Speak Now
݈݇— pairings: Bucky Barnes x f!reader ݈݇— themes: Regency Era, Pining, Stupid Misunderstanding, Jealousy, ChildhoodFriends-To-Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Confession. No use of y/n. ݈݇— summary: He never looks at you. . .but you wished he did. Reaching adulthood has changed both of you. Too much expectations, too much matchmaking. And tonight he seems to be enjoying being in the company of another, and you have no right to feel this way when you're the first one who distanced yourself. Author's Note: IT'S BRIDGERTON SEASON OKAY?? Don't worry though, Bucky doesn't ask you to be his mistress lmao. Part of the Valentine's Day Specials.
You could still clearly recall that exact moment: how Bucky had leaned in closer, his mischievous eyes dancing, and waved his teacup at you and the poor, sincere young man hovering nearby. Two summers ago, it had happened at Lady Beckett's garden party, under a striped marquee filled with roses, laughter, and the sound of teacups clinking.
In front of your mutual friends, he had teasingly said, "I believe she and Mr. Storm will make a splendid couple."
It had been done with good intentions. It had been intended as harmless fun, as a sign of his goodwill and approval for you, as brotherly entertainment.
However, it felt as though something inside of you broke in that moment, as you stood there in the filtered sunlight, his laughter still echoing in your ears.
Because you suddenly understood, with terrible, blinding clarity.
You were not a woman in his eyes.
He saw you as he always had. As his childhood companion. His co-conspirator. His little stormcloud. Someone to be safely matched away to another man while he watched with unwavering approval and a clear conscience.
To spare Mr. Storm the humiliation of your silence, you had laughed then and concurred that Mr. Storm was quite agreeable and would one day make a woman very happy. You had even made fun of Bucky in return, saying something witty about his own admirers and how he should live up to his own advice.
He had never noticed the way your hands trembled around your teacup. He had never noticed the way your smile faltered when he turned away.
And so, quietly, without drama or accusation, you had begun to retreat.
You let others fill your dance card first. When he talked about how happy you would be with someone else, you learned to control your expression. You painstakingly taught yourself to look at him the way he looked at you: with love, with familiarity, and with nothing that would give away how much it hurt.
You told yourself it was sensible. You told yourself it was necessary. You told yourself that loving a man who so clearly did not love you in return was undignified, unwise, and bound to end in humiliation.
Better to step back while you still could.
Better to pretend you were merely growing up, growing distant and independent.
Better to break your own heart quietly than risk having him do it aloud.
Now, you stand at the edge of the ballroom, the heat of a hundred candles pressing against your skin, the air thick with beeswax and orange-flower water. The chandeliers glitter like frost above the swirling silks and satins, but your eyes find only one figure among the crowd.
James moves through the dancers as though the floor were made for him alone. His coat is midnight blue tonight, the colour of deep water cut so perfectly. He has grown into the promise of his boyhood: tall, dark-haired, with that same crooked smile that once belonged only to you. Now it belongs to everyone. To anyone who asks.
He is dancing with Lady Romanoff again.
You watch the way her gloved hand rests lightly on his sleeve, the way her red hair catches the light when she laughs at something he has whispered closely in her ear. They are beautiful together—striking, effortless, the sort of pair that makes mothers lean close and whisper about settlements and titles and future heirs.
Your stomach twists, a slow, familiar ache.
He never looks at you.
Not once. Not even when you entered the room in the new gown your mother insisted upon—pale primrose silk that cost more than sense should allow. Not when you passed within three feet of him earlier, close enough to catch the faint scent of bergamot and cedar that always clings to his coats. He had been speaking to Lord Pierce about hounds or politics or some such manly thing, and his eyes had slid over you as though you were part of the wallpaper.
You have known him all your life. Your mothers decided you should be friends when you were still in leading strings, and so you were. You shared lessons, pony rides, scraped knees, secrets whispered under the old oak. He taught you to climb trees; you taught him which berries would not make him sick.
When you were fifteen he sat beside you at the pianoforte in the music room at his father’s estate, his fingers guiding yours over the keys, his shoulder brushing yours, his voice low and teasing: “No—feel the music, don’t attack it.” You had felt it, all right—felt it straight through to your bones. You have never played the same since without remembering the warmth of his hand over yours.
You hate that memory now. You hate all of them.
You hate the way he still calls you “stormcloud” when he bothers to speak to you at all, as if you are forever the sullen twelve-year-old who once threw her embroidery hoop at his nose. You hate the way he talks of marriage so lightly—how any man would be fortunate to have you, how you will make some fellow excessively happy one day, how he will dance at your wedding and drink to your health and then go home to his own empty bed without a backward glance. He says it kindly, fondly, the way one praises a sister.
You are not his sister.
Your dance card hangs heavy from your wrist, half-filled with names you accepted only to have something to do with your hands. Lord Walker, Mr. Wilson, young Lord Reynolds—polite, eligible, perfectly unobjectionable. You will refuse them all later with headaches or twisted ankles or whatever excuse preserves their pride.
Across the floor, the music ends. Lady Romanoff curtsies; James bows. She says something that makes him laugh again—that low, warm laugh you used to collect like pressed flowers. He offers his arm; she takes it. They move toward the refreshment table, her head tilted toward his in easy confidence.
Your chest feels suddenly too small for your heart.
You turn away, pressing your fan against your mouth as though it might hold in the sharp, stupid tears that threaten.
That is when you hear them.
