him before hissing, “Are you mad?”

“No,” Steve says frankly.

“You really want to…” he trails off, words seeming to leave him.

“I really do,” Steve assures him.

A small smile spreads across Lord Stark’s face (the same smile as Miss Sharon’s, Steve thinks absently, the only similarity in otherwise very different faces). He places his hand in Steve’s and allows him to lead him to the dancefloor. Steve hears the whispers, but ignores them. This isn’t anything untoward. It’s not outright forbidden for spinsters to dance. And, as Miss Sharon had told him, Lord Stark is indeed a very good dancer.

“I owe you an apology for what I said this morning,” he says as they dance.

“Don’t,” Lord Stark says mildly. “It was the truth. I was only hoping to give my sister a chance at a season free of gossip.” Steve can’t stop his snort, and Lord Stark smiles ruefully. “A futile endeavor, I know. But I see you are pursuing a marriage as well?”

“I would like to,” Steve says. “I’ve already spoken about it to Miss Sharon, but I’d like you to know as well: I plan to call on her tomorrow.”

Lord Stark hums thoughtfully. “Then, I suppose we shall see you in the morning.”

Tony is still stunned when calling hours begin the next day. Not that Mr. Rogers wants to call upon his sister—if he’d realized earlier that he would be courting this year, Tony would have put Mr. Rogers at the top of the list of expected suitors for no other reason than the Barneses prize family above all else and Sharon is such very good friends with the two eldest Barnes girls. A marriage between the two would be advantageous to both families and gives Mr. Rogers a chance to gain a title of his own.

No, he’s stunned that Mr. Rogers danced with him last night. Alphas don’t just dance with spinsters, not unless they were counted among the very old or considered family. Tony is on the shelf, he knows that. But Mr. Rogers dancing with him makes it appear as though he wants to get back off the shelf and back into the fray—which he doesn’t.

At all.

No matter how little he’s looking forward to Sharon’s marriage and the shattering of their quiet peace together.

He is a spinster, he has accepted his place in society, and no amount of dancing will change that.

“Your Grace,” the butler says, entering the sitting room and bowing to him.

Tony bites back a sigh. He’d hired new staff for their home in London this season, but he has to see if their housekeeper had had trouble hiring well-trained staff because none of them seem to understand that Tony is not the duke. He’d been granted an exception and given the title of Lord Omega for as long as he looked after the estate until Sharon’s marriage but as he’s not an alpha, he hadn’t been given the dukedom.

“It’s not ‘Your Grace,’ Charles,” he says mildly. “Just ‘my lord.’”

Charles looks slightly embarrassed. “Yes, my lord,” he says apologetically. “Callers for Miss Sharon.”

And with that, a veritable flood of suitors crowd into the room. With so many of them, all bearing gifts to impress Sharon with, Tony finds himself shunted to the side of the room. He can’t bring himself to mind. No one would dare try anything untoward with so many other alphas in the room, and this gives him the opportunity to observe them so he may quietly advise Sharon later.

“Lord Stark,” someone says.

Tony turns to see the very source of his confusion, Mr. Rogers, standing beside him, holding out a small package. He frowns suspiciously at it.

“You do realize that the young woman you’re meant to be courting is over there, yes?” he checks. “Or do you need your eyesight examined?”

Mr. Rogers chuckles. “My eyes are fine,” he replies, more insistently holding out the package. “No, this is for you.”

Tony turns his scowl on him. “Why?”

One of Mr. Rogers’s eyebrows raises. “You can’t possibly think your sister has so little regard for you that she’d court someone who’d see you banished to the fringes of her life. She made it very clear to me during our dance yesterday that ensuring your wellbeing was something she prioritized in a suitor. Therefore, my lord, it seems obvious to me that the way to winning Miss Sharon is by winning you.”

He glances in Sharon’s direction. Indeed, she’s watching the two of them with a bright, hopeful gleam in her eyes, paying little attention to the baron presenting her with a ruby necklace. He looks back at Mr. Rogers affable face, though he doesn’t yet take the package. “With all your talk of winning, you make it sound as though there’s no room for love in your marriage.”

“I wouldn’t say that at all,” Mr. Rogers replies. “But I find it difficult to believe it’s possible to fall in love in such a short period of time. And—” He hesitates, biting his lip as though he’s just realized that whatever he was about to say was inappropriate.

“Well, don’t stop now,” Tony says dryly. “You’ve already said so much about your courtship plans.”

“You’re too perceptive by half,” Mr. Rogers sighs. “Very well. I only meant to say that you can’t mean to tell me you intend to pursue a love match for Miss Sharon.”

Tony can’t say that, so he doesn’t. Mr. Rogers isn’t wrong. If he’d had more time than this one season, he absolutely would have pushed for Sharon to pursue a love match. She deserves the entire world, the sort of romance that novels are built on, not settling for mere fondness. That’s what she dreams of, though she hasn’t said the words out loud to him. But they don’t have more time, and Sharon has known for years that settling for fondness is the best she can do. Mr. Rogers, at least, has the reputation for being kind, he has no reputation for gambling or frequenting the brothels, and his sisters are Sharon’s close friends. That he’s willing to make nice with Tony only makes him all the more desirable as an alpha.

“Well, let me see it, then,” he says, waiting for Steve to hand him the package. It’s somewhat heavy, and Tony prepares himself for jewelry or a book of poetry—the usual things that alphas think omegas like—but it’s neither. It’s a book, yes, but it’s a book by Richard Trevithick on the workings of the steam locomotive.

“Oh,” he says softly, drawing his finger across the cover. He has Trevithick’s other publications on his invention, but somehow, he’d missed this one dated all the way back to 1804.

“I hope you like it, my lord,” Mr. Rogers says anxiously. “They say you take an interest in inventing.”

Tony doesn’t even bother asking who “they” are. He already knows it’s something that all of Mayfair gossips about. He holds the book close to his chest and says, “Well, I suppose you may as well drop the ‘my lord’ bit.”

Mr. Rogers smiles warmly at him, at which Tony’s heart does a strange little flutter (he must have eaten something that disagreed with him), and says, “Then I’d like to return the favor, Stark.”

He bows, leaving Tony to his book, and finally joins the throng clustered around Sharon, who beams and makes room for him beside her on the settee. Tony taps his fingers against the side of his leg, mind racing as he watches them.

Within a week, it’s obvious who the most favored of Sharon’s suitors is. Several of the others bow out gracefully upon realizing that Rogers has taken the lead, but plenty more seem yet more determined to win Sharon’s hand, whether because they want to claim the season’s incomparable or the dukedom and the status that comes with such a title.

For his part, Tony will admit that Sharon and Rogers make a beautiful couple. Sharon is an omega that any alpha would be lucky to wed, and Rogers seems to be both kind and gentle. They’re striking together, framed against the large windows in the sitting room. Rogers brings Sharon gifts that will appeal to her, not just to any omega, and speaks from his heart when they talk.

And, of course, he doesn’t ignore Tony, which, after a brief conversation, he’s learned is indeed of the utmost importance to Sharon. Anytime he calls on Sharon with a gift, he comes with one for Tony as well. They talk at the side of the sitting room about the dukedom and his beliefs on marriage, Rogers proving himself to be both intelligent and wise, while Sharon accepts the gifts from her other suitors and slowly filters them all out before he takes her place at her side. Tony would consider himself fortunate if he could one day call him his brother.

The gossip sheets say that it’s likely Sharon and Rogers will become the first engagement of the season, betrothed no later than the end of the first week—until, that is, they go on promenade at the end of the first week (Tony chaperoning, of course) and they pass the Barneses.

“You didn’t tell me Natasha had returned from abroad!” Sharon exclaims excitedly, waving at the beautiful redhead sitting under the canopy next to Yelena. “Tony, may I go say hello?”

She rushes off before Tony can remind her that they’re walking with Rogers and a proposal is likely imminent, leaving the two of them gaping after her.

“You must not take this personally,” Tony says after an awkward moment.

“Of course not,” Rogers replies immediately, though he still seems stunned, and his hand flexes on the yellow pansy he’d been in the process of presenting to Sharon. “She’s excited to see her friend. It’s good to see the season has not beat the concept of friendship out of her the way it does with so many omegas.”

Tony can’t help himself. He snorts.

Rogers glances at him. “Was something I said amusing?” he asks curiously.

“No,” Tony denies immediately.

“I thought we agreed on honesty just two days ago, Stark.”

Damn it all, but he’s right. “We did,” he admits, absently starting to walk again to give himself something to do. “Yes, I suppose—yes, the season does bring out the worst in omegas. Gracious knows, I lost plenty of friends during mine—” He’d lost all of his friends, in all honesty, including one he’d once counted very dear who had stolen an alpha Tony had briefly thought would propose to him (he can’t deny having once been bitter about the failure to secure his family’s future). But he doesn’t mention that. Rogers has shown a peculiar response to Tony mentioning his own failed seasons, seemingly angered by the very notion, though Tony has long since accepted his unsuitability as an omega.

“But I believe the season encourages that,” he continues. “We teach young omegas that they must wed an alpha. It is the only way to ensure a secure future, we tell them. Spinsterhood is something to be feared. But there are only so many alphas, after all. The natural conclusion is that another omega is a threat to their safety. Can we blame them for abandoning their friendships?”

“Well-argued,” Rogers concedes, inclining his head. “I hadn’t thought about it that way.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. An alpha doesn’t need to think about such things,” Tony says thoughtlessly before abruptly realizing what he’d just said. This is why he was unable to secure an alpha. Tony had had no problems with doing his duty on the marriage mart, but he’d still had opinions about it and an inability to remember to hold his tongue. “Damn, can we ignore that I said that?”

