“Alright, Nikkolas,” I taunt, considering I may humor his antics, “So then, I take it that the sudden conflict in your schedule wasn’t at all in correlation with having found your love letters burnt?” Although I’m certain I’ve offended him, his anger remains bridled behind a glare.
“No,” he answers, clearly holding back his tongue, “I merely had other business to take care of.”
“And how might that business of yours have fared upon your departure?” I ask, tilting my head at him.
“It went accordingly,” he says swiftly, “there wasn’t much to note of my meeting.”
“Well, I find that peculiar. For a meeting to have gone so well,” I prod, with mischievously widened eyes, “you seemed awfully distressed when I had found you.” “What with your hands clenching either side of your head, the spilt ink marring your desk, and the several cups stacking along it,” I berate, with a wave of my hand at the mess. “Am I to presume you were attempting to self soothe with chamomile?” I jeer, with a vengeful laugh. Judging by his expression, it would appear the young duke is struggling to see the humor in my jest. “Oh, come now, Nikkolas,” I console mockingly, “You’re not acting like yourself at the moment.” In my stride towards his desk, I pick up a glass of his unfinished tea. “Here,” I say, graceful in my tipping it towards his mouth, “Perhaps, some tea may remedy your upset.” Though his lips show no inclination to part, that doesn’t stop the liquid from being forced to drip down past his chin. His glare remains firm while I become enthralled by the ridicule, ignoring the potential of his seeming acquiescence.
“Oh, do forgive me Nikkolas,” I coax, putting a gentle hand to his cheek. “But I must inform you what a clutz you are.” In an effort to wipe the tea off his face, I begin smudging the corners of his mouth with my thumb. “You’re quite fortunate I take pleasure in tending to your turmoil,” I continue, meeting his gaze whilst pressing against his bottom lip, “I could’ve easily lost my patience with you.” His eyes follow my movement along his chin as I swipe the excess over the shoulder of his blouse. “There,” I say definitively, patting my hand dry, “You don’t mind that I dirtied your shirt, do you?”
“Why?” he interjects.
“Hmm?” I retort aloofly, “Why what, Nikkolas?”
“You burned them. Why?”
“Ah, so you’re curious, afterall,” I respond cheerfully. “Well,” I continue, batting my eyelashes at him, “I’m certain you can construe an answer far more insightful than my own admission, Nikkolas.” “You’ve treated me exceptionally well thus far into our union, what could I have to be sore at you for?”
“I don’t know,” he answers bitterly as though the prospect itself belittles him.
“Alright, it seems you are dreadfully in need of some enlightenment,” I contend, crossing my arms, “I can accommodate my truth–if you are so forthcoming with yours, that is.” His eyes slightly narrow at my suggestion, questioning my intent. “Nikkolas, I would like you to be honest about your sudden departure from this morning,” I prod, gesturing with a wave of my hand, “Tell me, why did you feel the need to lie to me?” A tense moment of silence falls between us in wait for his response.
“Because I felt hurt.”
“And by who?” I ask apathetically. In response to his drawn out blink, I exchange the gesture with a smile.
“By you.”
“Perfect,” I reply, tilting my head, “Then I must concede in suit.” “Well,” I begin, in my saunter around his study, “I guess I would have to say that the most fervent hatred of mine lies with your arrogance.” “It’s most,” I pause in emphasis, “unbecoming of a lord.” “If I were to go into it further,” I say, stepping towards the front of a bookshelf, “I’d have to say every detail you’ve assumed of me has been purely superficial at best.” I begin sorting through the texts, peering at the covers for anything of note. “You compliment my features, yet go no deeper than that in your recount. I’m quite aware of my beauty, Nikkolas,” I contend, glancing back at him, “If I wished to be reminded, I would rather gaze upon my reflection in a mirror than dare trouble myself with the likes of your eulogies.” “Even further, you insist I like champagne, but that’s not necessarily true,” I assert, shaking my head. “Though I certainly don’t mind indulging,” I offer, grazing my fingertips across the spine of a maroon book, “what I prefer is a true red wine.” Turning to address him, I take notice of his unbroken stare. “Nikkolas,” I say, with a raised brow, “I’m not seeing any indication that you’ve acknowledged my list of complaints thus far. I’d much appreciate the participance of an active listener in granting you my truth.”