Two ladies stand just behind you, their voices lowered in what they clearly believe is discretion, their silk sleeves brushing, their heads inclined together like conspirators.
“It must be settled soon,” one murmurs.
“They are always together, are they not? Every assembly, every ball—Mr. Barnes never misses a dance with her.”
“Indeed,” the other replies softly. “My mother says it is only a matter of time. One does not parade a lady so openly unless one intends something serious.”
A pause. Then, with quiet satisfaction: “She will make a magnificent duchess.”
The ladies drift away, satisfied with their little exchange, unaware they have just undone someone.
Foolish, hopeless girl.
You have spent years waiting for him to see you and he never does. You tell yourself not to look at him, but you do anyway; you feel like a moth to a flame.
And there he is—still smiling at Lady Romanoff, still leaning slightly toward her, still offering her that soft, attentive expression he never seems to have for you anymore.
You cannot bear another moment of it.
You turn sharply, skirts whispering against your ankles, and slip through the nearest door that leads to the terrace. The night air strikes your cheeks like cold water; you drag it in, grateful for the shock of it. The ballroom’s golden glow spills out behind you in a long rectangle of light before the door closes and leaves you in shadow.
You are halfway across the flagstones, aiming for the stone balustrade and the dark gardens beyond, when you collide with a solid, unyielding form.
A startled gasp escapes you. Strong hands steady your elbows to keep you from stumbling.
“Forgive me—” you begin, the apology automatic, then falter as you look up.
Mr. Storm.
He is dressed plainly by the standards of the ton; dark coat, modest cravat, nothing to draw undue attention—yet he has always carried himself with confidence, a man accustomed to being overlooked and content with it. Tonight, however, his brow furrows the moment he sees your face.
“My lady, are you all right?” he asks gently.
His hands release you at once, but his concern does not. His gaze lingers in unmistakable worry, as though he cannot help noticing the glassy brightness in your eyes, the way your breath stutters as you try to master it.
You swallow.
You straighten.
You summon what remains of your composure and arrange it carefully upon your features like a mask.
“I am perfectly well,” you say, too quickly. “I merely required some air.”
He does not look convinced.
“You look—” He hesitates, then chooses his words with care. “You look as though something has troubled you.”
The kindness in his voice nearly unravels you.
You are tempted to confess, to admit that your heart feels as though it has been crushed between polite smiles and whispered speculations, that you are unbearably tired of pretending you do not love a man who so clearly does not love you back.
But you do not.
You cannot.
“I assure you, it is nothing,” you reply softly. “I only wished to be alone for a moment.”
He studies you, clearly torn between pressing further and respecting your wish. At last, he inclines his head.
“Of course,” he says quietly. “Forgive my intrusion.”
You offer him a small, grateful smile—one that does not quite reach your eyes. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Storm.”
You step around him, silk brushing past his sleeve as you pass, and move toward the balustrade before he can say anything more.
Behind you, Mr. Storm remains where he is, watching with gentle unease as you retreat into the shadows, painfully aware that whatever troubles you is far beyond his power to mend.
You stand at the balustrade with both hands braced against the cold stone, staring out at the shadowed hedges and winding paths as though they might offer answers, or absolution, or at the very least some small distraction from the turmoil inside your chest.
Your shoulders are held too straight, your breathing too measured, every muscle locked into place by sheer force of will, as though composure itself might fracture if you allow it even the smallest crack.
The night air stirs.
A soft breeze moves through the gardens, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and roses and something else—something painfully familiar.
Bergamot.
Cedar.
Warm wool and leather.
Your heart beats violently in your chest.
You know that scent. You have known it since childhood, since borrowed coats on cold mornings and shared rides and stolen moments in quiet corridors. You have known it in every season of your life, woven so thoroughly into your memory that you recognise it before you recognise anything else.
Before you hear footsteps.
Before you feel his presence.
Before he speaks.
You remain where you are, fingers pressing the stone more tightly, as though the balustrade might anchor you against the sudden, treacherous surge of emotion that threatens to undo you entirely.
He stops close.
Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him at your back, close enough that the hem of your gown brushes the toe of his boot, close enough that every nerve in your body lights up in helpless recognition.
“Stormcloud,” he says at last, and his voice is rougher than usual, stripped of its easy teasing.
You stiffen despite yourself.
For a moment, you pretend you have not heard him, that if you remain perfectly still he might vanish again into the shadows, that this is nothing more than your heart playing cruel tricks on you.
But you have never been very good at lying to yourself.
Slowly, reluctantly, you turn.
The moonlight spills over you like silver poured from the sky, catching in the loose strands at your temples, glinting along the silk at your throat, outlining every fragile line of your face. You see his breath catch as he looks at you, see the way his expression shifts from guarded to stunned to something dangerously close to awe, and for a fleeting, treacherous instant, you wonder if you imagined all of it.
Then sense returns.
“Bucky,” you say quietly, because anything louder might shatter you, “what are you doing here?”
He hesitates.
You see it—the familiar pause, the instinctive search for something safe and untrue, the reflexive attempt to hide behind politeness and humour and half-truths. You have watched him do it for years.
“I was—” he begins, then falters.
The lie dissolves.
“To see you,” he admits softly. “Of course.”
Your eyes flicker, betraying nothing of the storm beneath. You nod once, small and careful, the way you have learned to do when you do not trust yourself to speak honestly.
“Is my father looking for me already?” you ask, already retreating behind courtesy. “Then I must return.”