“No, I think it’s good to be reminded of the injustice within our society,” Rogers says, surprising him once again. He has an irritating habit of doing that. “I shouldn’t judge that which I don’t understand.”

Tony murmurs, “Just so.” He looks around, noticing that they’ve wandered quite far from the rest of the Barnes family. “We seem to have lost your family.”

“And your sister,” Rogers agrees, turning to take in their area of the park. “As well as the rest of the ton.” Tony’s face must do something because he frowns thoughtfully. “Are you not worried about your reputation?”

He tilts his head to the side in an uncaring gesture. “I have no reputation of which to be worried about. Spinsters do not need to be chaperoned, I remind you.” Perhaps it would be different if the two of them were closer in age, but Tony is ten-and-five years his elder. No one would dream of thinking anything untoward happened. “But as it is my sister you’re courting, shall we return to your pavilion?”

Rogers nods, offering his arm to escort him back. “Let’s.”

The annual Black and White Ball hosted by the Dowager Duchess of Bolten (not the official name, just the color scheme, though Steve remembers the true name being equally uninspired) is always one of the more scandalous events of the season. The duchess had what she claims to be a stroke of good fortune when her elderly husband passed away the morning following their wedding, leaving her both pregnant with the future duke and in possession of a vast fortune, which she has spent mostly in pursuit of entertaining herself. Her events are full of scandalous opera singers and circus acts and almost always end with at least one hasty engagement following a stroll in the gardens.

Steve doesn’t know the dowager very well, though he’s good friends with the current duke, who’s currently gallivanting across the continent instead of seeing to his duties at home, and he rarely enjoys her parties, but as he’s courting, it’s expected that he’ll be there.

“Miss Sharon,” he says, bowing to the object of his courtship. “May I just say you look very beautiful tonight?” The silver threads in her white gown fairly sparkle under the lights of the great chandelier, and her black shawl is threaded through with almost imperceptibly small diamonds, making her glow.

“Thank you, sir,” she says, curtseying. “You look very handsome as well.”

“Stark,” he says, turning to her chaperone. Stark is dressed rather simpler in a black tunic, but he has silver threads to match Miss Sharon, which make him glow too. The effect is a subtler beauty, but still beautiful nonetheless. “You look lovely.”

He must admit, he’s taken to complimenting Stark in the last few days just because he seems so warmed by the praise. Steve has done his digging; he knows now that Stark had nearly secured a proposal from the Baron Stone during his first season, but that was the only attention an alpha has ever paid him, which he finds to be a shame because Stark is clever and quick-witted and deserved better than to be put on the shelf.

“Miss Sharon,” he says, turning back to her while Stark is still flustered (a most fetching shade of pink on his cheeks, and truly, how had no one seen that he would make an ideal partner?). “If no one has yet asked you, may I escort you to the dance floor for the first dance?”

“Of course,” she says demurely, but he isn’t finished.

“And then, Lord Stark,” he adds, “I would be honored if I could share the next dance with you.”

He must admit, part of his request is out of a desire to be polite to the person who holds the future of his courtship in his hands. Stark could turn him away at the door when he asks to marry Miss Sharon, and he knows that she would never go against her brother’s wishes. It’s best to keep him on his side. But the other part of it is that he truly does enjoy spending time with the elder Stark. Stark is brilliant and quick-witted, and it makes their conversations so much more enjoyable. It seems a shame that he’s limited in the amount of time they can spend together just because it’s expected that he will dance and Tony will not.

“Sir,” Stark gasps. “You can’t be serious. It wouldn’t be proper.”

“It’s a night for scandals, is it not?” Steve challenges, grinning at him as he gestures up at the aerialist spinning high above the ballroom floor. “I rather enjoyed our conversation about the merits of hunting for sport this morning. I was disappointed to have to end it.”

“I—”

“One dance, that’s all I ask for. Then I’ll let you retreat back to your wall.” But he suspects that once Stark is out there, he’ll have more fun than he thinks he will. He leads Miss Sharon out to the dance floor just in time for the quadrille to strike up.

“You get along well with Tony,” Miss Sharon comments as they twirl around each other, an odd little gleam in her eyes.

“Lord Stark is an engaging conversationalist.”

“I’m glad that you see it too. You’re good for him, I think. Tony is much too concerned with what might happen to my chances if he behaves as he wishes, but I remember the way he was before our parents died. He used to have fun. He was the life of every party we went to in the country, spinster or not. He laughs more than he used to, now that he’s met you.”

“I hope he has as much fun with me,” Steve says honestly, though he’s somewhat discomfited by Miss Sharon’s trust in him. He wants to see Stark shine, yes, but he feels like there’s something she’s confessing that he doesn’t have the wit to see.

When the dance comes to an end, Stark, looking as dour as Steve has ever seen him, takes her place while she accepts a dance with Natasha. If Steve makes him laugh more often, then he can’t see it.

“You don’t need to look as though I’ve killed your favorite cat,” he remarks as the violinists begin to play. “I know I’m not the best dancer, but it’s not that much of a hardship.”

“Dancing with you is never a hardship,” Stark replies, immediately looking surprised at his own forwardness. Steve, however, is warmed by the sentiment. “But they’re all looking at us.”

“They’re jealous,” Steve says lightly. “It’s only the second dance, and I’ve already danced with the two most beautiful omegas in the room.”

Stark scoffs. “No one thinks a spinster is beautiful, and my temples are turning grey. They may be jealous of Sharon, but certainly not me.”

“I think it just makes you look distinguished.”

Stark hums in displeasure but says nothing more on the subject, turning his argument to something else entirely. “I warn you, Rogers, if dancing with me ruins my sister’s prospects—”

“I still mean to propose to her,” Steve interrupts, “which means that the only thoughts you would need to be worried about are my own. I highly doubt that my intentions would be swayed by the impropriety of dancing with you. And in any case, I’m glad that I did.”

“Oh?”

“You may be arguing with me—but you’re smiling while you do it.”

By the end of Sharon’s first month out, most of her suitors have dropped out of the running in favor of finding more likely prospects. Sharon has made her preferences clear: she is much more interested in Rogers’s suit than anyone else’s. That doesn’t mean they’ve all stopped calling on her. A dukedom is still a tantalizing offer to any number of young alphas, unwelcome as they may be in the sitting room.

Lady Masque is one such alpha. She’s currently monopolizing Sharon’s time during calling hours, though Rogers doesn’t seem overly put out when he joins Tony at the table.

“What are you working on?” Rogers asks.

“A clock,” Tony says, carefully removing a screw. “Her Majesty requested I bring her a new one when we join her for tea later this week.”

“You made her clocks?”

Rogers sounds surprised, drawing Tony’s gaze up. “You’ve seen them?”

“I was—I still am, actually—close friends with Prince George. I happened to see the collection a few years ago. They’re beautiful work.”

There’s nothing but sincerity in Rogers’s voice, but Tony is still made uncomfortable by it. He doesn’t know what Rogers’s game is. None of Sharon’s other suitors have paid him the slightest bit of attention. No one pays spinsters any attention. Tony has asked the others that he knows, and they’ve all said the same thing: the moment they were off the marriage mart, they became invisible to everyone, suitors of their younger siblings or not. No one would have blamed Rogers if he’d done the exact same thing and left Tony alone after that first initial gift.

But Rogers is attentive. More than that, he’s kind. He remembers the things Tony is interested in and asks him about them. He gives genuine compliments, meaning nothing more than to make Tony feel good about himself. He brings out the side in him that Tony had long since thought buried with the failure of his seasons. He… he makes him laugh with an ease that no one but Sharon has.

And it makes him question why precisely Rogers takes such an interest in him. Tony doesn’t question his propriety; he fully believes that Rogers is curious about courting his sister, even if he isn’t in love with her. But why would anyone care about the unmarried sibling standing in the way of a dukedom?

“Thank you,” he says after a too long pause. Rogers looks at him like he knows everything that just went through Tony’s mind, which is, of course, impossible. He’s not a mind reader.

Hastily, he turns his attention back to his clock. The queen may have been a good friend of their mother’s and holds a special fondness for the two of them, but he knows what her reaction will be if he brings subpar work to her.

“Will you be escorting my sister to the opera tonight?” he asks idly, expecting a yes.

He gets the yes, but he hadn’t been expecting the slightly sullen tone that colors his answer. Tony glances towards Sharon and Lady Masque, half-expecting to see something going on over there that would make Rogers jealous (as though he has anything to be jealous of when Sharon only barely tolerates Lady Masque for politeness’ sake). But he sees the height of cordiality when he looks, so he turns back to Rogers and—there: the twist of his mouth.

“Do you not enjoy the opera?” he asks, intrigued. He’s never known anyone else other than himself who doesn’t enjoy it.

“The opera is fine,” Rogers says neutrally.

Tony may not be a mind reader either, but he’s shrewd enough to understand what Rogers isn’t saying. “But there are other things you prefer more.”

Rogers glances at him, a small smile lurking around his mouth. “Very well,” he admits. “If you must know, I much prefer the ballet.”

“Mr. Rogers, how scandalous,” Tony mock gasps.

Rogers chuckles. “Yes, it is, isn’t it? But I would venture to say that there’s something to be said for the medium of dance as an expression of emotion.”

“This, coming from a man incapable of keeping to a steady beat.”

“Perhaps that’s why I appreciate it so,” Rogers says thoughtfully. “It’s something that I can’t do, so I appreciate all the more those who can.”

“A wise reflection,” Tony agrees. “And since you’ve opened the topic, I must admit I prefer the ballet as well. My dance instructor was a ballerina before she became a tutor. She taught me an appreciation for the art form.”

