"A Prince," Alfred mused with raised brows as he stirred the stew he was preparing, while Charles sulked beside him. "That's ... impressive."
Alfred, Chef to the Estate and good friend to Charles, had been filled in about the happenings of last night's meeting, and Charles' lack of sleep, which was sure to lead to a lack of sanity – among other things.
"Four hours, Alfred," Charles groaned. "Four hours I was made to escort her through the town's shops to try on dresses and gowns for another man."
"And one that probably intends on disregarding whichever is chosen without any regard to her hours of indecision," Alfred hummed in speculative consideration. Expression flattened, Charles stared at his cynically humored friend.
"You are a cruel man, Alfred," Charles practically wept.
"And you are one with his head in the clouds," the chef scolded, sprinkling in a handful of seasoning to the cooking stew. "Didn't you take this position? Or rather, positions, because you knew you were doomed to unrequited love?"
"Perhaps at first ..."
"And what's changed that you've failed to tell me?"
"I had hoped ... being at her side for so many years ..."
"That her parents would overlook your social status and consider your proposal," Alfred finished with a tired shake of his head.
"It is not unheard of," Charles defensively argued, turning away from his friend and leaning on the edge of the counter beside the woodstove. "However rare it may be. Is a man, even of my stature, not allowed to dream? Not allowed to hope?"
Alfred paused his stirring, sighing when hearing the genuine sorrow in his friend's voice. Setting his spoon down on the folded towel on the opposite counter, he turned to rest a comforting hand on Charles' shoulder.
"Charles ... I'm sorry. But. She isn't engaged. You have that to hold on to," Alfred reminded. "And even if she is to be married, you can still spend the rest of your life with her. Caring for her in ways a busy Prince may not. Your relationship will not change."
And while Alfred sought to give him comfort with those words, they only managed to bring more dread to his already burdened mind. Not being able to advance in their relationship. To never hold her in a way that the Prince would undoubtedly take for granted. To not be able to show her the tender warmth of a loving embrace. It was that, among a handful of other things, which pained him.
"I know," Charles acknowledged, head hung low in what read as defeat. Squeezing his shoulder, Alfred sighed, returning to the stew.
"If you do love her, it will be enough," the elder of the two urged. "You may think you have the love of a man, but you are still a child yourself. You will come to understand."
It was then that the topic of discussion came rushing in, clothed in one of the several dresses she had purchased earlier in the day. Feet bare and hair thrown about her face and shoulders, Emilia screeched as she entered the master kitchen, immediately darting over to Charles in a heap of drooping fabric and poorly tied laces. Charles' brows pinched while Alfred's rose in amusement, seeing the disheveled young Duchess.
Cuffs sliding off her nearly bare shoulders, Emilia was unable to properly tie the back of her new dress. Corset of mismatched loops, her maturing cleavage threatened to spill over the swooping neckline. Alfred snickered as his index finger came to rest against his chin.
"Oh my," he mused. "Hello, young Miss ..." Bowing his head in respect, Alfred slyly inched towards Charles' ear, snickering, and lowered his voice to a bare minimum. "Not looking so young anymore, mind you."
"Emilia, what are you doing running around like this?" Charles scolded, watching her struggle with the ultimatum of holding her corset in place, and keeping her entire back from being exposed. As it were, she was doing a rather poor job of attempting them both. "You could have fallen. And then how would you be able to present yourself to the Prince?"
"I'm hungry," the duchess whined. "And you promised to help me choose a dress for tomorrow."
"Did he now?" Alfred grinned, nudging Charles against his back. "A dog posing as a saint?"
"Watch your tongue or you'll end up on a chain," Charles discretely warned in a low growl.
"Heavens," Alfred playfully whined, backing away from the two. "I've always been more of a cat person, anyway."
Looking to the impatient young duchess, Charles sighed, turning towards the counter to pick up a bowl.
"Go back to your room - carefully. I'll bring your meal up in a moment. It's nearly done. Start a bath."
"Oh, a bath - ah!" Alfred stammered, being roughly nudged in his side, nearly tumbling into the large pot of stew in the process.
"I wonder what color he would most enjoy," Emilia mumbled to herself as she paced about her room, staring at the four dresses Charles had laid out on the spread of her large and lavish bed. "It's so odd, wondering now what Benjamin would like. I would have been more groomed during our visits had I known ..."
Charles, who had been leaning against one of the end bedposts, was trying his best to keep his promise, whilst keeping his eyes – and mind, averted. As expected after being with the butler for so many years of her young (and prepubescent) life, Emilia was all too comfortable to strip down to the bare minimum – and sometimes bare altogether – in front of him. It was an ongoing joke, if anything, however cruel the humor may have been. For him to be among the only men to have been able to see the Duchess in such a state.
But of course, that fact was by this time well on its way to becoming undone.
Charles flinched when Emilia called out to him, having been the third time she had done so. The frustration was clear in her voice as she tapped her bare foot, fists on her hips, covered only by the thin fabric of her undergarments.
"Focus, Charles! We have but minutes before my curfew and I've yet to make a decision."
Sighing, Charles combed a heavy hand through his black hair, which he kept maintained at a medium length, and silky in texture.
"Which of the four do you feel most comfortable in?" he asked, glancing over the dresses. Taking a moment to consider, Emilia did the same before coming to her conclusion.
"The black one, definitely. It fits rather nicely. The best out of the lot, I think."
"Then that is the one you should wear."
"What?" Emilia huffed, crossing her armed with furrowed brows. "Don't be placid, Charles. A woman's attire can't be so simply decided. Especially not to meet your suitor."
"Can't it? You're going to be nervous enough as it is. You should be wearing something you won't constantly be picking at, shouldn't you?" he argued.
Emilia's lips parted in offense at the assumption of her emotion for the following day, her cheeks heating up in a fluster with its truth.
"Who's to say I'm going to be nervous? You?" she scoffed, playing up her charade of confidence. "I've been awaiting marriage my entire life! I won't be the least bit nervous at all."
Charles gave a grim smile, catching Emilia's narrowed eyes by surprise, and softening them to a curious, concerned, almost, gaze.
"And here's the possibility. Just like that."
Emilia's shoulders slumped at the sudden spite in his voice. Not understanding, her voice lowered, having sensed the change in atmosphere.
"What do you mean?"
Averting his eyes, Charles shook his head, pushing off the bedpost and heading towards the flickering candle atop the vanity. Picking it up, he returned his now softened gaze to her curious one.
"That it must be exciting, is all. You must have many questions for him." Heading towards the door, he faced her once more. "You should get some rest for your early departure tomorrow. Choose whatever dress you most desire. I think you look beautiful in them all."
Emilia stared at him with a half-extended hand, not quite sure about the ending of the conversation. But before she could think to question it, the door was closing, and the candlelight grew dimmer.
"Goodnight, Emilia."
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