You step around him, intending to pass, intending to escape before your composure collapses entirely, but your shoulder brushes his chest as you do so, and the contact is like fire through silk and wool and bone.
You barely make it two steps when his fingers close around your wrist. You halt and turn back, your gaze dropping first to where he holds you, then lifting slowly to his face, wary and questioning.
“Your father is not looking for you,” he admits quietly, forcing his grip to loosen even as every instinct urges him to hold fast. “Might I—would you walk with me in the gardens? Just for a little while. If it pleases you.”
You study him in silence.
The familiar lines of his face are drawn tight with uncertainty, his eyes oddly stripped of their usual confidence.
At last, you nod once.
You free your wrist with a neat, controlled motion, and he releases you immediately, watching with visible remorse as you absently smooth the faint marks his fingers left behind.
“Ladies first,” he murmurs, gesturing toward the steps.
You descend into the gardens, skirts whispering over stone, acutely aware of him following at a distance that feels both suffocatingly close and unbearably far.
The gravel crunches beneath your slippers and his boots as you walk in silence, the moon casting pale ribbons of light across the paths. You keep your gaze fixed forward, chin lifted, every instinct screaming at you not to look at him, not to weaken, not to remember how easily he once made you laugh.
Beside you, he is painfully aware of his own clumsiness, of how effortlessly he can charm rooms full of strangers and how utterly helpless he becomes when it is only you.
He glances sideways. And you, sensing his gaze like a physical touch, feel your pulse betray you.
He clears his throat.
“You look radiant tonight,” he says at last, clumsy and earnest.
“Thank you,” you reply softly, politely, because politeness is safer than truth.
Silence falls again.
Your hands brush as you walk, once, then again, then again, the backs of his knuckles grazing yours with every step, each accidental touch sending shocks through your system that you pretend not to feel.
He struggles desperately for something harmless to say, something that will not expose how tightly wound he is, how close he is to unraveling in your presence.
“I noticed your dance card was filling quickly,” he says, attempting a careless lightness that does not quite reach his eyes. Then, with a crooked half-smile meant to soften the remark, he adds, “Did you—ah—did you happen to leave a space for me?”
The words land far harder than he intends.
You turn your head slowly, one brow arching in that familiar, cool manner that has unnerved him since you were sixteen, the expression that plainly asks whether he has quite lost his senses.
“A space for you?” you repeat quietly, incredulity threading through your voice. “And pray tell me, Bucky, why precisely should I reserve a place on my card for a gentleman who never troubles himself to ask?”
There is no sharpness in your tone, and yet every syllable carries years of restraint and disappointment beneath it, years of standing politely aside while he danced with other women and spoke of your future as though it belonged to anyone but himself.
“If you wished to claim a dance,” you continue, composed and unflinching, “you might have considered requesting one. That is, after all, the customary method.”
He winces inwardly, the rebuke striking exactly where it was meant to.
He stops walking.
You take one more step before realising and turning back, the moonlight falling fully upon your face, illuminating the restrained hurt in your eyes that he has been too blind to acknowledge for far too long.
James draws a breath that feels like the first in years.
“Then, will you dance with me now?” he asks quietly.
Dance with him?
The words hang in the moonlit air between you, impossible and absurd. A quiet, incredulous laugh escapes you sharply and a little broken.
“Dance with you?” you echo, glancing around at the empty gardens, the silent hedges, the distant glow of the ballroom windows. “Here? We shall look like two perfect buffoons waltzing about with no music.”
Bucky gives a slight shrug of one broad shoulder. His expression holds firm; if anything, it deepens in gravity, those striking blue eyes boring into yours and twisting your chest.
“Yes,” he says simply. “No one’s watching.”
You should refuse. You should walk away. You should preserve what remains of your dignity and leave him standing alone beneath the moonlight.
Instead, you hear yourself whisper, “Very well.”
He steps closer.
One hand settles at your waist, warm even through layers of silk and stays; the other lifts to take your free hand, fingers threading through yours with reverent care. He draws you in until you are close enough to feel the heat of him, close enough to remember every foolish, dangerous dream you have ever had about being held like this.
He begins to lead.
A slow, unhurried sway at first, then the familiar steps of a waltz, guiding you across the gravel to music only he seems to hear. His gaze never leaves your face; you feel it like a touch, intense and unwavering. You fix your eyes on his cravat, on the midnight-blue edge of his coat, anywhere but him.
But then he twirls you—smooth, effortless—and when you come back to him, your body fitting against his as though it remembers every childhood dance in empty corridors, he exhales softly against your hair and murmurs, almost plaintively,
“You look at everyone else so easily. I cannot remember the last time you looked at me like that.”
There is no accusation in his tone. Only bewilderment but that is not how it sounds to you.
To you, it sounds like vanity; entitlement. Like the complaint of a man accustomed to being admired and offended when he is not. You hear only arrogance. The careless confidence of a man who believes every woman in the room owes him her attention.
You push away from him, palms flat against his chest.
“Look at you?” The words burst out, hot and trembling. “Do you truly need every woman in society to look at you, Bucky? Are you that vain?”
He blinks, startled, colour rising along his cheekbones. “I meant no offence,” he says quickly. “I did not mean it like that—”
But the hurt has been dammed up too long; it spills over now, reckless and cruel.
