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Rukia paced at the back of the church, white silk swishing around her legs. Her brother had spared no expense in the creation of her gown no matter the circumstances, and so she gleamed in purest white silk trimmed with lace and beaded in silver. Her maid had done up her hair with sparkling pins to match the beads. Even the stays and shift beneath her clothes were new, both pricked with white embroidery for the occasion.
Her breathing quickened. In a few minutes she would be expected to walk down the aisle to her future husband and pledge herself to him. It was all her fault! She had done this. Her actions would damn him to a life with a woman he did not love.
Her eyes burned and despite herself, a tear slid from the corner of her eye.
How had it come to this?
“A diamond of the first water.”
Queen Charlotte’s words rang in Rukia’s ears. In declaring her such, the Queen named her the most desirable of the Season’s eligible young women. Great Aunt Nyoko had been thrilled, particularly as she was a full year older than the other young ladies making their debuts before the Queen. Nyoko had shepherded her home following her presentation at the palace to plan for the array of soirees, parties, and musicales to which she was certain to be invited.
With that declaration – or perhaps her brother’s title and influence, no matter that there had been whispers and outright snubs about his grandmother’s heritage in her lifetime – had come vouchers to Almack’s. Certainly, it was not her status as the sister-in-law of Byakuya Kuchiki, the Duke of Sakura, sister to his deceased wife, who upon her marriage had risen from being a governess to Her Grace, the Duchess of Sakura.
It was Rukia’s first Season; with her sister’s death last year, her brother had delayed her debut. But that reprieve could only last for so long. An unmarried young lady was at best a bargaining chip and at worst a burden, even for someone as wealthy as Byakuya.
Rukia failed to see the appeal of Almack’s. The lemonade was weak and the other refreshments nearly stale – not that she was inclined to eat much. No, she was here to be seen and to attract a husband, though she had it on good authority that most of the eligible bachelors of the ton were as fond of the lemonade as she. The assembly rooms, draped in blue and lit by gas contained in crystal sconces, were handsome, she could admit to herself, if a trifle worn.
Still, anyone looking to make an appropriate match during the Season coveted those little vouchers, obtainable only if one was on the list of one of the Patronesses. Rukia’s, secure in her pale lavender reticule, read Ladies Voucher and her name: Miss Rukia Kuchiki beneath the bold lettering of the word ALMACKS. Lady Sefton herself had placed Rukia on the list, along with Aunt Nyoko as her chaperone.
The patronesses had filled her dance card for the past two balls with an array of eligible gentlemen; among them was Mister Renji Abarai. If he danced with her again, there would be gossip, and an attachment would be assumed.
Rukia shuddered. Renji was as a brother to her, and the thought of marrying him left her cold.
Really, the thought of marriage altogether held no appeal, though she would do her duty as her brother required. Yet the sea of black coats and knee breeches left much to be desired, and so many of the men who possessed a voucher were years or even decades older than she.
“Miss Kuchiki,” Miss Ise called lightly, and Rukia turned, a genuine smile curving at her lips.
Her dear friend and ally threaded her arm through Rukia’s and steered her away from her aunt with a solemn nod. “Miss Ise,” Rukia said in kind, and kept one hand at her skirt to avoid tripping upon the fine lavender silk. “I am so pleased to see you this evening.”
“And I am likewise delighted that you are attending this evening’s festivities,” Nanao said solemnly, though an answering smile quirked at the corner of her mouth.
They took a turn about the room together, speaking in low voices of inconsequential things. Almack’s had rules, after all: no talk of politics, or the war, or other indelicate subjects was allowed at the weekly ball. Instead, they spoke of the anonymously written Sense and Sensibility, only very recently published.
“I suppose the best I can hope for is a Colonel Brandon,” Nanao mused as they turned towards the refreshments. “For he is a dull but loyal man.”
Rukia stifled a rude noise. “You cannot think that,” she protested gently. “You are lovely, Miss Ise, and her Majesty approves of you. And besides that, you are only one and twenty; you can hardly be said to be on the shelf.”
A servant poured a glass of lemonade for each of them when they reached the refreshments table and they continued their conversation nearby under the gaslight. “I rather wish I were,” Nanao reflected as she took a sip of lemonade and made a face. “I think there must be even less sugar than usual in the punch bowl tonight!”
“And what would you do, if you could avoid another cup of tepid lemon water?” Rukia asked. She took a careful sip; Nano was entirely in the right. The lemonade was weak and sour.
Nanao glanced away and then back, but not before Rukia caught the way she looked at Miss Yadomaru, who at eight and twenty was considered quite on the shelf indeed. “I would like to be a writer like the lady who has written Sense and Sensibility, I think,” she reflected. “Had I the means to do so.”
Rukia patted her arm gently.
With another dance set to begin soon, they returned to the ballroom and to Aunt Nyoko, who was serving as chaperone for both Rukia and Nanao, Nanao’s mother having taken ill. Miss Inoue, another young lady who had been presented to Queen Charlotte on the same day as Rukia, was quite surrounded by potential suitors, not a few of whom seemed barely able to keep from throwing themselves upon her unfashionably large bosom.
That was certainly not a problem from which Rukia would ever suffer.
Not every eligible gentleman at Almack’s shared this excessive regard, or perhaps they were in want of a wife with money and not merely good looks. It was widely known that Miss Inoue, though sponsored by a maiden aunt, possessed a modest dowry.
“How is the lemonade this evening?” Aunt Nyoko asked. She laughed at the suppressed shudder Rukia gave. “Ah, so no better than when I was last a guest thirty years ago, I see.”
“The staff had a light hand with the sugar,” Rukia admitted as she settled on a chair next to her aunt.
“Miss Kuchiki.”
Rukia rose and stared for a heartbeat before her etiquette lessons took over and she dropped into a shallow curtsey. “Lady Castlereagh,” she greeted politely.
The Viscountess Castlereagh was known for her menagerie in the country as much as for her patronage of the social club over which she and her compatriots ruled. One word from her could see her voucher revoked and her reputation ruined, her marriage prospects destroyed, and her family shamed.
She stood taller than Rukia, but then even most women were at least a head taller than she. Her gown swept the floor in a froth of emerald silk as she drew Rukia’s attention to her companion. “Miss Kuchiki, I am pleased to introduce Lord Kurosaki,” she said.
