"Fine," she summoned inexpedient courage. Coupled with the endearing nickname, his words, so boyish and childlike in nature, yet honest, sent a warm fervor up her spine, surfacing a delinquent side of which she never knew she ever had. "It seems the only way to confabulate with you is one way and one way only."

To that he arched a brow.

"Formalities w-will have to b-be..."

"Be damned?"

"Be damned," she repeated firmly, burning hot holes into her clenched fists hiding underneath the cover of lace tablecloth, unable to quite look him squarely in the eye.

"Good girl," he leaned in again, whispering more sinful words out of the gossip-loving radius of Countess Crubgubli who sat earring in at his right. "Where'd you pick that one up from?"

"My sisters."

"Sisters?"

"Yes. Sisters, your highness." The pie seduced her once more, pulling her hand to the idol fork and knife to savor its warm tinges of flavour. "Our oldest is a ripe one-and-twenty but refuses to debut until thirty, and the youngest—Merthingham help her—is ten... follows Portia around like a faithful disciple."

"Damnations are usually watered down to 'alas' around a gentleman. Your governess must be ousted immediately, my princess!"

"You are no gentleman."

"I try, believe me." He smiled widely again; his playful side exploding sans constraint, especially in hearing her refer to him without the use of a title. "But I feel a stronger connection towards pubs and scoundrels as opposed to drawing rooms and posh toffs."

She flushed again, afraid to adhere to the fact of his statement however much her face expressed seething sentiments. Affronted whines breezed her clenched lips and the conversation become louder than some many clicking cutlery, chatting masses, or the unabating promulgations of victual aromas.

In noticing her face scrunch in childish disapproval—"We'll work on that"—Deidrick smoothly reclined, before catching a keen Duchess Barret Houghton eying them from her place, across the table.

He immediately recognized her to be the mother of a friend from Uxford who also happened to be an infamous schadenfreude case—with so many defaming rumors running openly about town warning job-seekers about the tales of those who disappeared sporadically at the Barret Houghton residence, it was simply impossible to miss her—even in pitch darkness.

Of course, he only learnt of such insubordination whilst living away from the restrictive chains of aristocratic life; it was morally reprehensible a comment to make unless one was a prince, like himself. Nevertheless, Deidrick saw little fun gossiping amongst sneering peers who enjoyed ratting out each other for some short-lived sense of familial laudability or moral elevation, which ironically, they lacked immensely. Worst than the "ill-bred working class" or "gentry" in fact.

"Your brother, does he hate me?" Deidrick locked onto the disreputable woman despite assuming a demanding conversation with Cecilia.

"You think that because?" he asked, absent-mindedly.

"We've only talked once—at the picnic, if you recall—since my arrival."

"Hmm..." as if paying attention, he nodded.

A surviving insider he'd met once at a pub who voiced that it was due to cruel punishments, enforced by yours only, trailed his thoughts to a wild occasion at a flea market east of Townsquare, where audacious persons vociferate that she would lure and eat poor souls as a means of wielding magic above that of a marquis' status, thereby leading him to wonder how in-laws survived under her malevolent watch.

"It's like he runs away from my company at every chance." Cecilia's voice, previously faded into the bavarding droves of nobles lining the breakfast table, resuscitated. "So I was thinking..."

Deidrick knotted his brows, slightly irked yet semi amused that the bitch knew not to lock eyes with a person of higher rank unless spoken to but kept on.

"Do I... displease him?"

"Displease?" Reeling back his attention, he made an alarmingly quick turn to eye the simpering girl. "As in, you're not good enough?" When she was every convenient characteristic Eric desired in a wife incarnate?

"Yes. You said so when we first met; that I wasn't handsome. Remember?"

Oh. That.

The statement simply meant that her regal coiffures, tenuous aura, and refined mannerisms weren't a major turn-on for him. He hadn't thought she would take it so personally. "Rightfully, too, seeing how volatile you shine," he mused to himself, hating dealing with the likes of her.

"Don't overthink it, pet," drawing two considerably large sips from his goblet, he curtly ended their gaze. "A tentative marriage like yours doesn't exactly allow pace for acquaintanceship. Needless to say, falling in love."

"I do not need his love!" An indignant tone welled in her voice.

Bored, Deidrick returned his attention to the elderly duchess who had never peeled her eyes off him an instant— her being well-advanced in age only helping justify her rash behaviour—when, suddenly, he'd noticed someone, previously unseen, beside her.

Absent-mindedly, again, he goaded on: "What then is it you need, princess?" Grazing over the auburn wallflower who was unorthodoxly grotesque, rounded, and—sweet Merthingham above—in possession of two entirely different eye colors!

Interesting...

Richard, his Uxford friend, always said his likely adopted kin looked unlike anybody one would come across. But he would've never guessed she'd be this unconventional.

"What I'm trying to say is, I would like..." Reluctantly, Deidrick circled back to his lame conversation partner. "I do not want... I wish to..."

Good God. Was she about to cry? He thought.

"Choke up now and this scheming lot won't let you live a day off it, princess" his voice hardened. Sympathy only went so far in quelling a post-swooning maiden.

"I do not cry."

"Good."

"Good!" She said to no one in particular but watched as he indulged a ninth glass of port, aloof to his ungentlemanly conduct—she'd been counting.

Irrespective of drinking of any kind midday, or extorting a footman to serve it exclusively and downing ten glasses at a common area aside was wrong, the short space between them quickly became a frigid, untraversable mile. Their relationship battered in less than a minute and he didn't seem to care.

Suddenly feeling amiss, suffocating in the capacious walls of the dining, Cecilia folded her serviette after dipping her hands in a designated finger glass. "I've... I've had my fill. If you'll excuse me."

But Deidrick remained distant, displaying no remorse or princely concern—another cup refilled and downed just as quickly whilst, tottering from her seat, curtseying, and leaving the room with a pair of satin-red gloves in hand, Cecilia longed for his attention. However, seeing she wouldn't get it and he lacked shrewd understanding, she let a cruel whisper escape her lips. "I really hope you are adopted." Which he heard. Loud and clear.

_ _ _

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