“Then pray continue whatever it is you have with Lady Romanoff, or whichever beautiful, accomplished woman has caught your fancy this week,” you snap in a flurry of words. “I am certain they hang on your every word and gaze adoringly enough to satisfy even your considerable pride. I have not the time for these games.”
You step around him, skirts swishing, pulse roaring in your ears.
His hand shoots out again—fingers closing firmly around your wrist just as you pass.
“What’s got you so agitated?” His voice is quieter now. “And do not make up an excuse. You have been avoiding me for months.”
You stop.
You laugh again, short and bitter, without humour.
“You’ve been quite clear about your enthusiasm in finding me a match, now that you’ve found yours,” you reply coolly. “I am merely getting out of the way.”
You tug sharply at your wrist; his grip locks harder, solid without causing pain.
“And what, precisely, are my interests, if not you?” he demands, irritation threading through the words. “Do be so kind as to lay them out for me, since you seem to know them better than I do myself. Because I assure you, you are ridiculously mistaken—”
You snort, utterly unladylike. You roll your eyes toward the darkened sky as though appealing to the heavens for patience.
“Me? Oh, for God’s sake,” you mutter. Then you look back at him, chin lifting, eyes blazing.
“If you are so very confused,” you say tightly, “then perhaps you ought to return to Lady Romanoff at once and spare us both this absurdity. You already dance with her at every assembly, escort her everywhere, and allow half the ton to plan your wedding for you. Pray, do not let me delay you.”
You gesture sharply in the direction of the ballroom, bitterness threading every word.
“Go on,” you continue, voice trembling despite yourself. “Marry her. Make her exceedingly happy. Make her your duchess and let society applaud you for your excellent judgment.”
Your voice drops, edged with exhausted contempt.
“Why are you here with me at all?” you demand. “Why interrupt my evening to interrogate me as though I owe you explanations, when you have already made your preferences so abundantly clear? So I’ll say it again, I have neither the time nor the inclination to entertain this performance, James. If you wish to play at courtship, at least have the decency to commit to your chosen partner.”
His expression tightens.
For a moment he looks genuinely taken aback, as though he had not expected the depth of your resentment.
Then his spine straightens. His shoulders square and his jaw sets.
You see it instantly—the reflexive armour sliding into place, pride rising like a shield, the familiar defences of a man who has never learned how to admit he is frightened.
“If that is truly what you think,” he says coolly, wounded dignity sharpening every word, “then perhaps you ought to consider that I have done nothing more than behave as a rational man in an irrational situation.”
You blink.
He continues, voice firm and controlled
“You withdrew from me without explanation. You avoided me. You filled your card with other men. You made it perfectly clear that you wished for distance. And now you accuse me of impropriety for respecting it?”
He gestures helplessly between you.
“I am not a mind reader,” he adds, more harshly than he intends. “If you wanted something different from me, you might have said so. You cannot expect me to stand idle forever, waiting for signs you never gave—”
Your free hand moves before thought, palm cracking across his cheek with a sound sharp as a pistol shot in the quiet garden.
His head snaps to the side. For a long moment he stays turned away, profile silvered by moonlight. He turns his face back a touch, just enough to look at you sideways, eyes narrowed and dangerous. The corner of his mouth curves in a slow, dark smirk that sends heat and ice chasing down your spine. He pokes the tip of his tongue to the inside of his reddened cheek, as though tasting the sting.
Your stomach flips traitorously.
You yank again; this time he lets you go.
He lifts a hand to his cheek, thumb brushing the mark. “Well,” he drawls in his deep voice, amused, “she can slap.”
A rush of heat fills your chest, hot and angry and long suppressed, and before wiser thoughts can intervene, you shove both palms against his chest, meaning to put space between you, meaning to reclaim the distance you have spent years forcing upon yourself.
“Do not,” you snap, voice shaking with restrained emotion, “do not stand there and make sport of this as though it were some amusing anecdote to recount later.”
He does not move an inch.
Your hands meet solid resistance, muscle and bone unyielding beneath his coat, his boots rooted to the gravel as though he has grown there. He absorbs the push without flinching, without retreating, without allowing you even the smallest victory of distance.
If anything, he leans into it.
Refusing to be moved.
Refusing to let you go.
Your breath catches at the defiance of it, at the way his nearness seems to multiply rather than diminish.
“You speak of signs,” you continue fiercely, hands still pressed to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric as though anchoring yourself, “as though I have done nothing but hide from you, as though I have never once given you reason to think—”
You laugh bitterly, the sound tearing itself from your throat.
“Do you remember that garden party?” you demand. “Do you remember standing beside me, smiling so easily, and telling me how splendid I would look with Mr. Storm? Do you remember how readily you matched me with other men, how comfortably you spoke of my future as though it had nothing to do with you at all?”
Your voice fractures, but you force it steady.
“You told me, again and again, that I was safe to give away. Convenient to admire. Suitable for someone else.”
You push at him again, harder this time, as though you might drive the truth into him through sheer force.
“So why,” you whisper fiercely, eyes blazing, “why would I make my regard plain to a man who was already arranging my happiness with someone else?”
He stares down at you, stunned.
The fight drains from his posture in visible increments, pride giving way to dawning horror as each word finds its mark.
“You stood there and praised every other man who dared to look at me,” you go on, voice trembling now despite yourself. “You jest about it. You encouraged it. You made it clear—so painfully clear—that I was never meant to be yours.”
Your hands slide up from his chest to clutch at his lapels, not in affection but in desperate emphasis.