“My Lord,” Rukia murmured in reply, and curtsied once again. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Lord Kurosaki. The Marquess Ichigo Shiba, in fact, eldest son of the Duke of Karakura. It was an effort to keep her hands from forming into nervous fists. She had to look up quite far to meet his eyes, for he was of a height greater even than that of Lady Castlereagh. As prescribed by the rules of Almack’s he wore a jet-black coat with a white cravat, as well as black knee breeches. Yet his hair – his hair!
Rukia had never seen such a color on a man. Though it was styled acceptably for the evening, it reminded her of nothing so much as the sunset she had seen only last night from the window of her bedroom in her brother’s Mayfair townhome.
“Miss Kuchiki,” he said in reply. His eyes were the color of good whiskey, the kind she’d seen her brother drink from time to time, though she’d never partaken, herself. They met hers and clung until Lady Castlereagh spoke again.
“Miss Kuchiki puts me in mind of one of the rabbits from my own collection at Loring Hall,” she mused, as if Rukia wasn’t there. “To be certain she is the smallest of the debutantes this Season, my Lord, despite her late debut.”
Silently, Rukia willed herself not to blush. Being compared to a rabbit, no matter her affection for the creatures, was damning with faint praise, and so was being called small. “As your rabbits, like the other delightful creatures at Loring Hall, are so beloved by all who see them, Lady Castlereagh, I can only take your words with affection,” she said lightly, and managed a gentle laugh.
Lord Kurosaki’s lips quirked. “Late debut?” he asked.
Before Rukia could answer, Lady Castlereagh did so for her: “Her Grace the Duchess of Sakura passed last year. His Grace delayed Miss Kuchiki’s debut given her closeness to her late sister. Such an act of devotion, to miss an entire Season for the death of a sister.”
Hurt twisted in her chest and it was an act of will to maintain her composure. Rukia lifted her fan to her face and unfurled it, pretending an overwarm moment as she fanned herself and concealed her mouth from view until she could be sure she would say nothing she might regret.
Lord Kurosaki averted his gaze for a moment. “Indeed.” From the balcony at the far end of the assembly room the strain of a violin reached them, and Lord Kurosaki held out his hand. “May I have this dance, Miss Kuchiki?” he asked.
Rukia placed her hand in his and, after offering another curtsy to Lady Castlereagh, allowed him to escort her to the red-cordoned dance floor. They joined the lines of dancers already assembled, among them Nanao and Miss Inoue, both of them paired with gentlemen she did not know. The music began.
Lord Kurosaki was a skilled dancer, Rukia quickly discovered; he was light on his feet and guided her effortlessly through each round. His grasp on her hand, so much smaller than his, was gentle yet warm. Pale lavender tissue silk swirled around her as they spun, changed partners, and returned to one another before doing it all over again. “You are a talented dancer, my Lord,” she ventured.
And – was that flush on his cheeks from the heat of the room or from her compliment? “I have my lady mother to thank for it,” he said, eyes meeting hers and glancing away.
“Then surely she must be a skilled teacher.”
“She was.” There was pain in his eyes as he said it, in the tightening of his lips and his hand on hers.
“I am sorry, my Lord,” she murmured, keeping her eyes on his. “I did not mean to cause you pain.”
Kurosaki breathed out as he led her with an upraised hand through the line of assembled dancers. When next they turned together, he murmured, “It is none of your doing, Miss Kuchiki.”
They changed partners thrice more through the dance. He was diffident with Nanao and gentle with Miss Inoue, who simpered becomingly and blushed prettily. Rukia’s hand was claimed briefly by Lord Lorel and then by Mister Abarai, who leaned in far too close for her comfort and for propriety as well. When the Viscount Rokesby partnered her, over the sound of the music she heard Lord Kurosaki speak to the man beside him, though she was certain he did not intend to be overheard.
“…a simpering miss with no personality looking for a sizable marriage settlement.” And he glanced in her direction. The rest of whatever he said was lost as they changed partners once again.
Rukia could not help the flush of anger at her throat as he returned to partner her once more. Simpering? No personality? To be certain, she had been quiet during much of the dance thus far, still thrown as she was by being compared to a rabbit and then having her sister’s death spoken about so callously, but he had hardly attempted to fill the void in the conversation.
Her next steps brought her back to him and Ichigo took her hand with the beginnings of a smile. “I am glad to have you as my partner once more, Miss Kuchiki,” he said, and his eyes were warm as they met hers. “There is no one here who dances so gracefully as you.”
Glad? Graceful? He’d only just finished insulting her – and her brother! “How unfortunate that my gracefulness cannot eclipse the pallor of my personality, my Lord,” she said scathingly. And on their next interchange she trod on his foot. To his credit, Kurosaki barely flinched. “Oh! How clumsy of me. It seems your opinion of my gracefulness is mistaken, my Lord. I wonder in what other ways you have mistaken me?”
He recovered swiftly enough, turning her gracefully on the polished wooden floor. “Even the most graceful of us may stumble, Miss Kuchiki. Surely a single misstep cannot erase everything else I see.” His brows, of a similar color to his hair, drew down into a furrow of confusion.
She stepped on his foot once again at the very next opportunity. “Can it not?”
The look in his eyes was one of confusion, and he blurted out, “Miss Kuchiki, even were you to lack grace, the weight of your foot upon mine is no burden. You are as light as a rabbit.”
“As a rabbit,” she repeated. First Lady Castlereagh, and now this man! Merely because she was a miss and not a lady, they believed they could insult her. “Do you make a habit of insisting upon your prejudices even when you are at that very moment being proven wrong?” she asked sharply.
“Miss Kuchiki, I cannot help but think we are no longer speaking of your skill upon the dance floor,” Kurosaki said, and there was so much puzzlement in his voice that Rukia suppressed a snort.
Instead, she forced a smile upon her face, one insincere and simpering. “I am certain I do not know what you mean, my Lord. I am merely an insipid girl whose sole aims are securing the prestige of a title and the coin of a marriage settlement.”
His eyebrow twitched, but if he had something to say, it was lost as the dance ended. Though he could have offered to convey her to the refreshments table or accompany her on a promenade around the room, Lord Kurosaki returned her to her chaperone with haste, eyes still filled with confusion as he thanked her for the dance.