“Well then, a toast to being the only two members of the ton with any sense,” Rogers says conspiratorially. Tony smiles back at him, feeling united by their mutual distaste for the opera before he abruptly remembers that it’s not he who should be feeling united with Rogers’s preferences.

“I hate to disappoint you, then,” he says, “but we truly are the only two. My sister adores the opera.”

Rogers sits back in his chair—when had he gotten so close? Tony feels like he should have noticed him leaning in so far—a strange look crossing his face. “Of course,” he says, the words sounding like they don’t quite fit in his mouth. “And I will accompany her as often as she likes. My omega’s interests are my own.” He hesitates before nodding firmly to himself. “But I hope, Stark, that you would perhaps be willing to accompany me to the ballet once or twice.”

Tony should say no. It wouldn’t be appropriate for an unmarried omega to be escorted by an alpha to the ballet, but surely Rogers must mean after the wedding, when they are brothers-in-law. That wouldn’t carry any sort of impropriety, right?

And it’s that line of thinking, he thinks, that pushes him to say honestly, “I would love to.”

A knock on the workshop door startles Tony out of his concentration. His fingers slip on the tiny cog he was inserting, and it slips into the inner workings of the clock. He blinks at it in dismay.

“Damn,” he says under his breath. Raising his voice, he adds, “Come in!”

The door opens, but Tony is more focused on the lost cog than on whoever enters (his sister, he would presume, going by the floral perfume and the lack of any greeting). He turns the clock upside down and shakes it gently until the cog tumbles back out of it, clattering on the wooden table.

“Did I do that?” Sharon asks, carefully picking her way across the cluttered floor. “My apologies.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” he dismisses. “I should have had a better grip on it. What are you doing here? I thought you were going over to Natasha’s.”

“I was,” Sharon sighs.

Natasha has recently started tagging along with her brother when he comes to call, using the hour as a chance to spend more time with her friend. Tony doesn’t mind; Rogers is the only remaining suitor of Sharon’s, and his proposal is as good as secured, so it isn’t as though Tony really needs to worry about if he feels offended that Natasha is encroaching on his time with Sharon. In point of fact, it had been Rogers’s idea to extend an invitation to Sharon to come over after calling hours were over so she could spend the afternoon with both Natasha and Yelena.

“So what happened?” he asks. “You were so excited to go.”

“Yelena has a serious suitor,” she says. She picks up one of his tools and turns it over and over in her hands. “The two of them were out when we arrived.”

“You could have spent the afternoon with Natasha,” Tony points out, plucking his tool back out of her hands. She won’t do any damage to it by fiddling with it, but he likes to have it where he can see it.

She glares down at the tool like it personally ruined her afternoon. “We didn’t have a chaperone. Her brothers were out at White’s, her maid was picking up a new dress for her from the modiste, and the housekeeper was busy.”

He snorts. “Whyever would you need a chaperone? Everyone knows the two of you are friends. Her brother is the one courting you, not her.”

Something flickers in Sharon’s eyes, too quick for him to read it. “Is that the clock you’re working on for the queen?” she asks abruptly, drawing her finger through the small pile of sawdust gathered at the corner of the table.

Tony blinks at her, a little taken by surprise at the subject change. “I—yes,” he says slowly. “It is. Sharon, is everything—”

“What does it do?”

“It’ll open onto a scene of a garden tea party while playing Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony,” he says distractedly. “Are you—”

“I’m sure she’ll love it.”

“Of course she will. That was never in question.” It isn’t even arrogance to say so, though he’s sure that the bishop would say he needs to confess his pride. “Stop changing the subject. Is everything alright between you and Mr. Rogers? I can withdraw my approval of him at any moment.”

She sighs, practically flinging herself onto the stool he keeps by the table just for her. “There’s nothing wrong with Mr. Rogers,” she says.

He raises an eyebrow, waiting expectantly.

“Nothing,” she repeats. “He’s handsome, is he not?”

“I would say so, yes,” Tony agrees, though handsome is perhaps an understatement. Half the eligible omegas in Mayfair are after him, and the rest only aren’t because they’ve accepted they haven’t a chance with him.

“His eyes are very blue.”

Tony hums. “Are we stating facts then? He has golden hair and very broad shoulders.” Sharon raises an eyebrow of her own. “What’s that look for? His shoulders are broad. What do they have to do with anything?”

Sharon continues giving him that knowing look. He has no idea what she thinks she knows, however, so he just waits. After a moment, she continues, “He’s kind.”

“I would agree.” Though, again, kind is an understatement. Rogers has the uncommon ability to care about everyone he comes into contact with, even those that society has deemed invisible.

Sharon drums her fingers along the edges of the table, a nervous habit that she almost certainly picked up from Tony. In a rush, she adds, “I’m very fond of him and his family. And he’s untitled, which makes him the perfect choice to marry. He is the right choice, isn’t he?”

Is that what this is about? For the thousandth time this season, he feels a pang of guilt at the reminder that he failed her by not securing an alpha himself. She should have been able to marry for love, not out of an obligation to save their family from ruin. He sighs, putting down the clock and the cog that he still hasn’t fixed into place yet.

“Sharon, you know I can’t tell you that,” he says gently, reaching over to brush her hair out her face. “This is a choice you have to make for yourself.”

She chews on her bottom lip, thinking it over. He knows what she’ll decide—Rogers isn’t just a good choice, he’s the only choice—but she has to get there herself. It’s one thing to know that a love match isn’t possible, but it’s another thing entirely to actually understand it.

“I suppose I thought it would feel like more,” she says eventually. “Even if it’s just fondness.”

“There’s nothing wrong with fondness,” he tells her softly. “And who knows? Maybe one day, it’ll turn into love all on its own.”

“Perhaps,” she concedes. She gestures at his clock. “It really is a beautiful piece.”

“So how goes your courtship, my friend?” George asks, raising his hand for one of the servants lining the room to pour all three of them another finger of whiskey.

“It goes well,” Steve says lightly. “I plan to propose any day now.” And it is going well, and he does plan to propose soon. He’s even started carrying the ring he’d had commissioned as soon as it became clear that he was Miss Sharon’s favorite around with him.

“Something’s holding you back, though,” Bucky says knowledgeably. “You can’t tell me that there’s not. You’ve been the clear favorite for weeks. There’s no reason you haven’t already proposed.”

“It can’t possibly be that brother, can it?” George asks. “Mother says he has to make a match for Miss Sharon this season. Though, if he’s as bad as everyone says, I imagine it would take some fortitude to deal with him.”

“What does everyone say is so bad about Stark?” Steve asks sharply. His hand tightens around his glass, the delicate goblet creaking under his fingers.

George looks unimpressed. “You know, everything they’ve said about him for twenty years. He doesn’t know how to behave in society, he can’t keep his mouth shut, you can hardly drag him out of that workshop of his, which is just unnatural for an omega to have anyway.”

“I think Stark’s opinions are admirable,” Steve retorts, insulted on Stark’s behalf.

“He’s an omega; he’s not supposed to have opinions at all.”

“Come now,” Bucky laughs, keeping up an admirable front though he glances between the two of them nervously. “We all know that Steve enjoys a lively discussion from time to time. I imagine Lord Stark would do an excellent job at keeping Steve entertained while Miss Sharon is amusing my sisters.”

Steve tips his glass in Bucky’s direction. “I enjoy talking to him—and it’s his clocks that keep your mother entertained, so I’d wager that his workshop does some good there for you as well.”

“Oh, those clocks,” George groans. “Don’t remind—” He cuts off as one of the servants enters the room. “Yes? What is it?”

The girl bows nervously and says, “The queen would like to speak with Mr. Rogers.”

“I thought my mother was hosting a party,” George remarks.

“The Starks are in attendance,” Steve says, standing.

“Oh. She wants to get a look at the alpha courting her favorite.”

“Don’t laugh. You’ll have to be married before long,” he points out mildly, leaving George’s outraged gasps behind. He feels like he remembers George being less abrasive in the past, but now, it bothers him listening to the way he talks about omegas when he still remembers what Stark had said about the way the season encourages them to turn against each other. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with Stark. Any alpha would have been lucky to have him.

The queen is hosting her party—really more of a small gathering—in the conservatory, the orange trees lending a heady perfume to the air. A half-dozen or so omegas sit clustered around a small table, with the very subject of Steve’s thoughts, Stark himself, pouring fresh cups of tea for everyone.

“Your Majesty,” Steve says, bowing to the queen. “Lord Stark. Gentle omegas.”

“Steven,” the queen says, pleased. She holds her hands out to him. “Come here and let me take a look at you.”

He goes, shooting Stark a questioning look. Stark smirks back at him and shrugs.

“Miss Sharon tells me that you’re courting her,” the queen continues. Ah, then it is indeed as George had suspected. “A most excellent match, if I do say so myself. And I do say so. Turn around for me.” Steve turns. He’s known the queen for most of his life, but that doesn’t give him the right to argue, even though he feels like a prized pony. “Yes, I believe the two of you will make quite the pairing. Won’t you join us for some tea, Mr. Rogers?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare of infringing on your—”

“Nonsense,” she replies, deceptively lightly. “It isn’t an infringement at all, is it?”

Everyone quickly agrees with her, reassuring her that an alpha joining their gathering is no problem at all. Feeling somewhat like he’s been trapped into it, Steve sits down, hoping that he’ll be able to extract himself quickly. He feels very out of his depth like this.

To his relief, however, most of the omegas quickly forget that he’s there at all, the queen catching their attention again. He supposes that if they don’t have a personal connection to her, either through her children the way Steve does or by knowing her personally like the Starks, most of them have never been so close. Even Miss Sharon seems somewhat in awe of her—or perhaps she’s just very cleverly playing the same game as the rest of the gathered omegas.