“And now you dare to tell me I gave you no signs?” you murmur brokenly. “That I asked nothing of you?”
You release him abruptly, stepping back at last, chest heaving in uneven breaths.
“I learned from you,” you finish quietly. “I learned from you that loving you was something I was meant to do in silence.”
And silence falls between you.
Not the gentle, companionable sort, but the heavy, suffocating kind that presses in from all sides, thick with everything that has just been said and everything that has been left unsaid for years.
You stand there for a moment longer, chest rising and falling unevenly. Then, you slowly straighten yourself.
Whatever fire has driven your words drains away, leaving only exhaustion in its wake.
You have said it. You have finally said it. And you are done.
Without looking at him again, you turn away, gathering your skirts with trembling fingers, intent only on putting distance between yourself and the man who has loved you badly and too late and in all the wrong ways.
“Wait.”
You do not stop.
He moves after you at once, long strides eating up the space between you, and his hand closes around your arm again in a desperate appeal.
“Do not walk away from me,” he pleads quietly. “Not after that. You cannot—God, you cannot say all of that and then leave me here without allowing me to answer you.”
You try to pull free.
“There is nothing left to say.” you say tightly.
“There is everything left to say,” he insists, tightening his grip just enough to keep you there, his thumb pressing lightly into your sleeve. “You think I have been silent all these years because I did not care. You think I stood beside you and matched you with other men because you were nothing to me. And I swear to you, if you walk away believing that, it will be the greatest cruelty you have ever inflicted upon me.”
You turn back then, anger flaring weakly through your exhaustion.
“Cruelty?” you scoff. “You—”
“I was a coward,” he interrupts fiercely.
The words burst from him without polish, without caution, without any of the careful restraint he has always wrapped himself in.
“I was terrified, I didn’t want to ruin our friendship,” he admits hoarsely. “I have been terrified of you since I was fifteen years old and realised that the girl who climbed trees with me and laughed at my stupid jokes could one day look at me and decide I was not enough.”
He breathes unevenly, eyes bright with emotion he has never learned to manage.
“Every time you smiled at another man, every time someone asked you to dance and you accepted, every time I imagined you belonging to someone else, it felt like being skinned alive,” he confesses. “And still I smiled. Still I jest. Still I pretended it was nothing, because the thought of you knowing how much power you have over me was unbearable.”
Before you can retreat into distance and pride and self-preservation, his hands close around both of your wrists with unmistakable strength and intention, anchoring you in place, holding you there as though he has decided—here and now—that he will sooner tear himself apart than allow you to walk away without hearing what he has to say.
You stiffen in startled protest, breath catching.
“Bucky—”
“I am in love with you!” he says suddenly.
The words are unpolished, unguarded, torn from somewhere deep in his chest before he can soften them or dress them up in propriety.
“I am in love with you,” he repeats, more hoarsely now, as though saying it once has only made the need stronger. “I have been in love with you for so long that I no longer remember what it is like to exist without you in every corner of my thoughts.”
His grip tightens almost imperceptibly, not to hurt you, never that, but to make certain you remain here, present, listening, unable to hide from what he is laying bare.
“You have ruined every other woman who has ever crossed my path,” he admits quietly, almost fiercely. “No matter whom I stood beside, no matter how lovely or accomplished she was, she will never be enough.”
His breath is uneven, his composure unraveling visibly, the careful restraint he has worn for years slipping through his fingers like sand.
“There is no peace for me in loving anyone else,” he murmurs. “You are the standard by which my heart judges everything, and nothing has ever come close.”
“But if you still wish to walk away,” he continues quietly, “if after all of this you decide that you cannot forgive me, that you no longer wish to choose me… then I will let you go.”
His thumb loosens almost imperceptibly at your wrist, his grip easing just enough to prove he means it.
“Right now,” he adds softly. “Without protest. Without pursuit. Without another word.”
The garden is silent around you but for your heartbeat thundering in your ears. You stare at him, mouth parted, the world tilting beneath your feet.
He waits, motionless, every line of him taut with dread, the proud, untouchable duke’s son reduced to a man awaiting judgment.
Tears rise hot and sudden, spilling over before you can dash them away. You press your hands to your lips to stifle the sound that wants to escape—a sob, or a laugh.
But you’re overwhelmed, and so you gather your skirts and turn, fleeing down the gravel path as though the hounds of hell are at your heels. You do not look back. You cannot. If you see his face again tonight you will either slap him once more or fall apart entirely, and you refuse to give him either.
× × × ×
A week later.
You sit at the upstairs window of the morning room, a piece of untouched embroidery in your lap, fingers idly twisting the pale blue ribbons that trim your simple muslin gown. The estate spreads green and serene below, but you see none of it.
Your mother occupies the chair by the fireplace, sorting letters; your three younger sisters are bent over their embroidery frames, though their needles have been still for some minutes. They keep exchanging glances over your head, meaningful and exasperated.
At last Clara, ever the boldest, sets her frame aside with a dramatic sigh.
“I confess I do not understand why you are sulking,” she says. “Lord Barnes has confessed his heart to you. The handsomest man in three counties, and a future duke besides, and you sit there pulling ribbons to pieces as though he had insulted you.”
Victoria snickers behind her hand. Sophie only looks curious.
You do not raise your eyes from the ribbons. “You do not understand,” you say quietly.
“Evidently not,” Clara retorts. “Pray enlighten us.”