Ichigo took a sip from his glass of whiskey. Lady Castlereagh had called Miss Rukia Kuchiki a rabbit, but she had a temperament much like Beatrice. She was a puzzle, to be sure: he had rather thought she was warming to him, and then she had all but accused him of insulting her and seeing her as inferior.
Though Ichigo cared little for propriety, even he knew that insulting the Duke of Sakura’s sister was a poor choice. And he could not think what he had said that might have done so. Yet his attempted flirtation had fallen so flat. They had not spoken a word the rest of the evening after the dance ended and she had danced with no other, only stayed along the sidelines until her chaperone had taken her home.
“Lord Kurosaki.”
Ichigo turned. “Lady Ichimaru.” He nodded his head to his hostess for the evening. Marriage-minded misses and their mothers all coveted an invitation to the annual Ichimaru ball; it was second, perhaps, only to Almack’s in exclusivity. Much like Almack’s, he supposed his status as an unmarried Marquess and son of a wealthy Duke had seen him granted admission.
Lady Rangiku Ichimaru, nee Matsumoto, had proven herself a gracious hostess, far more so than the assembly rooms in fact. Besides the wine that flowed freely and the excellent whiskey from her husband’s collection, her staff had served a supper that would challenge even Karakura’s generosity.
“Have you met Miss Orihime Inoue?”
It was an effort to hide his wince behind his glass. “Indeed, we were introduced at the first ball of the season,” Ichigo said finally, as Miss Inoue blushed hotly from her place beside their host. “And once more at Almack’s last Wednesday,” he added with another sip.
She was in another of those pastel, frothy pink gowns, with as high a waistline as she could manage; it looked well enough on her, he supposed. Other men found her attractive beyond compare and had even referred to her as a diamond of the first water. Her shape was unfashionably voluptuous by society’s standards; Ichigo had no quarrel with it, but could not see the appeal that led so many to dog her footsteps.
It wasn’t altogether proper for Lady Ichimaru to introduce Miss Inoue to him, especially not a third time, but she was their hostess, and beside that, Lord Ichimaru was too utterly besotted to correct his wife on matters of etiquette.
Persistent chit. She was likely a friend to Lady Ichimaru. He did not wish to offend his host, yet were he to dance with her a third time there would be rumors. Rumors he did not wish, in the least, to entertain.
Nearby, Miss Kuchiki circulated with Miss Ise, and against his will Ichigo found his gaze following them. Miss Kuchiki wore white well; despite the paleness of her skin the color of her gown made her glow. Her hair was swept up in an elaborate knot high on her head and studded with delicate pearls that shone against the jet-black silk of her hair. Her smile as she spoke with Miss Ise lit up her face in its entirety. Despite himself, Ichigo wondered if he might have a chance to make her smile like that, for all that he had somehow botched their first meeting.
A man even taller than him, with titian hair slicked back, approached them. Renji Abarai. Even at this distance he could see the way Miss Kuchiki stiffened up, expression shuttered. It was patently obvious to anyone paying attention that she found him an unwelcome arrival.
“What an unfortunate hairline,” he muttered despite himself.
“I beg your pardon, my Lord?” Miss Inoue asked.
Rukia covered her mouth with her fan – and her shoulders shook. Had he made her laugh? But whatever emotion he’d inspired faded. She hadn’t been of such an uncomfortable disposition when they’d squabbled on Wednesday. He’d seen hurt in her gaze, and anger, but not this – this disinterest tinged with a hint of fear.
Still, he had no doubt that he would be unwelcome should he appear to provide a rescue.
“My Lord?”
Miss Inoue’s voice was so… high pitched. If he requested a dance he would be trapped with that voice for an entire set. The idea held no appeal, and though it was rude to reject her he could not stomach it.
“Forgive me, Lady Ichimaru, Miss Inoue. I must attend to something most urgent,” he said, and with another nod of his head to the Countess Ichimaru, he strode from the room.
The older men – the married ones, dragged to these events by their wives – were gambling and smoking in the cardroom; Ichigo caught a glimpse of his father sitting next to the Duke of Suffolk. He bypassed that room and another, then a third, until he stumbled upon the townhome’s library.
Ichigo let himself in and, upon closing the door to block out the lingering noise of the crowd, breathed out a sigh of relief. Lady Ichimaru would be annoyed with him for running away; she might even ban him from her next ball. Yet it was a small price to pay to avoid Miss Inoue and her transparent bids for his attention.
He would remain here for a time, until the next dance was ended. Perhaps there was a book he could borrow for his self-imposed exile.
The door opened again, and Ichigo turned away from the bookshelves, an apology ready on his lips for overstepping the hospitality of his hosts.
Yet rather than Lord or Lady Ichimaru, it was Miss Kuchiki who hurried inside and pushed the door shut.
“Miss Kuchiki,” he said. So, she had sought an escape much as he had.
She jumped, startled. “Lord Kurosaki.” Belatedly, she curtsied. “I was not aware that the library was in use.”
“You have escaped Mister Abarai, I see,” he observed, and watched the flush of color flare in her cheeks and throat. “Is his suit so undesirable?”
Miss Kuchiki stepped further into the library, hands fisting in her skirts. “Mister Abarai is as a brother to me,” she said, “and despite my telling him this, he insists upon pursuing me as a bride.” She glanced at him with eyes that reminded him of twilight, even in the gas lamps set around the room.
“Do you wish to aim higher? A Duke, perhaps?” This he said before he could stop himself.
She scoffed openly. “I wish, my Lord, to avoid this sorry business of marriage entirely, except that it would disappoint and dishonor my brother were I to say so.”
Interesting. “Miss Inoue has set her cap for me,” Ichigo said as he reached for one of the books on the shelves. The Ichimaru library possessed a copy of Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing.
“She is most popular this Season,” Rukia said. “How lucky you are, to have so much of her attention.”
“I would rather not have had it at all,” he admitted.
“Oh?”
“She is a simpering miss, angling for a title and expecting that others will give way due to her beauty.”
“You are very direct for saying so, my Lord,” Rukia said. Yet there was less hostility in her tone. She eyed him speculatively. “During last week’s ball, my Lord…”
When you stepped on my feet twice and claimed to be insipid. “Yes?”
“Were you… referring to me when you spoke of a simpering miss with no personality looking for a sizable marriage settlement?”