In fact, the only omega who seems completely unbothered by the whole affair is Stark, who, naturally, ends up talking to Steve again, not that he minds. He wasn’t lying to George and Bucky when he said that Stark is an excellent conversationalist. He speaks his mind, yes, but Steve can’t imagine why anyone would want a subservient, meek omega without a single opinion of their own when they could have such cheerful rows that he has with Stark. To his surprise, he finds himself relaxing the longer the afternoon goes on, and by the time the queen decides that she’s ready to be rid of all of them, he’s genuinely sorry to see the day end.

Truly, he’s fortunate that he’s made such good friends with Stark. It bodes well for the future of his marriage.

“Not here,” Steve repeats incredulously, giving the Stark’s butler a dumbfounded look. “Where is she?”

“Miss Sharon was invited out by your sister, sir,” the butler says, looking very discomfited indeed.

“It’s calling hours.”

“…Yes, sir. Ah, I suppose you may wait in the sitting room in case she returns before calling hours are ended?” the butler says doubtfully.

“Right,” Steve says. Frankly, he’d rather just go home. He touches the ring in his pocket. Surely, Natasha had known what he was doing today; he’d seen her walking by when he showed the ring to Bucky last night. He has no idea what had possessed Miss Sharon to go out when she had to have known he would be stopping by, just as he does every day, but it’s a little difficult to propose when she isn’t even there.

“Or I can see if Lord Stark would be willing to entertain you?” the butler continues.

On the spot, Steve changes his mind about going home. He and Stark had begun an engaging discussion about omegas schools at the exhibit at Vauxhall last night and hadn’t had the chance to finish it before Yelena had decided she wanted to go home. He’d be delighted to have the chance to complete it now, particularly when there are no further constraints on either of their times.

To his surprise, the butler doesn’t show him to the sitting room, instead leading him deeper into the house, pausing in front of an unremarkable door with some very alarming noises coming from behind it.

“My lord?” the butler calls, rapping smartly on the door. “A caller for Miss Sharon!”

The alarming noises abruptly cut off. A second later, the door swings open, revealing Lord Stark in the most undressed state Steve has ever seen him. He blinks, startled, unsure if he should avert his eyes. Stark is clothed, but the breeches are threadworn and the shirt gapes open at the collar, and oil stains cover the hem of the shirt and the thighs of the breeches.

“What do you mean a caller?” Stark demands before realizing that Steve is standing there. His eyes widen. “Sharon isn’t here.”

“No, I know,” Steve assures him. “I just… I thought you might like to continue our discussion from last night.”

Stark squints at him. “Very well,” he proclaims. “I’ll just go clean—ah.” He glances over his shoulder right as there’s a very worrying banging sound. “Actually, I’m in a bit of a delicate spot at the moment. Perhaps you’d just like to come inside?”

Steve has the realization that this must be the famous workshop, and he suddenly wants very badly to see inside. As far as he’s aware, no one other than Sharon and a select few of the servants get to go inside, but here he is, with an invitation.

“I would be honored,” he says honestly, following Stark inside.

“My lord,” the butler protests, but Stark snorts.

“Calm down, Brimsby. No one’s going to assume he has designs on my virtue,” he says and shuts the door in the butler’s face before he can make any further protests. He turns to Steve. “Well? Come on, then.”

The workshop is a thing of beauty, projects covering every single bit of available space. In one corner stands a bookshelf of the musical clocks that Stark is so well-known for, and in the opposite corner stands something that looks vaguely like a full suit of armor though with more cogs than Steve knows what to do with. A model of a submarine hangs above one of the tables, idly spinning in the breeze from the open windows.

“What are you working on?” he asks eagerly.

“A new type of lamp,” Stark explains, rapping lightly on the small glass bulb sitting on the clearest table. “Using electricity.”

“Didn’t Sir Humphrey Davy already do that?”

“You know your science,” Stark says, smiling at him. Steve’s heart jumps a little at the genuine look of pleasure. “Yes, he did, but it isn’t practical enough to be used at home. I think that if we use a platinum filament, we can prolong the lifespan of the bulb past the current copper filament. Here, hold this.”

“And what of the cost?” Steve asks, glancing down at whatever Stark had handed him—a lit fuse, actually. “Ah, Stark?”

“I’ll take that back, thank you,” Stark says, bustling back from whatever he’d been setting up. He touches the fuse to a thin platinum strand, frowning when it doesn’t do whatever it was supposed to. “It’s only an early model. If it works, I’ll start trying to optimize it to bring the cost down. But first, it has to work.”

“I see,” Steve says, though he isn’t sure that he does. However, he’s not an inventor like Stark is.

“Which brings me back to my point from last night,” Stark suddenly says, now adding a thin coating of something clear to the wire. “There are plenty of brilliant minds out there, not just alpha and beta minds, but we tell omegas that they’re too fragile to handle anything harder than embroidery and the pianoforte. Not that there’s anything wrong with either of those, mind you, but there’s more that omegas can do. Look at me.”

“Yes, but you’re extraordinary,” Steve says without thinking.

Stark pauses.

Steve blusters, “That is—I mean to say—”

“Thank you,” Stark says quietly. He gives Steve a very small, very pleased smile that rips the breath right out of his lungs. “No one’s ever called me that before.”

“Well, they should,” he says, feeling breathless. “You are, you know. Utterly extraordinary.”

Stark’s smile grows just a little bit, and Steve has the sudden, terrifying realization that he’d like very much to know what that smile tastes like.

And that is a big problem.

The problem, as Steve sees it, is twofold. Firstly, Stark is ten-and-five years his elder. Now, contrary to Stark’s claims about the eligibility of spinsters, such a state does not actually exclude one from marriage. There aren’t many examples of spinsters finding alphas, but they do exist. However, there isn’t usually such a large difference in age between them. Steve isn’t even certain if Stark still has his heats, though that isn’t a problem given Miss Sharon’s youth.

The second problem—and by far, the greater one—is that he’s courting Miss Sharon, not Stark. He’d never thought, when he began his pursuit of Miss Sharon, that his plan to win her favor by winning over her brother would result in something like this. And yet, it has. Stark is brilliant and handsome and witty, all things which Miss Sharon is as well, but she doesn’t cause his heart to beat faster when he sees her. He doesn’t seek her out for the sake of a spirited discussion or to get her opinion on something. She hasn’t turned his entire world upside down—not like Lord Stark.

Stark is the one he is in lov—has developed feelings for. There, that sounds much more manageable. Feelings are easy, feelings can be discarded, feelings can wither away.

…And yet he finds that he doesn’t want them to.

He wants to nurture them. He wants to cease this loveless courtship of Miss Sharon immediately and beg her brother on bended knee to see him as someone worthy of his affections. And perhaps, he could even convince the queen to give them one more year to find Miss Sharon a suitable alpha as long as Steve assumed the duke’s title. Perhaps he doesn’t have to stand at Miss Sharon’s side, professing fidelity and adoration, all while longing for her brother instead.

It's a madcap plan, given how soon the season will be ending, but then again, Steve has always worked best with those.

First of all, he needs to determine if Miss Sharon would even be amenable to calling off their courtship. He finds it… interesting that she had gone out for the day with Natasha on a day when he was meant to call on her. He isn’t the best with people, but it puts a suspicion into his mind that, if he’s right about it, will solve all of their problems very neatly.

“I missed seeing you yesterday,” he tells Miss Sharon cordially when they dance together at Lady Milne’s Heart and Flowers Ball. “I called on you.”

“Truly, I’m sorry, Mr. Rogers,” she says, and she does sound apologetic, but there’s still something that rings false about it. “I lost track of the days and thought that I was free.”

“Of course.” He pauses. “Miss Sharon, do you think that—”

The music ends with a flourish, and he sighs. He’d spent most of their dance trying to find the right words to say, not realizing how short he was running on time.

“Miss Sharon,” he starts again, but she flashes him an apologetic smile.

“Excuse me, Mr. Rogers. I’m meant to join Lord Lewis for this next dance.” She curtseys politely, waiting for him to nod before walking away.

Well. That didn’t go well at all.

At least, since he’s free now, he can request a dance with the person he actually wishes to dance with. It’s become a habit by now, taking Stark out for a turn around the dancefloor, and one that he’s very grateful for as it gives him the excuse to do so now. He can only imagine the furor it would cause if he’d done the usual thing and only danced with Miss Sharon until now. Rumors would be flying, the gossip sheets would be busy—much better that he already has this pattern of behavior established.

“Lord Stark,” he says, giving him a quick grin as he bows. “Would you do me the pleasure of this dance?”

“Certainly, sir,” Stark replies, giving him an amused look in return.

They start towards the dancefloor, passing by two older omegas with matching disapproving looks on their faces.

“It simply isn’t done,” one of them hisses. “Lord Stark has known of his ineligibility for sixteen years. What does he think he's doing, flouting this in our faces?"

"And when he’s courting his sister too?” the other one whispers.

To Steve’s surprise, Stark actually misses a step, his face going pale. He can’t possibly be taking their words to heart, can he? When both Miss Sharon and Steve himself have made it clear that they don’t care what the rest of the ton thinks?

“Ignore them,” Steve tells him, tightening his grip on Stark’s hand before he can slip away. “They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

“It doesn’t matter if they know what they’re talking about or not,” Stark says, shooting the two omegas worrisome looks. “It matters if everyone else is saying it.”

“Why? You and I both know the truth.” Though, he supposes that that’s no longer true, given that he’s switched his focus.

“I don’t want to hurt your reputations.”

“Dash my reputation,” Steve says sharply. “We haven’t done anything untoward, and you have a dukedom. No one will dare say anything to a duke.”

“You’re not a duke yet—"

“And,” Steve adds, talking over him, “you like to dance. And I like it when you smile.”