You lift your gaze at last, throat tight. “If he is so afraid to show his feelings that it takes years and a slapped face to wring them from him, can you imagine what marriage to such a man would be? Should I have to beg for every kindness? Coax every declaration from him as though it were a favour?”
Your mother sets down her letters with a soft rustle. “My dear,” she says gently, “you are perhaps too harsh. He has recognised his error, has he not? At considerable cost to his pride. A man who can do that may yet learn to speak more plainly. Why not give him the chance to prove it?”
Before you can answer, Clara grins wickedly. “Well, if you are determined not to have him, I am most happy to volunteer as tribute. I should not mind coaxing declarations from Mr. Barnes in the least.”
Victoria dissolves into giggles; even Sophie smirks.
You open your mouth to retort—something sharp about Clara’s forwardness—when the sound of hoofbeats reaches the open window. A single rider, coming fast down the drive.
Your breath catches.
He sits astride the great black hunter he has ridden since he was seventeen—coat flying, dark hair wind-tossed, every inch the impatient, determined duke’s son.
You rise without thinking, pressing closer to the window, hands flat against the glass. Your sisters crowd beside you in an instant, Clara actually elbowing you for space.
Bucky looks up.
Even across the distance his eyes find yours unerringly. A slow, crooked smile curves his mouth and he lifts one gloved hand in a brief, deliberate wave meant solely for you.
Your heart skips.
Below, the front doors open; footmen spill out. Muffled voices drift upward—his, low and courteous; the butler’s deferential reply. You catch only fragments: “…if His Lordship is at home…wish to speak with him…matter of some importance…”
Clara and Victoria squeal in unison like girls at their first assembly. Sophie claps her hands over her mouth to stifle her own excitement.
The butler bows and gestures toward the house. James dismounts with fluid grace, tossing the reins to a groom. As he strides up the steps, he glances up once more—directly at you—and the look in his eyes is resolute.
Then he disappears beneath the portico.
Clara and Victoria bolt for the door without a word, skirts flying, clearly determined to eavesdrop from the gallery above the hall. Sophie hesitates, looking at you.
You remain frozen at the window, ribbons twisted hopelessly around your fingers, watching the empty drive as though it might offer some explanation for the sudden thunder of your pulse.
From the corridor below comes the measured tread of boots, the butler’s murmured directions, and then the firm click of your father’s study door closing behind James Barnes.
× × × ×
Your mother’s voice had been firm when Clara and Victoria returned, flushed and giggling, from their attempted dash to the gallery.
“You will not eavesdrop,” she had declared, her tone brooking no argument. “A gentleman’s business with your father is private, and young ladies do not skulk about corridors like housemaids.” So you had all been marched back to the morning room, the door firmly shut, and there you remained—trapped in a polite prison of embroidery frames and uneasy silence.
The clock on the mantel ticks with agonising slowness. Sunlight has shifted across the carpet; the tea tray has gone cold. Little Sophie keeps stealing glances at you, Clara fidgets with her needle, and Victoria has abandoned all pretence of stitching, staring instead at the closed door as though willpower alone might open it.
At last Clara throws her frame onto the sofa with a huff. “It has been a full hour,” she complains. “What on earth can they be talking about? Papa’s hunts? The price of corn? Or is Mr. Barnes cataloguing every fox he has ever chased from here to Scotland?”
Victoria snickers. Sophie bites her lip to hide a smile.
Your mother sets aside her letters and regards you all with that calm, knowing look that has quieted you since childhood. She folds her hands in her lap.
“When a gentleman rides across the county to speak to a young lady’s father, it is seldom about hounds or harvests.”
Clara’s eyes widened. Victoria leans forward eagerly.
Your mother continues, voice gentle but pointed, her gaze resting on you a fraction longer than on your sisters. “Pride is a cold companion. It keeps us warm in the moment, but it leaves us alone in the end. I have seen many a woman cling to it too fiercely—refusing to bend, refusing to believe she might be mistaken—and spend years regretting the silence she mistook for strength. A good man, when he recognises his errors and seeks to mend them, deserves at least the grace of a hearing. Otherwise we risk losing what might have been the greatest happiness of our lives to the stubborn conviction that we were right to suffer.”
The words land softly, but they strike true.
You feel heat rise in your cheeks. You do not argue—you cannot, not when every syllable feels aimed straight at the raw wound you have carried since the garden. Instead you look down at the mangled ribbons in your lap and side-eye your mother, a silent acknowledgement that she has scored her point.
Clara opens her mouth, doubtless to tease, but the door opens before she can speak.
The butler stands there, impeccable as ever. “Lord James Barnes,” he announces, and steps aside.
Bucky fills the doorway, the riding coat and boots still dusted from the road, his dark hair slightly dishevelled from the wind. His eyes find yours instantly, the crooked half-smile nowhere in evidence today.
He bows politely to your mother. “My Lady.” Then, to you alone: “Might I speak with you for a moment? If it is convenient.”
Your mouth opens, but no sound emerges. Your heart is suddenly too large for your chest.
Your mother rises with remarkable swiftness.
“Of course,” she says smoothly, as though she has been waiting for precisely this. “Girls, come along. We shall see if Cook has those lemon biscuits you like.”
Clara protests with a small, wounded sound; Victoria looks positively betrayed. Sophie merely looks delighted. Your mother herds them out with the efficiency of long practice, her hand firm on Clara’s elbow.
You stand there, the morning room suddenly too small, the air too thick, as James closes the door with a soft click.