His brow furrowed. “No,” he said plainly. “It is one of my flaws to speak so directly. I would not insult you, Miss Kuchiki, and then tell you of your gracefulness.”
“It seems, then, my Lord, that I owe you an apology,” Miss Kuchiki said, shamefaced. “You looked at me when you said it, and I thought you must be speaking of me.”
Ichigo’s lips quirked. The little rabbit had a temper. “Were I to pursue a woman as wife, I would look for fire and grace. A woman who could look me in the eye and not flinch.”
Their eyes met, and Miss Kuchiki did not flinch. It sparked a wild idea in his head, one that he would almost certainly come to regret, and yet he shared it with her. “Perhaps we can assist each other, Miss Kuchiki.”
“In what way would my assistance be helpful, my Lord?” She sounded skeptical, and rightfully so.
“I wish to keep Miss Inoue at bay, and the other marriage-minded mothers seeking the title of Marchioness for their daughters,” Ichigo said with a casual air he did not feel. “While you are pursued ardently by a suitor you do not want – am I correct?”
“Yes, you have the right of it,” Rukia agreed, brows furrowed.
“I propose we form an attachment. A false one,” he hastened to add when she frowned at him. “I will pretend to pay you court throughout the Season. It will keep both our respective unwanted suitors at bay. At the end of the Season, or if there is someone for whom one of us genuinely forms an… attachment, you may jilt me under some pretext, and I will accept the blame so that your reputation is unmarred.”
She frowned up at him thoughtfully, but did not immediately tell him no. “You believe that Miss Inoue will be dissuaded by a sham courtship?”
Ichigo lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “She is a timid girl. Given the appearance of a match between us, I hope she will leave me alone.”
“Very well.” Miss Kuchiki’s expression lightened. “I will accept your offer of a faux attachment, my Lord, in our mutual endeavor to avoid unwanted suitors.” And she offered him her hand.
They shook on it, but he let go only reluctantly. Even through the satin of her evening glove, her small hand was soft in his.
“Now then, to escape the library without being caught,” Miss Kuchiki said lightly.
“I will leave first,” Ichigo offered, “and signal to you when it is safe for you to depart.”
And so he did, with the faint scent of her wintry perfume lingering in his thoughts.
Rukia traveled home in her brother’s carriage deep in thought. Far from being offended by her appearance, Lord Kurosaki had offered to help her, with his only request being that she assist him in dissuading Miss Inoue from her persistent attempts to form an attachment with him. It was a small enough price to pay for keeping Renji at bay.
She frowned in the darkness. Aunt Nyoko dozed against the thin carriage wall, soft snores leaving her open mouth, and so did not see it to caution her against frown lines. She had thought Ichigo was speaking of her when he complained about simpering misses; yet he had sought to further their acquaintance.
She had misjudged him, even as she accused him of doing the same to her.
Well.
Rukia tucked her pelisse more closely around her body as a barrier against the chill night air. She would have plenty of opportunity to make up for her rudeness, given Lord Kurosaki’s plan.
Kurosaki called upon her at the townhouse at a respectable hour the following day, and over tea and sandwiches in the front parlor they plotted. The kitchen staff had provided sandwiches thick with sliced roast and horseradish for him, and far daintier watercress and cucumber sandwiches for her. They sat in separate wingback chairs, upholstered in pale blue to coordinate with the flocked, darker blue paper-hangings upon the walls. Sunlight from the high, arched windows provided enough light to see by.
Thanks to her brother’s influence and the Queen’s endorsement, Rukia had an invitation to nearly every ball, musicale, and art showing for the Season. Were she desirous of it, she needn’t spend a single night at home.
“We must be seen together publicly, my Lord,” Rukia said quietly as she laid a handwritten list of events upon the table between them. Aunt Nyoko was serving as chaperone but had dozed off once again, her soft snores carrying to them from her chair in the corner.
Ichigo glanced toward the source of the noise and then smirked at her. “Our chaperone is most obliging,” he teased.
“So she is,” Rukia agreed, and tried to ignore the way her cheeks prickled when he smiled at her. “I think the Suffolk ball is public enough for our first outing,” she commented.
“There is a reading of Shakespearean sonnets the following week that I would like to attend.”
“So you really do like Shakespeare,” Rukia said, and added, “Am I to suppose that one of the histories is your favorite? Hamlet, perhaps?”
Oddly, his cheeks flushed. “I am fonder of Much Ado About Nothing,” he admitted.
A romantic comedy? It was unexpected enough that she teased, “Are you looking for your Beatrice, then? You said that you preferred fire to timidity, and of Shakespeare’s heroines her merry war with Benedick is certainly fiery.”
“Beatrice and Benedick may engage in a merry war, yet there is love and trust between them,” Lord Kurosaki said quietly.
Unaccountably, Rukia’s cheeks heated and she felt a flush at her throat. “We will have to be seen at the Smythe-Smith musicale,” she said, and took a sip of tea to cool her cheeks.
He groaned. “Have you seen them perform? They are utterly terrible.”
“They are,” Rukia agreed with a laugh, “yet we cannot miss it, or we shall be declared unsupportive of the family. They do try awfully hard, my Lord.”
Lord Kurosaki grimaced. “I shall smuggle in a knob of beeswax to plug up our ears,” he said resignedly, but he smiled so shyly at her when she laughed that Rukia couldn’t help her smile in return.
This isn’t real, she admonished herself. We are only pretending until the end of the Season. Yet she was sad to see him go after another cup of tea.
Their courtship debut at the Suffolk ball set tongues wagging.
“A well-matched pair,” the Dowager Duchess of Suffolk declared to her companions as the first dance began. “Though it is a trifle unfortunate that Miss Kuchiki is only related to the Duke of Sakura through the late Duchess, her deportment speaks well of her.”
“Lord Kurosaki is monopolizing Miss Kuchiki,” Mister Asano said dolefully later in the evening when they partnered for a second set; a sign of their attachment, given the length of each of the country dances set by their hosts.
Miss Inoue cast her a venomous look as they danced the second set, and Rukia steadfastly ignored her. She had not been imagining Lord Kurosaki’s skill at dancing, and with their agreement in place she no longer felt the need to step on his toes. Instead, she focused on her partner and enjoyed a most agreeable evening with her hand in his.