Stark looks as though he doesn’t quite know what to say to that. He frowns, eyes searching Steve’s entire face like there’s something that he knows he’s missing but can’t figure out what it is.

“I promise you, Stark,” Steve continues. “Nothing the ton can say will sway my mind now that it’s made up.”

“If you’re certain,” Stark says doubtfully.

“I am.”

Stark inhales slowly, breathes it out—and lets his hand relax in Steve’s.

Tony doesn’t quite know what’s going through Rogers’s head. The compliments he’s leveled on him over the past week are not unwelcome—no one has ever called him extraordinary before, let alone in that tone of voice—but he isn’t the one that Rogers should be granting them to, no matter how Tony feels about it. He shouldn’t be inviting him to dance or commenting on the quality of his smile. He must know that he’s already won Tony’s approval; he doesn’t need to keep flattering him.

People are starting to talk. Tony had heard them at the ball the other night and Lord Li’s luncheon yesterday. They say that Rogers is seeing both of them secretly, that he is flaunting his relationship with Tony in front of the sister he’s all but promised to, that Tony is up to his old ways, trying to defy society’s rules even though he’s never done anything other than try to be a good omega right up until it became obvious that he would never manage it. And though he doesn’t mind their words about him so much—they hurt, but they’re nothing different than he’s heard his entire life—he won’t let their words reach his sister.

Sharon has worked too hard to get to this place. She has spent countless hours with her tutors, practiced her embroidery until her fingers bled, learned every song she could until she never once faltered in her playing, no matter the distraction. She has made a good match—an excellent match, even. Her future is secured as soon as Rogers proposes. Tony will not risk that future dissipating in front of their faces just because he fancies that he’s made the first friend he’s had in nearly two decades. Rogers’s reputation may not suffer if he consorts with Tony because he is an alpha and no one would dare question an alpha’s actions, but Sharon’s certainly will.

So it is decided, then. Tony will stop encouraging Rogers’s friendship, no matter the warmth in his body when he sees him or the strange, confused fluttering of his heart when Rogers offers him a compliment. Sharon’s future is too important to sully with worries about Tony’s feelings.

“Do try to remain in sight of your suitor this time,” he reminds Sharon dryly as they alight from their carriage.

“You two were the ones who wandered off,” Sharon demurs.

“After you abandoned him to see Natasha.”

“Natasha is my friend,” she argues. “I won’t let that change even after I’m wed. Better that he knows that now.”

“I doubt that Mr. Rogers, of all people, would have no knowledge of your friendship with his sister,” Tony says, tucking his hands inside his muff against the surprisingly biting March wind. “But we’d like to secure a proposal sooner rather than later. I don’t want you to discourage him by continuing to run off.”

She sighs. “Yes, Tony. I know.”

There’s a worrisome part of him that wonders if she does actually know. At the beginning of the season, he would have said with complete certainty that she did, but now, he isn’t as sure. She’s been acting so strangely these last few weeks, as though she’s keeping some secret from him. Never before has she kept anything from him, and he isn’t sure that he likes it.

It isn’t long before Rogers finds them. He smiles warmly at both of them and bows. “Miss Sharon. Stark.”

“Mr. Rogers,” Sharon replies, curtseying.

Tony bows as well and starts to reply, “Ro—” only to stop when he spots a group of tittering alphas not far from them. They clearly think they’re being surreptitious in their gawking, but Tony spots them pointing at their small group. He changes it to, “Mr. Rogers.”

There’s a flash in Rogers’s eyes, some small hurt. Tony inhales sharply, not liking it, but firmly tells himself that he doesn’t care if he hurts Rogers’s feelings. The only thing that matters is Sharon’s reputation.

“I hadn’t realized we had returned to titles, Lord Stark,” Rogers says, a clear note of uneasiness in his voice.

“We never should have left,” Tony replies coolly.

There’s that flash of hurt again, accompanied by a small flinch. “…Of course,” Rogers says. He holds his arm out to Sharon. “Shall we?”

Tony falls into step behind them, five paces behind and one over just as a good chaperone should. Rogers visibly startles at Tony not walking alongside them as he always does. Even Sharon looks surprised, though Rogers is the one who keeps turning his head to crane over his shoulder, attempting to include him in the conversation. It’s kind, but wholly unnecessary. A chaperone doesn’t need to be acknowledged, so he keeps his answers short and to the point in the hopes that Rogers will pick up on the discouragement.

Rogers, however, doesn’t seem to pick up on the hint at all, oblivious to the consequences as all alphas are. “You needn’t walk so far back,” he says eventually. “It’s difficult to speak to you when you’re so far away you might as well be in France.”

“That would be difficult indeed,” Tony replies thoughtlessly. Damn. He’s not meant to be engaging. “However, my place is back here, and yours is talking to my sister.”

Rogers sighs. “Not this again. I thought I told you that I don’t care what the ton whispers about us.”

“You may not,” Tony says sharply, “but I do. My sister deserves her place in society to be unmarred by scandal.”

“Tony—” Sharon starts.

“I will appreciate you remembering that you are not the only person involved should the ton decide a scandal is to be uncovered,” Tony retorts.

“I haven’t forgotten that!” Rogers exclaims. “But you can’t live your life in fear of the ton.”

Tony rears back as though he’d been struck. Of course. Of course an alpha couldn’t possibly imagine what Tony’s life has been like for the last twenty years. “I tried,” he says coldly, “and the ton very kindly reminded me exactly why I should live in fear of them. We cannot all be alphas, sir, capable of running away to the continent whenever we don’t want to deal with a problem.”

To his credit, Rogers seems to understand immediately that he’s made a mistake, but Tony has no desire to hear his apologies. He stares straight ahead, ignoring him until Rogers finally gets it through his head that he doesn’t want to speak with him. The rest of their promenade is subdued, Rogers and Sharon discussing something in low tones that he firmly tells himself he’s uninterested in.

It's better like this.

Steve needs to apologize. He’d realized that as soon as he’d said the words. He’s too young to remember what it was like for Stark during his seasons, but he does know what the reaction has been to him since Steve entered society seven years ago. Stark rarely ever ventured out of his home because gossip followed him like a black miasma, whispering about his oddities and the alphas who had, as a one, declared him unsuitable. He’d only appeared at the events the queen appeared at, using her as a temporary shield. Of course he would be worried about the gossip following him now that his sister has taken her place in society.

And Steve had trampled right over that in his haste to make Stark feel included.

He’s been such a fool. He confesses to care about him, wants to make Stark’s opinions feel heard, wants to court him instead of this sham of a courtship with Miss Sharon, but in his own disregard for the constraints the ton puts on them, he’d acted as though Stark was choosing the ton’s distaste for him instead of the other way around.

When he calls upon the Stark household the day after their ill-fated promenade, it’s to a chilly reception and no Stark in the sitting room, only Miss Sharon and her maid, whom Steve assumes is meant to be their chaperone.

Miss Sharon takes one look at the bouquet he’s holding of bluebells, columbine, and geraniums and says haughtily, “It’s not me you should be apologizing to.”

“I know,” he says. “And I believe that it’s not me you wish to see either, so I’ve brought my sister along.” He levels her with a knowing look, which makes her blush, and then moves aside to let Natasha into the room.

As he’d expected, Miss Sharon’s eyes light up at seeing her… well, until she confirms his suspicions, he’ll continue calling Natasha her dearest friend. The two women embrace. Only then does Miss Sharon say, “He’s in the workshop, if you wish to speak to him.”

Steve knows the way by now—the house is large but not so large that he can’t remember it—but he lets the butler guide him again.

Tony’s expression is one of mingled surprise and displeasure at seeing him. He glances down at the flowers in Steve’s hand and back up, raising an eyebrow.

“They’re beautiful, sir,” he says, in a tone that makes it very clear that there had better be more to Steve’s apology than flowers if he wants entry back into the workshop again.

“I owe you an apology,” he says. “I have welcomed your opinions freely, but I haven’t given them the due consideration that I should have. I’m still learning much about what it means to be an omega in our society, learning from you as a point of fact, but I shouldn’t have been so quick to forget what you’ve taught me in favor of my own experiences as an alpha. I want to be your friend, Stark—” He rather wants to be more than that, but if Stark spooks at the thought of being his friend, the change to courting him might run him off entirely—“But I never want you to feel as though I don’t respect you. I know that the ton has put you in a difficult position. If you think it’s best for your family that we keep our distance, then I can do that.”

He can, though he would hate every moment of it, but he would do it if it would Stark happy.

Stark studies him for a long time, gaze searching, before finally reaching out to take the bouquet. Steve breathes out a sigh of relief. At least his apology has been accepted.

“I want to be your friend,” Stark says quietly. “It’s been a very long time since the last time I had one, and it’s been… odd. Confusing. But I suppose it’s been nice too.”

Steve wishes he would elaborate on what he means when he calls it “confusing.” Stark can’t possibly mean the same confusion that Steve had felt when he last stood in his workshop, wanting to kiss the smile from Stark’s face. He’s clearly an omega meant to be wooed, gun-shy after his failed presentation. It can’t possibly be so simple as this.

Stark doesn’t elaborate, however, just continues, “I have never wanted Sharon to feel what I have felt these last twenty-two years. She will be a duchess at the end of this season; she won’t have the luxury that I had to withdraw from society, regardless of their feelings towards her. I won’t subject her to the ton’s disdain the way I’ve been, even if that means I must make myself feel…”

“Lonely?” Steve suggests.

He lifts one shoulder in reply. “Secluded,” he decides on. “Sharon deserves better than having to weather their scorn.”