He does not advance immediately; he lingers by the threshold, hat in hand, those blue eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes the fluttering of your stomach misbehave. The silence stretches, heavy with the memory of the garden—of tears and accusations and the raw confession that has haunted your every waking moment since.
At last you find your voice, though it emerges sharper than you intend.
“Why have you come, Bucky? Have I not made myself clear enough? I thought— I believed—if I turned away from you that night, you would leave me in peace. Are you not a man of your word?”
He inclines his head, a faint, rueful curve touching his mouth. He steps forward then, slowly, and you hate how your heart leaps at the nearness of him.
“I am a man of my word,” he says quietly, laced with that unshakeable conviction. “I promised that if you turned away from me in the garden, I would go—I would not follow you back to the ballroom, nor importune you with letters, nor impose my presence upon you these past seven days. I left you undisturbed, as you wished.”
He takes another step closer, close enough now that you catch the faint scent of fresh air clinging to his coat, the warmth radiating from him. His eyes never leave yours.
“But I made no vow,” he continues, softer still, “to exile myself from your life forever. Not when the matter between us remains so grievously unsettled.” A glint of mischief flickers in his gaze then, teasing, almost boyish—the Bucky of your childhood peeking through the man. “Tell me, little stormcloud—are you still angry with me?”
Angry? The word is laughable. You lift your chin, meeting his challenge. “Angry does not begin to describe it.”
His brows arch, inviting more, but you press on, voice trembling despite your efforts. “Then pray tell me…why did you speak with my father? What business could possibly require an hour of his time?”
Bucky’s expression shifts; serious now. He closes the remaining distance, guiding you gently back until you perch on the wide window seat where you had been sitting moments before. He does not take the opposite chair; instead, he sits sideways beside you, one booted leg bent, facing you fully. The proximity is dizzying—his knee nearly brushing yours, his broad frame angled toward you as though you are the only thing in his world.
He reaches for your hand then, his thumb tracing a slow circle over your knuckles, and the touch sends sparks racing up your arm.
“I spoke to your father,” he says, voice roughened with emotion, “because I asked for your hand. Without reservation or caveat.”
He pauses, as though steadying himself, his gaze never leaving yours.
“I told him that I have loved you for years,” he continues quietly, “that I was a fool and a coward to hide it, and that I wish to spend the rest of my days proving myself worthy of you, if you will have me.”
A faint, wry curve touches his mouth.
“I also told him,” he adds, more softly, “that I am well aware of what the ton will say. That they will whisper about Lady Romanoff. That they will speculate, and sneer, and assume I have led you on after parading another woman through half the season.”
His thumb stills briefly against your hand.
“And that I do not care.”
The words are simple yet the conviction is obvious.
“I told him that if choosing you means enduring gossip, suspicion, and every unkind rumour London can devise, then I will bear it gladly,” he says steadily. “Because none of it compares to the regret of letting you believe, for another moment, that you were anything less than my first and only choice.”
He leans closer, voice dropping.
“I asked his permission to court you properly. Openly. Honourably. With no ambiguity and no rivals. And if you will allow it, to marry you when you are ready.”
Your breath catches.
The words hang between you, the sort that would make any woman’s knees weaken. He lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your fingers—lingering, apologetic.
“I am sorry,” he murmurs against your skin, eyes searching yours. “Sorrier than I can say—for the pain I caused, for the years I wasted in silence. Forgive me.”
You stare at him, this proud, beautiful man humbled before you, holding your hand as though it is the most precious thing he has ever touched. The thought of him leaving for good is suddenly unbearable, a void you cannot contemplate.
You hesitate deliberately.
You tilt your head slightly, studying him beneath your lashes, lips curving just enough to suggest mischief rather than dismissal.
“That,” you say softly, “was very thorough.”
Hope flickers in his eyes.
“And?” he prompts quietly.
You glance toward the window, pretending sudden fascination with the landscape, even as warmth floods your cheeks.
“I am… inclined,” you admit carefully, “to consider accepting it.”
His mouth twitches.
“Consider,” he repeats.
You nod solemnly. “It is, after all, a grave decision.”
A low chuckle rumbles from his chest—warm, relieved, utterly undone by you.
“As it should be,” he agrees. Then his grip tightens just a little, his voice dropping into something softer, more intimate. “Might I inquire what would persuade you?”
You risk a glance at him then, and immediately regret it, because he is looking at you as though you are every answer he has ever sought.
“I may,” you say lightly, “require… evidence of sincerity.”
His brows lift.
“Evidence,” he echoes.
“Mm,” you confirm. “I have been misled before.”
He laughs under his breath, shaking his head.
“You are cruel,” he murmurs fondly. Then his gaze grows intent, earnest beneath the teasing. “Very well. What form might this… evidence take?”
You pretend to think, tapping one finger thoughtfully against his hand.
“Well,” you begin, still not quite meeting his eyes, “I have heard it said that a gentleman who truly regrets his errors is willing to make certain… amends.”
His lips part slightly.
“Amends,” he repeats, voice rough.
You finally look at him then, eyes bright, daring.
“For instance,” you add softly, “he might demonstrate his remorse by requesting permission to do something he has evidently wanted to do for an unreasonable number of years.”
Understanding dawns slowly.
Then completely, causing a smile to break over his face
“Are you telling me,” he asks quietly, “that after pining for you since I was a teen and too terrified to act upon it, I am now being made to formally apply for the privilege?”