“Have you read Pride and Prejudice, my Lord?” she asked as he led her through the second set. “It was only published in January, yet I am told the novel has been so well-received the publisher is printing more.”
“Will you not call me Ichigo?” he asked, and Rukia’s cheeks turned pink at the offered intimacy. She had never yet been asked to use a man’s given name before Ichigo. “I have read the novel,” Ichigo admitted, “and found enjoyment in it, though I wonder how many young women will read it and hope for a Mister Darcy to find them.”
Rukia scoffed. “We are hardly so empty-headed as to hope for a Darcy in our lives,” she said with a laugh. “At best most of us can only hope our suitors possess a reasonably gentle manner and all of their teeth.” But she added more shyly, “You must call me Rukia, if I am to call you Ichigo.”
“Surely you can expect more than that,” he said as he led her away from the dance floor at the end of the set. “May I escort you to the dining room, Rukia?” It was nearly one in the morning and a late supper was being served in the vast dining room of the Suffolk mansion.
“You may,” Rukia said agreeably, and with her free hand she delicately, briefly fanned herself.
Lady Suffolk had spared no trouble or expense on their meal. Servants placed course after course before them: delicate soups followed by heartier fare. They sat next to one another, Rukia on Ichigo’s right side, and though one or the other was pulled away by the other dinner guests from time to time, they kept their heads together much of the night.
At the end of the evening, Ichigo even brushed a kiss to her knuckles after he escorted her to her Aunt Nyoko.
“He is certainly attentive,” Nyoko commented approvingly as they traveled home to the Kuchiki townhouse in the curricle, it being a nice enough evening to go without cover. She smoothed down the dark pelisse she wore; not a single strand of her dark, silken hair, shot through with silver, was out of place despite the fact that it was nearly dawn. “Do you believe he will speak with His Grace regarding an offer for your hand?”
Rukia closed her eyes.
This isn’t real. He was only pretending, they were only pretending. Yet his hand in hers had felt right, and he had stayed by her side nearly the entire night, avoiding even the cardroom in which most men found refuge when they tired of dancing.
Ichigo was an excellent actor.
“I believe it is too soon to tell, Aunt Nyoko,” she said.
He escorted her to the Smythe-Smith musicale later in the month. Though Ichigo did not make good on his promise to provide beeswax for their ears, the both of them having determined that they would be caught, he did find them a pair of chairs toward the rear of the reception to lessen the impact of the interminably long, poorly performed musical pieces.
“You mustn’t say anything negative about the performance,” she whispered fiercely to him as the assembled guests clapped politely. The four Smythe-Smith cousins at the front of the room took their bows, one of them looking rather as though she’d much rather be anywhere else.
“I wouldn’t dare,” Ichigo vowed, and to his credit barely flinched throughout an hour’s performance featuring off-key violins, a harp that was more strummed than plucked, and a cello that, halfway through the performance, suffered a broken string.
The crowd was considerably more enthusiastic in their applause at the end of the performance, though nearly all were expressing relief in the ending of the unfortunate performance. Ichigo offered his hand to escort her to supper, and Rukia marveled at the softness in his expression as he tucked her hand in the crook of his arm.
“Are you acquainted with the Smythe-Smiths?” Ichigo asked as they strolled towards the dining room. Her skirt swished pleasingly around her legs; she’d worn her new buttercup yellow evening frock.
“I am not. But the ton can be so cruel; they applaud the performance but speak ill of the girls when they are barely out of earshot.”
Ichigo offered her a smile so soft yet so sincere that she thought perhaps the sun had come out to shine down upon her despite the late hour.
And when, at the end of the night, he pressed a tender kiss to her knuckles, Rukia couldn’t help the shiver that worked its way up her gloved arm.
At the Duke of Lansing’s ball two weeks later, however, one of Ichigo’s friends pulled him away for a conversation. He glanced over at Rukia; the music would begin at any moment, and she would either be unpartnered or else asked to dance by someone else.
The idea of watching her dance with another made something in his stomach clench tight.
“You will join me, won’t you, Kurosaki?”
Ichigo cleared his throat and returned his attention to Uryuu Ishida, his cousin and the Earl of Quincy. “Forgive me, cousin.”
Ishida let out a sigh and shook his head. “I asked if you will join me for billiards Thursday next.”
Thursday next. “I have already promised my time to Ru—to Miss Kuchiki,” Ichigo said. “I will be escorting her to the Asano’s garden party.”
Ishida raised an eyebrow. “Since when,” he asked, “do you go to garden parties? Or escort anyone other than your sisters?”
Since I began courting Rukia and wanted to make sure she was seen on my arm as often as possible, he thought. “I offered to accompany Miss Kuchiki,” he repeated.
Miss Kuchiki, who from the corner of his eye was steeling herself: Renji Abarai was approaching her. He would ask her to dance, and if she refused him she would be unable to dance the rest of the evening, unless she wished to break the protocol and etiquette expected of her.
Having met her aunt, Ichigo doubted she would do that.
“Excuse me,” Ichigo said to his cousin, and strode away to Ishida’s low laughter.
He reached Rukia’s side just as she said, “I am feeling indisposed to dancing this evening, Mister Abarai. Please respect my wishes.”
Ichigo blinked. He hadn’t expected her to tell the other man no outright. “Miss Kuchiki,” he said, ignoring Abarai entirely. “Are you unwell? Would you like me to have your carriage brought around?”
“Oh! Lord Kurosaki.” Rukia turned toward him and offered a perfunctory curtsy. “I believe I am merely in need of some fresh air and a cool drink. I am more than a trifle overwarm.”
Renji scowled down at her with such a fierce look that Ichigo stepped between them before he could stop himself. “I am more than capable of escorting you to the balcony for some fresh air, Rukia,” he said peevishly. He had a slight accent, something rough and untutored that slipped out as he grew more annoyed. “And she doesn’t need another protector.”
Using one’s rank or wealth to cow and intimidate another person was gauche and uncivil. His parents had taught him that, and he had taken it to heart. Yet Ichigo suddenly wanted nothing more than to do both to Abarai, and then beat him within an inch of his life besides that.
Rukia took the decision out of his hands. “Mister Abarai is correct: I do not require a protector,” she said bluntly, and stepped out from behind him. “Merely a glass of punch and a turn about the balcony. If you are still willing, Lord Kurosaki?”