Steve’s heart aches at the admission. Miss Sharon might deserve better than being forced to deal with the ton, but so does Stark. He deserves better than living a life doomed to loneliness to make his sister’s life easier, and he suspects that if Miss Sharon knew everything that her brother had sacrificed for her, she would say the same thing. But he had agreed to abide by Stark’s wishes, so he bows his head.

“Very well,” he says. “I won’t force you to do anything you don’t wish to do.”

“Thank you,” Stark says, but he looks just as unhappy as Steve feels.

Before her passing, Lady Barnes hosted a garden party at their home in the country towards the end of each season. It had always been a delicate affair, full of lace and tea and ribbons—situated very much towards the courting omegas rather than the alphas. Steve had never much enjoyed it, and truth be told, had been relieved to know that he’d never have to attend another one after her death. However, upon her return to Mayfair, Natasha had announced that she had every intention of continuing to host the garden party, despite being an alpha, until Bucky wedded and his omega could take over the duties. Steve had resigned himself to attending until his inevitable death, which is, perhaps, dramatic, but very much how he feels.

This year, however, he’s rather looking forward to it—not because he himself is courting, but because he knows all the secret places that he suspects Miss Sharon and Natasha will abscond off to. He wants to be certain that his suspicions regarding their deepening relationship are accurate before he even considers extending an offer towards Stark.

Considering that he is courting Miss Sharon (currently, his eager mind reminds him), it’s only proper that he invited both Starks out a day before the rest of the ton descends on them. But though Natasha and Miss Sharon do disappear almost immediately—leaving a very worried Stark behind, clearly concerned that this will affect Miss Sharon’s standing in Steve’s eyes (it does, but not for the reasons that he thinks)—Steve apparently knows the secret places of the estate less than he thought. He isn’t able to locate them until they appear for supper, looking perfectly put together.

He has better luck the next day, however, despite the entirety of the ton arriving for the afternoon party.

Steve is seated at a table with Miss Sharon, Lord Stark, another omega who was presented this season (the poor lad’s name completely escapes him, though), and the omega’s elder beta sister. He’s only just managed to fit his fingers around the delicate porcelain handle of his teacup, however, when Miss Sharon excuses herself, citing a need to freshen up. If he hadn’t been so attuned to it, he might have missed the significant look she gives to Natasha a few tables over. As it is, he does see it, and so he also notices when, less than two minutes later, Natasha excuses herself from her own table.

It's the perfect opportunity.

They don’t go far, only to one of the sitting rooms inside the manor, and he has to wonder if it’s the plausible deniability. Easier to claim a simple meeting between friends when they’re meeting in a relatively public place, particularly when there’s a chaperone, he realizes after he hears Yelena’s voice.

“Watch the door,” Natasha orders.

Not a chaperone, then, but a guard. Steve doesn’t have the time to search for a hiding spot before the door opens and Yelena slips out. She freezes when she sees him, and for a moment, he thinks that she’ll alert the two women inside the room. But something in his face must give her pause because she lets the door fall closed behind her with nary a peep.

“You know,” she says lowly. Accusatory, he thinks, though he has no idea what she has to be accusatory about when it would have been far more proper for Miss Sharon to call off their courtship than for him.

“I suspected,” he says evenly. “And now, I’d like to confirm.” He jerks his head to the side. Yelena inhales sharply, but doesn’t move, merely crossing her arms. “I’m not going to intrude. I have as little desire to cause a scene as any of you do.”

She glances to the side, then back, now wearing a mulish expression. He sighs, wishing that Bucky were here. Besides being the alpha heir and therefore able to order Yelena to move, he’s also her brother by blood, not just by name, and though Steve knows she does see him as her brother, he also knows that the ties between the three of them are stronger than the ones he shares with them. But—perhaps there’s something he can say that will convince her he doesn’t wish to humiliate them.

“All I want to know,” he says carefully, “is if I may be free to pursue Lord Omega Stark.”

Yelena’s lips part, eyes widening. “You…?”

Steve’s lips twist ruefully. “It appears that my plan to woo Miss Sharon by wooing her brother was perhaps not as wise as I thought it to be.”

A giggle escapes her. She puts her hand to her mouth in an attempt to stop it, but he still hears it. And, well, his sisters have always made fun of him. Why should they stop now?

He inclines his head at the door again. “May I?”

This time, Yelena moves aside. Steve presses his ear to the wood. Natasha and Miss Sharon appear to be in the middle of a heated argument, which surprises him. He would have thought they were meeting up for a secret assignation.

“When are you going to tell him?” Natasha hisses.

At first, Steve thinks that he is the one Miss Sharon is supposed to tell, but then she replies, “Soon. But Tony thinks that your brother is our family’s savior. Every time I talk to him, he asks me how my courtship is going. He’s all but planning the wedding already. And when I try to bring it up to your brother, he’s so busy trying to make sure that Tony approves of our match that I can’t even get a single word in.”

Well, that’s easily remedied.

He pushes the door open, relishing in Natasha’s shocked expression. He so rarely gets to surprise her.

“I believe I may have the answer to all of our problems,” he says.

Ever since they returned from Lord Barnes’s country estate, Rogers and Sharon have been acting oddly. If Tony didn’t know better, he would say that they’d called their courtship off at some point during the weekend. But he does know better. Tony may have been a terrible omega during his seasons, but he has made sure that he is the perfect chaperone. Sharon and Rogers were never once left alone; they couldn’t have ended their courtship without him knowing it.

More importantly, Rogers still spends every single calling hour at their house. He doesn’t speak with Sharon as often as he used to, spending those hours with Tony instead, but Tony supposes that with the engagement as good as secured, he has no reason to continue wooing her and feels comfortable leaving her to talk with Natasha instead. Tony wouldn’t have expected it of him, after all he’s come to learn about Rogers, but the ways of alphas are strange.

What he doesn’t say—doesn’t even allow himself to think—is that he likes getting to spend more time with Rogers. For all its impropriety, for all of Tony’s worries, he counts him as a friend, and given the way Rogers acts, it’s clear that he counts Tony as one too. It can be frustrating having to cut a conversation short because Sharon is available for a dance or has cleared the sitting room of her other suitors. Her newfound focus on her close friend means that Rogers is free to turn his on Tony, and Tony likes it. There’s a part of him that wishes a suitor like Rogers might have turned such attentions on him during his seasons (not Rogers himself, obviously; that would be absurd).

He keeps these thoughts locked away, buried deep inside him. It wouldn’t do to have the ton think that he’s trying to steal his sister’s suitor away from her. He wouldn’t—he couldn’t—do that to Sharon. Even if love never blossoms between her and Rogers, he would never take her chance at a happy, content future like that. He still remembers all too clearly how it had felt when Lord Stone so abruptly ceased his courtship. Sharon doesn’t deserve that, least of all from her own brother.

“You’re far away tonight,” Rogers remarks.

“Am I?” Tony asks reflexively, even though asking the question proves that he is. “I suppose so.”

Another night, another ball. He’ll be glad once the season is over and they can return to their own home in the country. During his season, he’d enjoyed the parties, and before his parents’ deaths, he’d enjoyed the ones they attended in the countryside. Afterwards, however, after he had to take on the responsibilities of the dukedom without the respect afforded the title, he’d found them simultaneously stressful and boring. They’re even worse now that he has Sharon’s reputation to worry about as well as his own.

He wishes that Rogers would get that through his head. Tony has taught him so much about the plight of omegas in their circles—Rogers has shown far more of an interest than he would have thought in learning about it—but he still doesn’t understand that Sharon’s place in society will always be more precarious than his, even after they wed.

No one would ever truly snub a duchess. At least, not when it comes to invitations to each event. But there is plenty that the ton can do while still seemingly welcoming Sharon with open arms. Tony doesn’t want to see her lose her friends because her husband has a reputation for philandering, regardless of how false it is.

Truthfully, he shouldn’t have accepted Rogers’s invitation to dance at all. He wouldn’t have, if he’d been thinking. He would have passed it on, just as he’d declined walking in step with him during promenade, putting that barrier between eligible and spinster firmly back in place between them.

But he’d been flustered. Flustered, first because Rogers had approached him instead of Sharon when the ball began, and then flustered because before Tony could remind him that Sharon was right there and likely waiting for him to ask her to dance, she’d accepted an invitation from Natasha, and then flustered all over again because he’d realized they were causing more whispers by standing there than by dancing.

So he’d accepted. He shouldn’t have. It should have been instinct for him to refuse, whether or not Sharon was already dancing. It’s hardly appropriate, the two of them dancing first before Rogers dances with Sharon. And yet… here they are.

“And there you go again,” Rogers sighs, though he sounds more amused than exasperated. “On what lofty ideas is your mind tonight?”

“None of them,” Tony responds without thinking about it. “Only reflecting that you should have extended an invitation to my sister before extending one to me.”

“If I’d done that, you would have refused,” Rogers points out, which Tony can hardly refute. “And I’m tired of you refusing me. She was busy. You were not.”

“It’s not—”

“If you tell me it’s not appropriate one more time,” Rogers remarks mildly, “I’ll have to do something drastic.”

“It’s not appropriate,” Tony insists. “I don’t know why you keep trying to tell me otherwise, Rogers. I believe I know this farce better than you.”

“See? Even you call it a farce. You can try to insist that we shouldn’t do this, but you can’t deny that you think it’s as ridiculous as I do.” He pauses, inclines his head, and adds, “As your sister does. If even she doesn’t care if we’re seen together, then why do you?”

“Because she’s too young to know any better. How would you even know what her thoughts on this are? You’ve barely even spoken to her in a week, Rogers.”

“Steve.”

Tony misses a step, as startled as he is. “What?”

A brief look of panic crosses Rogers’s face, so fleeting that Tony almost thinks he imagined it. But the resolve that chases it is even stronger than the panic had been, though what decision he’s coming to, Tony can’t imagine. “I think I’d like it if you called me by my name.”