You lift one brow. “I should hate for you to abandon tradition now.”
He laughs softly, forehead resting briefly against yours.
“Very well,” he murmurs. Then he straightens, eyes serious despite the humour. “May I kiss you?”
You pretend composure.
“I suppose,” you say with elaborate nonchalance, “that would suffice.”
His breath hitches.
As the laugh fades, his grip tightens, and his voice drops to a husky whisper that sends shivers down your spine.
“God help me,” he whispers, smiling helplessly, “I am never going to recover from you.”
The words are barely out before something in you snaps. You cannot wait, not another heartbeat. You lean in first, pressing your lips to his, strong and firm, quick and utterly unplanned. All the blood in your body rushes to the point of contact; it is heady, intoxicating, the fulfilment of every secret dream you have harboured since you were fifteen.
You pull back a fraction, breathless, but he does not allow it. His free hand cups your cheek, drawing you back in, fusing his mouth to yours with a fervour that feels like lightning striking—blinding, brilliant and burning. It consumes you, filling every sense until nothing exists beyond him: the heat of his lips, the scrape of his stubble, the way his breath mingles with yours.
You are going to burn the room down around you.
He pauses for a breathless second, forehead resting against yours, voice low and strangled. “Do you feel that?”
“Yes,” you manage, the word barely coherent. Speech is unnecessary; you yank him back to you instead.
He groans—a deep, rumbling thunder in his chest—and surrenders to it. His kisses shift like a storm: hot and insistent one moment, soft and tender the next, as though he cannot decide which he craves more or perhaps he is savouring every variation, testing them all on you and you are more than willing to be his experiment.
Why, oh why, have you denied yourself this for so long? What a foolish woman you have been.
You move closer, needing more—needing everything. Your arms wind around his neck, fingers drifting up to tangle in the dark silk of his hair. He responds in kind, mouth slanting against yours, demanding your full attention. You abandon his hair to curl your fingers at the nape of his neck, pulling him impossibly nearer, as though closer is even possible.
His kiss is devastatingly thorough, primitive yet refined, fiery and shivery all at once. He draws back again—just enough to breathe—and you both pant, foreheads touching. “I need you to know that this is true,” he rasps. “I’m real.”
You rest your hands on his broad shoulders, feeling the tremor in him. “Yes, I can feel how real you are.”
“That’s not what I—” he starts, but you silence him with another kiss, moving your mouth against his until he shakes against you. Every response is yours to command: the murmured words lost against your lips, the growl in his throat, the thunder of his heart beneath your palm. The power of affecting him is dizzying.
His kisses grow exquisitely intense, overheating you, making the world spin. You are dizzy, floating, tethered only by his hands in your hair, his lips on yours. Oxygen seems utterly overrated.
Sensing your need—or perhaps his own—he trails his mouth to your cheek, feathering soft kisses along your cheekbone. You keep your eyes closed, lost in the spirals of sensation radiating through you, down to your quivering stomach, into your limbs.
“You are exquisite,” he murmurs against your skin, voice rough with wonder. “So soft, so perfectly lovely. I fear I shall never have enough of you—not in all the years granted to me.”
“The feeling,” you manage to whisper, the words scarcely more than a breath, for he has quite robbed you of coherent thought, “is mutual.”
He cradles your face, and your lips ache for his return. When you open your eyes at last, hazy and drugged, his gaze meets yours. There is something new in it—deeper than affection, fiercer than tenderness.
It is devotion. Utter, unwavering devotion. And it is yours.
He leans in again, slowly this time, as though savouring the permission in your eyes. His lips brush yours once, then again, deeper, and you melt into him, fingers tightening at his nape when a pointed, deliberate cough echoes from the doorway.
You both startle apart as though scorched—Bucky springing to his feet with undignified haste, you pressing a hand to your racing heart, cheeks aflame.
Your father stands upon the threshold, one brow arched in mild enquiry, the picture of paternal innocence. He has clearly been there long enough to assess the situation, yet he affects perfect oblivion.
“I beg your pardon,” he says gravely, though a suspicious twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays him. “I merely wished to enquire whether the young people have reached an understanding.” His gaze moves from your shy countenance to James’s rather dishevelled cravat and back again. “It appears the matter is well in hand—literally, perhaps.”
James clears his throat, colour high along his cheekbones, and executes a creditable bow despite the circumstances. “Sir—”
Your father waves a hand, magnanimous.
“No need for explanations, my boy. I am not quite in my dotage yet. The question remains: shall we observe the usual proprieties with a courtship, or—” his eyes twinkle with shameless mischief—“might we dispense with such formalities and proceed directly to reading the marriage banns? I confess I should not object to skipping the interminable calls and posies if the pair of you are so… eager.”
You make a small, mortified sound and hide your burning face in your hands.
James lets out a low, rueful laugh, raking a hand through his hair.
“I believe, sir,” he says, voice still husky, eyes slanting toward you with lingering heat, “that the lady’s wishes must take precedence. Though I confess I am not averse to expediency.”
Your father chuckles. “Wise answer. Very wise.” He steps fully into the room, closing the door once more—with deliberate care this time. “Then perhaps we had best summon your mother and father and settle the details before the entire household descends upon us in a frenzy of speculation.”
You peek through your fingers, heart still thundering, and find Bucky watching you with that same devoted gaze—now softened with helpless amusement.
The future, it seems, has arrived rather sooner than expected.
And you discover you do not mind in the least.
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