In answer Ichigo held out his hand. His stomach unknotted as soon as she touched it. “I would be honored, Miss Kuchiki.” And he swept her away from Abarai in a flurry of ivory gauze without a backward glance. “Are you truly unwell?” he asked when they were some distance away.
Her throat flushed. “I did not wish to dance with him, even if not doing so meant that I would not be able to dance at all,” Rukia murmured.
He squeezed her hand gently before letting go as they reached the refreshments table. Ichigo filled a pair of glasses with punch before guiding her to the balcony.
It was still cool enough outside that they were the only two present; he drew her into the shadows, away from the door. “If it happens again,” Ichigo said into the darkness, “Tell him that you have already promised to dance with me.”
“But I haven’t promised it yet,” she teased. Rukia took a sip of punch and set her glass down on the wide, flat railing.
He reached out and tipped her chin up with one finger until her eyes met his. “May I have the next dance, Rukia?” Ichigo asked, an unfamiliar huskiness to his voice.
She swallowed visibly, cheeks flushed red, and nodded. “You may,” she agreed.
They drew closer hesitantly, until their noses nearly brushed. “And the next after that?” he asked.
“And the next after that.”
He might have kissed her, but the balcony door swung open, and Ichigo pulled back to a safe distance. There was a hint of disappointment in Rukia’s eyes as he did so.
There was no next dance. The following week, Ichigo arrived at the Kuchiki townhome in a handsome carriage to escort Rukia to the Asano’s garden party. She had taken care with her appearance, donning a walking dress of fine, ivory muslin trimmed with bands of cornflower blue embroidery and a pelisse to match the trim. Ichigo handed her up into the carriage himself, and her Aunt Nyoko after her.
The garden party was, owing to the unpredictability of the weather, largely held indoors. Guests dutifully admired the late spring flowers in Lady Asano’s garden before taking tea and mingling in the parlors of the Asano townhome while a renowned horticulturalist attempted to kill them all with boredom. Ichigo stuck close to Rukia’s side, in part thanks to Miss Inoue’s presence but more because he wished to accompany her.
The eldest son and heir of the family was a reasonably close friend of his, and so despite the mild impropriety of it, as he began to grow bored with the droning on of the medicinal properties of herbs, Ichigo leaned down to murmur to Rukia, “Come with me.”
It was a sign of her trust in him – perhaps misplaced – that she followed. They snuck away from the parlor and to the library, shutting the door behind them with a near-silent click.
“I thought I was going to fall asleep,” Rukia complained lightly. “Had I any idea that a garden party meant listening to someone endlessly droning on about rosemary and rue, I would not have forced you to accompany me.”
Ichigo chuckled softly. “I don’t mind,” he said, drifting closer to her. “I would attend a dozen terrible garden parties with you, if you asked.”
Her cheeks flushed red. “Fortunately for you, there is only one more garden party scheduled before the summer,” Rukia said with a laugh. “You needn’t put yourself through such torture.” Yet she straightened up as he came closer.
This close he could see the flecks of gray in her dark eyes and count every lash on her lids. Though she wore no cosmetics her cheeks and lips were a soft pink. Ichigo breathed in and caught the faintest whiff of perfume. “It isn’t torture, not if it’s with you,” he said. And then he kissed her the way he had been aching to for weeks, lips covering hers chastely and then less so when she opened her mouth on a soft gasp.
They kissed for a small eternity, until her breath quickened and he shivered against her as he held her close.
“Forgive me,” he said hoarsely when they parted.
“No,” Rukia said, and tugged him closer once more by the lapels of his day jacket. “I shall not forgive you, unless you kiss me again.”
Ichigo laughed against her lips and their eyes met, soft and warm, before he kissed her again as she had asked. She tasted of the tea they’d been drinking and smelled of winter blossoms. And she fit so very perfectly into his arms. He wanted to kiss her again. He wanted to kiss her forever.
It was his fault, for losing track of time and losing himself in her lips, in the feel of her hip under his hand. His fault, for overstepping. His fault, for not hiding Rukia well enough behind him when the door was flung open and a feminine gasp reached his ears.
“Lord Kurosaki!” A strident voice rang through the library, and Ichigo wished dearly that he really could hide Rukia, because she cringed against him. “How dare you?”
He looked up, lips swollen and cheeks flushed. Lady Nyoko Kuchiki glared at him from the doorway, leaning hard on her cane, and beside her stood Miss Inoue, her mouth set in a firm line and chin raised.
“I am sorry, Lady Kuchiki, that my suspicions were correct,” Miss Inoue said in that high, sweet voice of hers. “Miss Kuchiki is quite ruined.”
Ichigo held Rukia tight against him for a long moment despite Lady Kuchiki’s further gasp of outrage. “I will make this right, Rukia,” he whispered to her. “I promise.”
Then to Lady Kuchiki he bowed his head and said, “I will call upon His Grace as soon as I speak with my father, Lady Kuchiki. You have my word as a gentleman and a peer.”
Lady Kuchiki rapped her cane on the floor. “Accosting a young woman in a library is not gentlemanly behavior, Lord Kurosaki,” she admonished. “Nevertheless, I shall inform His Grace to expect you.” Despite her outrage, there was a hint of satisfaction in her gray eyes.
Miss Inoue merely looked horrified.
But it was Rukia whom he cared to comfort, and when he stepped away from her it was with another promise that everything would be alright. “I swear it,” he murmured as he let her go.
“Aunt Nyoko…”
Lady Kuchiki rapped the floor once again. If she did it a third time, she might damage the wood, Ichigo thought with a touch of hysteria. “We will discuss this at home, Rukia,” she said sternly. Then she whisked Rukia away from his sight immediately.
“You deserve a woman of strong virtue,” Miss Inoue piped up sweetly from the doorway. Her big brown eyes looked up at him winsomely. Not a strand of auburn was out of place on her head, and her day dress was cut to flatter her. Most men might have wanted to accost her, instead.
If she’d been born a man, he would have hit her. Ichigo pinned her with his glare until she stepped out of his way. “Miss Inoue,” he said as calmly as he could manage.
“Yes, Lord Kurosaki?”
“Do not attempt to speak with me again. And if you breathe a single word against Miss Kuchiki, I will see to it that your Almack’s voucher revoked and with it your welcome at every private ball this Season.” He strode past her, one hand clenching into a fist.