He gapes at him. “…That’s hardly—”

“Don’t tell me it’s inappropriate. I swear, I’m so tired of hearing it.”

Tony’s mouth tightens. Alphas and their damn privilege! Does he think that Tony likes having to think about every possible misstep all the time? “I can’t call you by your name. You’re not even engaged to Sharon, let alone wedded to her.”

“And?” Rogers challenges, his hand tightening where it’s wrapped around Tony’s. It’s big and warm, and Tony has no idea why he’s thinking that. “The wedding is as good as over, my family as tied to yours.”

“But—”

“Please.”

Tony’s breath hitches, catching in his throat. The soft plea—and it is a plea, almost begging, Rogers’s eyes wide and imploring—catches him off guard. This matters. He doesn’t know why it matters, but it does.

Almost without thinking about it, he whispers, “Steve.”

Rogers—Steve—Rogers shudders, hand tightening even further. And yet, Tony feels nothing less than perfectly safe with his hand cradled in Steve’s (Rogers, his mind reminds him insistently).

“I like it when you say my name,” Steve confesses, and there’s something more there, something that Tony’s mind shies away from because he can’t. He can’t.

The song ends.

He yanks his hand away faster than propriety would allow. This is foolish. He doesn’t know what’s going on, what his subconscious mind thinks it’s putting together, but it’s an impossibility. Rogers is marrying Sharon. That’s the end of that. Rogers even said it: the wedding is as good as over. There’s no reason for Rogers to sound nearly shattered at the sound of his name. He just—he needs time to think.

“Excuse me,” he says and—well, he tells himself he’s not fleeing, but while there are many things he can lie to himself about, this apparently isn’t one of them. He can’t even say why he’s so flustered, only that he is and all because his soon-to-be brother-in-law asked him to call him by his name, a right which he would have been granted as soon as the paperwork was finalized anyway.

Distantly, he’s aware that he’s left Sharon behind, but he’s certain that the Barneses will take her home. She doesn’t need much chaperoning anyway with the engagement as good as secured.

…But it isn’t secured.

Why isn’t it secured?

He barely even notices someone else climbing into the carriage after him, barely notices them worriedly asking if they’re alright (he knows her, knows her as well as he knows himself). Why is Steve—Rogers—waiting to ask for Sharon’s hand? They’ve been courting for months. What could he possibly still be waiting for? Sharon’s dowry isn’t going to increase the longer he waits. Tony’s opinion of him isn’t going to change. There isn’t going to be a dramatic challenger to swoop in at the last minute and demand a duel for Sharon’s affections.

“Tony!”

Sharon. She’s followed him into the carriage. She should still be at the ball, dancing with her suitor like she should have before accepting Natasha’s request.

“What the blazes are you doing here?” he hisses. “Why aren’t you back there?”

The carriage pulls to a halt. He stumbles, nearly falls, out of the carriage, mind spinning faster and faster through every possibility, every misstep, every mistake that he’s made all season that could possibly be holding Rogers back from an engagement despite his constant reassurances that he doesn’t care about that.

Why had Tony ever believed him? Everyone cares about appearances. He should have seen it sooner. Rogers has never once taken this courtship seriously or else he would have asked for Sharon’s hand as soon as he was the only suitor left. And now it’s too late to find another one.

“What do you mean, what am I doing here?” Sharon asks, hurrying after him. The front door swings shut behind them, hiding them from anyone who might be looking on and judging (they’re always judging; Tony should never have thought that someone might be different). “You’re here. You’re upset. You won’t even tell me why you’re upset. Why wouldn’t I be here with you?”

Or perhaps…

Perhaps it isn’t him at all.

“What’s wrong with you?” he snaps, whirling on her.

“What?” She falls back, like he’s struck her. A part of him screams his pain at seeing her flinch away from him like this—not Sharon, never Sharon, not his dearest sister—but it can’t be him. Not again. He can’t be the reason this family falls to ruin again.

“Why won’t he propose?” he asks. “What did you do wrong?”

“What did I—” Sharon cuts off, her blue eyes blazing suddenly with fury. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Don’t you know how important this marriage is to our family?”

“How could I forget it?” she shouts, losing her temper. “You won’t let me! I have been told since the day I was born that I must make an advantageous match, and I have done my best to be exactly what you wanted. I was willing to condemn myself to a loveless match just to make you happy. What have I done wrong? What have you done wrong? Maybe you should look at yourself first!”

“I have been the perfect—” He stops, mind continuing to race, feeling rather like a jockey who’s lost control of his horse. But he hasn’t been perfect, has he? He has accepted Rogers’s requests to dance. He has accepted his gifts. He’s encouraged their conversations when he should have been directing Rogers to spent more time with Sharon, promenaded with him when Sharon ran off to talk to Natasha, accepted him into his private workshop, and he’s done it all because—

Because—

You are, you know. Utterly extraordinary.

Because he’s fallen in love with him.

Oh God, what has he done?

He stumbles back into the wall, impacting hard and sliding down to crumple on the floor. Sharon’s anger flees her in a second; she rushes to him, kneeling beside him, patting him down for an injury that doesn’t exist.

“Sharon,” he murmurs, terrified. He’s doomed them again. Their dukedom will be forfeit, their belongings tossed out on the street, their names worse than mud amongst the ton, and it will all be Tony’s fault. Because he was a stupid omega who dared to believe that an alpha’s flattering meant more than that. “Sharon—”

Someone knocks on the door.

Steve can hear shouting when he gets out of the carriage, sending alarm shooting through him. The walls of the Stark house are thick; there should be no reason that he can hear them all the way from the street unless something is very, very wrong. He pounds up the steps of the walk, taking them two at a time. By the time he reaches the door, the shouting has died away. He doesn’t know if that’s better or worse, but, just in case, it’s better, he takes a deep, calming breath and knocks politely instead of hammering on the door.

It takes a moment, but the door does open, revealing Miss Sharon. He blinks, surprised to see her when he would have expected to see their butler. Maybe that’s why he could hear the shouting—they hadn’t even left the entry hall. It’s a suspicion that seems even likelier once he catches sight of her brother propped up against the wall behind her.

He’d meant to ask if he could talk to Stark (he doesn’t dare let himself think of him as Tony, not when the ball ended the way it had), but what slips out is, “Are you alright?”

Stark laughs hollowly and climbs to his feet. “Am I alright, he asks,” he mutters, shaking his head. “No, Rogers, I’m not alright.”

“I told you to call me—” Steve cuts himself off, giving himself a little shake. He’d gotten too eager at the ball. The relief he’d felt at being able to work something out with Sharon, at being free to pursue the actual person he wanted, it’d driven him to move faster than he should have. For God’s sake, Tony doesn’t even know that he and Miss Sharon have ended their courtship! And here he was, like an infatuated schoolboy, asking him to call him by his first name. He should have known better. He needs to do this properly.

“May I speak with you, Lord Stark?” he asks formally.

Stark goes as white as a sheet, for whatever reason. He gives Miss Sharon a terrified look that fades into resignation when she smiles encouragingly and nods at him. What is going through that head of his?

“Come with me,” Stark says quietly, waiting for Miss Sharon to let him in before leading him back into the house. Stark ushers him into a room that Steve is unfamiliar, but is clearly used as a study, going by the ledgers left on the desk. He heads straight for a bottle of brandy left on the mantel, pouring himself a rather generous measure and downing it before offering the bottle to Steve.

“No, thank you,” he says politely, frowning as he watches Stark down another glass. Something is wrong here. He’s missed something. Even disregarding that Steve has forgotten to tell him about Miss Sharon and Natasha, he shouldn’t be acting like this. “Are you—”

“Say what you came to say,” Stark interrupts, sitting down heavily behind the desk.

Steve feels wrongfooted. There’s something going on that he doesn’t know about. He doesn’t like not knowing things. One shouldn’t charge into battle without knowing the lay of the land.

“I wanted to inform you that—”

“You’re calling off the courtship because of my inappropriate behavior,” Stark says gloomily. He nods knowledgeably. “I thought so.”

“What?” Steve frowns. “No—I mean, yes, but—”

It’s Stark’s turn to frown now. “What do you mean, no?”

“I mean, yes, I’m ending the courtship, but it’s not because of anything that you’ve done.” What does he even mean, inappropriate behavior? He’s been the soul of propriety. Steve has been the one who’s behaved inappropriately. Stark has been the one always thinking of them and how things would look to the ton.

But this seems even less reassuring to Stark, who washes pale all over again. Really, that can’t be good for his health. It’s only for a moment though before his cheeks redden again. Stark leaps to his feet, rage crossing his face (it’s a rather striking expression, if Steve is being honest… and that’s wholly inappropriate again).

“Then why are you calling it off?” he demands.

“Well—”

“Are you telling me that my sister isn’t good enough for you? The diamond of the season, but you’re too good for that?” he sneers. “What’s wrong with my sister, Rogers?”

“Nothing’s wrong with her!” Steve exclaims, holding his hands up defensively. How has this gone so wrong so quickly?

“Then, why won’t you marry her?” Stark’s mind moves at leaps and bounds, even now, when he’s so clearly distraught. It’s just a shame that it’s moving in the wrong direction.

“Because we don’t love each other!” Steve says.

Stark sneers again. “Love. Who cares about love?”

“I do.”

“So that’s it, then?” Stark advances on him, jabbing his finger into Steve’s chest. “You won’t marry her because you don’t love her? Love grows, Rogers. You have to nurture it, it doesn’t just strike like lightning. But you would throw away Sharon’s future, my family’s future, because your life isn’t like a storybook. Why the hell do you think you can’t grow to love my sister?”