“Of course,” he yields, with a begrudgingly slow nod.
“Good,” I beam, “I’m here to lecture you, Nikkolas, not scold you.” Drawing my gaze back towards the shelf, I continue my monologue. “Moving on, I don’t welcome your effort in the slightest to try to assuage whatever perceived thoughts of worthlessness you think I may harbor.” “I, the person in question,” I assert, tipping my gaze at him, “am fine, regardless of your desire to satisfy some self-serving complex of yours.” “So, when I am to request information from you, I expect you to be forthcoming in your response and dare not dawdle with pleasantries in a need to save face. I too, am entitled to knowledge regarding our circumstances.”
“Alright, I will be more honest with you then–”
“No, Nikkolas,” I interrupt tersely, raising my index finger indirectly at him, “I do not care for simply more, I am asking that you be honest with me–not more.”
“Fine,” he relents sourly.
“Further, I don’t take kindly to your surprise visits,” I address, grimacing at the recurrence, “Although you may have at first thought chivalrous, your habit of plotting our dates fails to come across as sincere.” “If I am to be courted,” I add, withdrawing a familiarly leather-bound book, “I’d like to be made aware of said courtship, rather than to have been lured there on false pretenses.” “Building on that note,” I say, examining the gold engraving of its title, “I don’t find your persistence all that endearing, either, Nikkolas.” “As opposed to laying the groundwork of trust, your contrived courtship, made up of long-winded sweet nothings, of carefully orchestrated dates, and of each intricate lie after lie,” I continue, gesturing with a wave of my hand. “It’s as though you–” I pause, furrowing my brows in my struggle to draw a conclusion for his behavior. As I consider the notion, I come to realize I’ve never questioned exactly why he carries himself in such a manner. Although I had presumed that it was mostly of second nature to him, perhaps he was more deliberate than that.
“It’s as though you were compensating over some matter,” I infer, looking at him with a tinge of uncertainty, “or for some reason that would condemn you to acting in such excess.” “It seems almost… strangely… desperate,” I reason, flinching at the prospect. In my gaze of him, however, I feel a shift in my perception of him. My eyes draw towards the state of his hair, still frayed from stress; the tea I stained into his blouse, having been allowed to soak against his skin; the ink blackening his hands, the consequence of a failed attempt to cover up the traces of his outburst; and finally, the solid glare of his expression, so very defiant, almost as though it was his last defense against those who dared behold the tragic state of his appearance. Considering them not as isolated cases, but as a whole along with the seeming desperation of his actions, I get the sense of an internal mess becoming much more visibly apparent.
“Nikkolas,” I interject, narrowing my gaze at him.
“Yes, Avalor,” he answers.
“You’re quite a calculated fellow,” I affirm, “and you’re dreadfully aware of most subtleties–subtleties I’d often rather you not be so astute to notice.” “However,” I assert, with a tsk, “it seems as though there are selective nuisances within our exchanges that you just happen to overlook.” Thinking back to our picnic, he was oddly puzzled by my contention to the irony of our date. Considering his poor attempt at an apology, he appeared to marginalize the significance of his empty threat so long ago. Recalling his pitifully inaccurate assessment at dinner, it was if he’d ignored his place within the peerage I had just voiced my loathe for. Remembering his state of distress after having retreated, he made not one acknowledgement in regards to the ramifications of my rejection. Why? However, I’m primarily drawn back towards his face of dejection upon having first heard my decision not to marry him. Do you not wish to marry me? In truth, the entirety of my address was his answer; and it wasn’t a matter of incoherence as he would have me believe. He knew.
“Now,” I exhale, “Though I initially reduced this habit of yours as merely a fault of your character, I’m actually feeling compelled to reconsider. Tell me Nikkolas,” I ask, tilting my head at him, “are you truly so arrogant that you wouldn’t consider such pivotal truths?” “Perhaps, you meant it when you said you have the tendency to suddenly go deaf?” I recall, with the tilt of my head. “Or is it rather,” I pause in emphasis, “that you know better than to assume it’s simply my distaste for our institution that hinders my acceptance of your proposal?” Fixing a stern stare at him, I make my final assertion. “You know that I don't want to marry you, don't you?”
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