He stepped into his father’s office less than an hour later.
Isshin Shiba, the Duke of Karakura, was an… eccentric man. Though a peer, he was fascinated with all matters to do with health and medicine, and his office was evidence of that: books on anatomy, medical treatments, and herbal medicine filled an entire shelf. Paintings of medicinal plants hung upon the silk damask-covered walls. Though he could not train as a physician in his youth, having been the heir to the dukedom, he was known to sponsor the education of other physicians, and no few men (and one woman) were engaged in the art of medicine due to his influence and money.
He was also…
“Ichigooooo!”
Utterly mad. Ichigo sidestepped swiftly to avoid his father’s attack and struck back with a kick, sending his father crashing into the wall. A decorative globe on a nearby shelf teetered precariously and fell, bouncing once and then shattering on the marble floor.
Isshin picked himself up. “You haven’t lost your skills despite spending far too much time in ballrooms. Well done, my son!” he crowed.
Ichigo pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Sit down,” he said with a low growl, and dropped into the heavily cushioned chair in front of his father’s desk.
His father eyed him speculatively and did as he was asked. “Is something troubling you?” he asked more seriously. “Is it a woman?”
“Yes. And yes.”
He could hardly be blamed for sighing so heavily when his father teared up.
“I wish to ask for Miss Rukia Kuchiki’s hand in marriage,” Ichigo said bluntly. “I require your permission as I will not turn twenty-one until July.”
Isshin’s eyebrows rose. “Are you going to make me a grandfather? Will there be little feet running through Karakura once more?” he asked, already blubbering.
“No!” Ichigo winced and lowered his voice. “No, Miss Kuchiki is not with child. I merely… kissed her,” he said reluctantly. “And we were caught by her aunt and a… woman who had set her cap for me.”
His father stood and reached for a pair of glasses on the sideboard, then for a decanter of scotch. “Tell me what happened,” he ordered. “From the beginning.”
He left for Brooks’s a few hours later, having dispatched a messenger to the Kuchiki townhome. His cousin was expecting him, and he wouldn’t mind a drink and a game of whist to calm and settle him before his appointment with Byakuya tomorrow.
Uryuu welcomed him grudgingly at his table, and a member of the staff brought him a glass of whiskey without being asked. “There is a wager here on the books that you are offering for the Kuchiki girl,” he said. “No few of the men have bet that you meant only to have a dalliance and will allow her to be ruined.”
“There would be one at White’s if Sakura wasn’t a member,” Ichigo said with a shrug. He took a sip of whiskey. “That chit Inoue arranged to have us caught.” At Uryuu’s incredulous look, he took another sip. “She aimed to have Rukia declared ruined so that I would jilt Rukia and court her instead.”
They drank in silence for a long moment. “That was ill done of Miss Inoue,” Uryuu said quietly. “She is a friend, and I thought her better than that.”
Ichigo kept to himself the thought that he did not believe she was. It was enough that he had told her never to approach him again.
A commotion towards the front of the club drew their attention, and Ichigo’s eyes widened at the sight of Renji Abarai, hair slicked back and a scowl beneath his beady eyes. “I had thought he was blackballed from the club,” he muttered.
“He was,” Uryuu confirmed. “And from White’s, as well.”
Though the staff tried to stop him, as did several of the other club members who had been enjoying their whiskey and cards, Renji reached their table.
The odor of stale alcohol wafted off his breath and rumpled clothes. “Knew you’d be here,” he snarled. “You need to stay away from Rukia.”
Ichigo rose from his chair and straightened his coat with both hands. “Mister Abarai,” he said amiably. “Miss Kuchiki considers you something of a brother, so I will ask you once to leave.”
Years of dodging his father’s unexpected attacks had granted him quick reflexes, and Abarai was impaired and sloppy with drink. Ichigo dodged the first blow and the second as well. He ignored the outraged shouts around him at the breach of decorum.
Abarai’s third punch caught him in the mouth, and Ichigo thumbed away the blood from a split lip. He snarled and retaliated with a right hook and an uppercut – the second laid Abarai flat. Ichigo inspected his knuckles and bowed his head to the club’s overseer. “I apologize for the disturbance,” he said. “A gentleman’s disagreement over a lady. Please have a round of drinks brought for the tables nearest us on my account, and something for the staff as well.”
The overseer, an older gentleman with a luxurious gray mustache and dark eyes, bowed his head. “Thank you, my Lord. Perhaps, just for tonight of course, you might find your entertainment elsewhere?”
Kicked out of my own club. Ichigo sighed and turned to Uryuu next. “I have a decent whiskey at the townhouse,” he said diffidently.
He stepped over Abarai’s unconscious body on his way out of the club.
Rukia was confined to her rooms. Maids brought her meals she barely touched and told her nothing of her brother-in-law, who had arrived home and immediately closeted himself with Aunt Nyoko.
She was a disgrace. Ichigo had promised to right everything, and yet how could he? She was compromised and ruined, no matter that they had only kissed. The upper echelons of the ton would assume they had done more than that, and given the precariousness of her position – informally adopted sister, sister-in-law of a woman Byakuya had defied all the mores of the ton to marry – there would be no forgiveness.
She did not sleep but paced until she was exhausted, and then drifted in and out of consciousness until a maid tapped on her door two mornings later.
The maid bobbed a curtsy. “His Grace requests your presence in his study, Miss,” she said. “I’m to help you dress.”
She hurried Rukia into a morning dress and helped her make her hair presentable – there was nothing to be done about the dark circles beneath her eyes she saw reflected in the looking glass.
Rukia steeled herself as she rapped lightly on the door of her brother’s study, and waited for the solemn come in from the other side of the heavy oak door.
“Your Grace,” she murmured with a curtsy. At Byakuya’s gesture she straightened up and then sat in the gray wingback chair he indicated. Aunt Nyoko was in the other, already wearing a proper burgundy walking dress.
“Aunt Nyoko has informed me of your behavior two days past,” Byakuya said tonelessly. He had never been an overtly emotional man, and yet Hisana’s death had created the shell of a man before her: wearing jet black despite the time of day, black hair silver-streaked and tied with a black ponytail. Though there was nothing to say men must wear mourning for very long, he had never put his black clothes away and when forced to wear color by circumstance, donned a black armband.