“Because I’m in love with you!” Steve shouts.

Silence rings.

“What?” Stark whispers, confusion creasing his brow.

Steve shrugs helplessly. “I can’t marry your sister because I’m in love with you.”

Stark’s chest heaves once, twice, and then—

He doesn’t know who moves first, but they’re colliding, Stark—Tony—in his arms, his mouth slanting over Tony’s, and it’s…

Perfect.

Tony may have only just realized his romantic feelings for Steve about five minutes ago, but clearly, Steve has had longer to think about it. As soon as Tony reaches for him, he’s reaching back, pulling him fully into his arms and kissing him. Tony has never been kissed before. He has no idea what makes for a good kiss; it’s not something people discuss in polite society. But he doesn’t really care if this is a good kiss or not because it’s Steve and that makes it perfect.

And then he hears footsteps outside, reminding him of where they are and what they’re doing, and suddenly it’s not perfect at all. In fact, it’s terrifying and wrong, and what was Tony thinking, behaving like this?

“No,” he gasps, moving his hands from clutching at Steve’s arms to pushing him away.

To his credit, Steve moves away from him immediately (he can’t think of him as Rogers anymore, not after they’ve just been doing… that). He puts himself on the other side of the study, looking just as wrecked as Tony feels. Tony would like very badly to move back into his arms, to kiss him again and discover what’s so special about romance that drives so many omegas to ruin… but he can’t.

“We can’t do this. You have to marry Sharon,” he manages.

Steve blinks at him. “What? why?”

“Because of the duchy,” Tony points out, leveling him with a look. “We’ve outlasted all of our goodwill. Sharon must wed an alpha to maintain our family’s standing.”

To his surprise, Steve actually laughs. Tony scowls at him. Perhaps the Starks’ plight doesn’t seem so serious to an untitled orphan adopted by a family with multiple alpha heirs, not in the face of romance. If it had just been him, he might have seen it as less serious too, but it isn’t. And he refuses to sacrifice Sharon’s future for his own feelings. She deserves better.

But then, Steve says, “For someone so brilliant, how do you miss so much?”

“I—” Tony feels like he’s taken the first steps out onto the frozen pond at their country estate in the middle of winter: unsteady and off-guard, liable to fall at any moment. “What do you mean? What have I missed?”

“Miss Sharon has an alpha,” Steve informs him.

“Yes, you.”

“No, not me. My sister.”

“Yelena is an omega,” Tony says reflexively, but his mind catches up a moment later. Yelena isn’t the only sister that Steve has. He has another, an alpha sister, newly returned to England, Sharon’s close friend, who—“Natasha?”

Steve nods. “They’ve been secretly courting for most of the season, ever since she returned from the continent, but since I’d gotten there first, Miss Sharon didn’t think she could end her courtship with me. After all, I have my own reasons for needing to wed this season.”

He and Tony had discussed at length Baron Barnes’s impetus on his adopted son to marry lest he lose his inheritance. At the time, Tony had appreciated his honesty. He still appreciates it.

Even so, he finds himself asking, “What were they going to do when you proposed?”

“I don’t know if they’d thought that far in advance. They’re still very young,” Steve says ruefully.

“Gretna Green,” Tony realizes. “They would have eloped to Gretna Green.” He shakes his head. It would have been a bigger scandal than if she hadn’t wed at all. All four of them are lucky that Steve had found them out.

“Likely so,” he agrees. “Now then, if we’ve addressed your concerns—” He folds himself down to one knee. “I apologize for my lack of a ring. I’d hoped to discuss your sister’s marriage to Natasha before proposing to you, but I find that I don’t want to wait. So, if you have nothing further, then, Lord Omega Stark, would you do me the honor of—”

“Of course I have further concerns!” Tony exclaims, rather alarmed.

Steve frowns up at him. “Such as?”

“I’m much too old for you. I’m five-and-ten years your elder. My hair is already starting to turn grey.”

His frown deepens. “Do you think I want to marry you because of your beauty?” He seems to realize his misstep immediately, scrambling to add, “Not that you aren’t beautiful! But, Tony, I want to marry you because you are brilliant, because you don’t hesitate to speak your mind, and because you challenge me at every turn. I want to marry you because you build clocks and keep a forge on the grounds and aren’t afraid of hard work, not despite it. Your beauty—and I do find you to be exquisitely beautiful, please don’t think that I don’t—is the least of the reasons why I wish to marry you.”

“The ton will never accept it,” Tony says, shaking his head though he’s certain that he’s blushing.

“Damn the ton,” Steve says frankly, harshly. “Don’t you think they’ve caused you enough misery? I care not one whit for what they think of me, and they won’t dare to shun our sisters when they take control of the duchy, not with the queen’s favor on their side. Stop thinking about what you should do, and start thinking about what will make you happy.”

“Steve,” Tony says helplessly. “There are too many reasons why this marriage won’t work.”

“But we only need one for why it will,” Steve implores.

“And what’s that?”

“Tony, I love you,” he says simply. “And if your kisses reflect your feelings, then I believe you love me too. And if you love me, then I think we can do anything. Tony, Lord Omega Stark, please, will you marry me?”

Tony is so tired of denying what he wants to stop the whispers, tired of hearing them call him a failed omega, tired of pulling himself back in just to hear them say that it’s still not enough. Here is someone who loves him for himself, and Tony doesn’t want to tell him no.

So he doesn’t.

He sinks to the floor, takes Steve’s face between his hands, and tells him, “Yes.”

Sharon and Natasha are married at the very end of the season, drawing some whispers from the more conservative members of the ton (which, it must be noted, is most of them). But the queen’s explicit approval, by attending both their ceremony and the breakfast afterwards, puts a stop to the whispers quick enough. Tony suspects that there will always be rumors, particularly if Sharon is soon with child, but the longer he spends with Steve, the less he cares about that.

Steve and Tony, on the other hand, decide together to wait until they’ve returned to the country. There are enough rumors about Sharon and Natasha, despite their expediency being a result of the demands to have Natasha confirmed as the new Duchess of Dauntsey before the season is over, that neither Steve nor Tony have any desire to inspire new rumors by reminding everyone what happened to the other half of the courtship of the season.

Of course, once they are returned to the countryside, there are things that Tony must do to get Natasha installed as the new duchess and then there’s the matter of his trousseau. All told, it’s early autumn before Steve and Tony are wed in a private ceremony, having obtained a special license from the crown to hold the wedding at Dauntsey Manor instead of in the village church.

Truthfully, Tony remembers none of it, save for entering the solarium and seeing Steve at the end of it waiting for him and the achingly gentle kiss that Steve bestows on him when the priest pronounces them alpha and omega.

What he remembers most is this: Steve squeezing his hand under the table at breakfast later that morning and, when Tony looks at him, leaning in to whisper sweetly in his ear, “I love you.”

The funds that would have gone towards their honeymoon were put towards the license instead, and Tony wouldn’t have wanted to take one anyway with Natasha so new to running an estate as large as Dauntsey, so he and Steve spend their wedding night in Tony’s childhood bedroom, making much happier memories.

At the end, after Steve has cleaned them both up, he rests with his head on Tony’s stomach and asks him, “Are you happy?”

Tony smiles down at him and runs his fingers through Steve’s golden hair, as soft as silk. “I am,” he promises. “Very happy.”

Steve breathes out a relieved sigh and presses a kiss to his stomach. “Good,” he says. “That’s good.”

“And are you?” Tony rejoins, though he suspects he knows the answer already. “Happy, that is?”

Steve beams up at him, as bright as the sun. “Oh, Tony, you’ve made me the happiest alpha who ever lived.”

Tony laughs and tugs him up into a kiss that goes on and on and on.

“You know,” Steve says amusedly, taking a step inside the forge, “if you keep up like this, the twins aren’t going to recognize their uncle.”

“The twins are too young to recognize anyone,” Tony grunts, hammering a twist in the iron filament in front of him. The sound brings to mind many pleasurable nights spent in their bed, and Steve has to lean against the doorway as the blood in his body rushes south. “And right now, all they do is cry. Their nursemaid is more than capable of taking care of them; I am more useful out here.”

“And what is it that you’re making out here?” Steve asks, running his eyes over the length of wire.

“A new type of fence,” Tony says, pausing as he also considers the wire. “I think.”

“You… think.”

“Mrs. Finchley was complaining at church last week that the foxes got back into the henhouse. They have a fence up around it, but clearly, it’s not doing enough, and their hunting dog is getting too old to keep chasing after foxes. So I’m working something to stop the foxes.”

“This looks too thin to stop a fox,” Steve observes. There’s another length of wire already cooled and finished close by. He reaches out to run his fingers over it, only to hiss in pain when his fingers brush up against one of the barbs that Tony wrapped around it. He hadn’t realized they’d be so sharp.

“And now you see the trap in the design,” Tony says, smirking at him as he passes one of the cool clothes he uses when he burns himself over. “These don’t look like they do much, but if you cluster them close enough together, a fox will get caught—and hurt—on the barbs.”

“My brilliant omega,” Steve declares, leaning in for a kiss that Tony gladly grants him. “Now, come inside and come see your nephews so I can stop hearing about it from your sister.”

“They look like little potatoes,” Tony complains but he’s putting the newly finished wire with the other, wiping his hands off, and following Steve out of the forge.

Steve chuckles. “They do, but don’t let either of our sisters hear you say that.” Unable to resist, he catches Tony around the waist, pulls him into the shade of one of the great oak trees, and kisses him soundly. Tony melts against him, winding his hands around Steve’s neck. They’ll both need a bath after this, he wagers, and the thought thrills him.

“Are you happy?” he murmurs when they separate, just as he’s asked every day for the last eighteen months.

Tony kisses him again and says, “Always.”