Rukia’s cheeks burned with shame. “I am sorry for bringing dishonor to the Kuchiki name,” she whispered.
“Hn. Honor will be satisfied,” he said, and Rukia jerked her head up.
“No! Brother, please, you cannot duel Lord Kurosaki,” she pled, and fell silent when he held up a hand.
“There is no need for so barbaric a practice as a duel,” Byakuya said sternly. “Kurosaki presented himself to me yesterday afternoon and asked for your hand in marriage. I have granted my permission, and a generous marriage settlement. The Duke of Karakura will use his influence with the Archbishop of Canterbury to procure a special license.
“You will be married in a fortnight.”
Married. Ichigo had offered to marry her to save her reputation from ruin, and in doing so had trapped himself. He had sought a Beatrice, a woman with fire. More than that, he had wanted love. Instead, he would be tethered to her, to the woman he had faked a courtship with to avoid the attentions of another. “I see,” she said dully.
“Aunt Nyoko will hire a seamstress to prepare your wedding gown and will oversee the wedding planning,” he added. “You will remain here in the townhome until the wedding. I shall send your regrets to the events you had planned to attend.”
“Yes, brother,” she whispered towards the hands clenched in her lap.
“Rukia.” She looked up, and there was a slight softness in his expression, so slight she might have imagined it. “Though this… indiscretion is not how I would have preferred to arrange your marriage, Lord Kurosaki is an honorable man and by all accounts a kind one. He will be a good husband to you.”
But it’s my fault he must be a husband to me at all. “He is a good man,” Rukia agreed softly. Better than I deserve.
The ensuing two weeks were a waking nightmare. Barred from leaving the townhome, unable to see Ichigo and apologize for ruining his life, Rukia spent her days in fittings for a wedding gown she might have been proud to wear under other circumstances, or sitting with Aunt Nyoko while she planned the wedding ceremony and reception.
At night she dreamed of her future husband. Sometimes she dreamed of his kisses, heady and perfect. But more often her sleep was haunted by images of him hurling invective at her, blaming her for being a Katherina rather than a Beatrice, for a litany of things she never denied.
It was hardly restful.
In an age and in no time at all, the day of her wedding arrived. Despite the special license, Rukia was to marry in the church in which her sister and brother-in-law had said their vows. Left alone before the ceremony, Rukia paced in the vestibule, white silk swishing around her legs. Her maid had done up her hair with sparkling pins to match the beads. Even the stays and shift beneath her clothes were new, both pricked with white embroidery for the occasion.
Her eyes burned and despite herself, more tears spilled down her cheeks. Feet quickening beneath her, Rukia drove her fingers through her hair, setting akilter the beads and careful ringlets her maid had created. Ichigo would hate her, he would curse her name for trapping him, he would…
“Rukia?”
She turned at the sound of his voice.
Ichigo was even more handsome than he had been even just two weeks ago, or perhaps it was that she had missed him. His coat fit him nicely, and his knee breeches clung to his thighs appealingly. His hair was neatly combed, though a few locks fell onto his forehead. And his whiskey-dark eyes were watching her carefully.
Rukia impatiently scrubbed the tears from her cheeks. “I am sorry, my Lord,” she whispered.
He closed the distance between them and thumbed away more tears from beneath her eyes. “Ichigo,” he reminded her. “What are you apologizing for?”
“It is my fault you must walk down the aisle with a woman you do not love,” Rukia said miserably. “It was never my intention for this to happen. I never wanted to trap you, and yet I have.”
He watched her while she spoke, fingers still brushing her tears away. “You have not trapped me,” Ichigo said sharply.
Rukia blinked up at him. “What?”
“I took you to the library that day, Rukia. I kissed you, and did not guard against anyone finding us.” Ichigo touched his forehead to hers. “The fault is mine. And I am glad for it.”
“G-glad?” Rukia’s voice rose.
“I am sorry for causing you embarrassment,” Ichigo continued, “and for the isolation you have endure these past weeks. But I will not be sorry for offering for your hand in marriage, Rukia.”
“You – but you do not love me! Our courtship was a ruse, a means of dissuading our respective unwanted suitors.” She stared up at him with wide eyes.
“It has not been a ruse since the Smythe-Smith musicale,” Ichigo protested.
“But you – we called it a ruse! We planned an entire Season of outings!”
There was a gasp from beyond the vestibule; neither of them paid it any mind.
“I did not kiss you at the garden party for a ruse, Rukia. I kissed you because I am irretrievably, irrevocably in love with you!” Ichigo practically shouted.
“You – you what?” she asked breathlessly.
“I never wish to be parted from you from this day forward, and though I am not glad to have caused you pain, I deeply, desperately want you as my bride and wife, for all the rest of my days.”
A sob echoed within the church, and murmurings beyond that. It was unfashionable to admit to passion for one’s bride in public, after all.
Rukia’s heart, so heavy for the last fortnight, felt suddenly light as a feather in her chest, and an effervescent feeling rushed through her. More tears spilled down her cheeks but she was smiling as she said, “I love you too, Ichigo.”
That was all she could get out before he leaned down and kissed her, so softly that she almost might have imagined it. “Then will you marry me, Rukia?” he asked softly.
“I thought we were already getting married,” she teased, laughter bubbling up.
“We are. But I wished to ask you this time, and not your brother.”
Another kiss, this one less chaste. Another sob echoed from within the church followed by distinctly male blubbering: “I knew they were right for each other! Our son will have such a loving wife, Masaki, and we will have many grandchildren!”
Rukia’s cheeks burned red. “The Duke of Karakura is… very enthusiastic,” she admitted.
Ichigo rolled his eyes. “My father is an eccentric. I promise it does not run in the family.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. Carefully, he helped her dry the last of her tears and put her hair back together, until she was as presentable as could be save for the slight redness in her eyes.
Then he took her hand, and together they left the vestibule and walked down the aisle, past guests who looked both scandalized and thrilled to pieces. Ichigo’s father was sobbing happy tears in the front row; Byakuya was his usual stoic self, but when Rukia met his eyes he unbent enough to offer her a modest smile. Miss Inoue’s sobbing echoed through the rafters.
Ichigo and Rukia met the priest at the front of the church. He opened his book and began: “Dearly beloved…”