He stood statuesque in the foyer of the Roxborough estate, the dim and dying daylight creeping in a gentle wave through the open door behind him. He heard her slippers step softly across the carpet; Roxborough butler murmured something pleasant to the woman, something he could not make out. He heard her reply; something about a bath, about warmth to clean off the muck of the day. He could not - or perhaps had no wish to - tell precisely what she said. The ringing in his ears and the pain in his heart had done more than enough to sever him from the doldrums of the rain, or the bath, or the estate. 

The Lord Strauss closed his eyes. He saw himself - a boy again, of only twelve or thirteen years. He and his sister, standing atop the staircase at the Amhurst estate - a grand and twisting pathway, its steps hewn of marble, its frame build of the glossiest polished oak. The sun rained through the ceiling-high window at the stairwell landing, but in my memory it felt faded; dim, damaged. Candles burned away their last from the long night before. I had spent all night awake, in my bed, staring at the ceiling. Listening. Wondering. Dreaming of being away from there.

“Hush now, Lawrence,” my sister whispered into my ear as he hid beneath the shining rail, sun reflecting in the grain of the wood. he heard the shouts; muffled, full of pain and anger and two lifetimes full of regret. He closed his eyes, crying; his sister tried again to still the feeling, but it welled up until he couldn’t contain it any longer, the tears gushing along his cheeks.

“I cannot handle this anymore!” Lawrence’s memory recalled the pained and shrill call of his mother, her voice needled at its edges by cracking anxiety as she rushed into the foyer, her black and lacy dress swinging and swaying wildly beneath the vigor of her emboldened motions. She stormed towards the estate’s grand door. “I will not endure another night of you, spending your life in the stupor of drink, or the grasp of another woman.”

Another woman. That had always stuck with Lawrence. He had now known this side of his father in his youngest days - or perhaps in the ignorance of youth he wished simply to ignore them. But on that day, when he stood atop the staircase, peering through the slats on the banister, the illusion of a father of manner and means, a gentleman in service to the family estate, crumbled brilliantly beneath an unending, emotional tide of throbbing, raw revelation. His father stormed into his view, wearing a disheveled black suit with a silken shirt, the acrid burn of cheap brandy meeting Lawrence’s nostrils with its wretched lure. The young boy winced, watching the man he had had some sort of love in his heart for become something he didn’t recognize.

“I’ve taken your hand in marriage, and you’ll do what’s best for that,” his father had said. Marriage. The word would forever bear with it a sickening medicine for Lawrence; from that day, he would see it as torment. The torment he saw in his mother’s eyes, stained with tears; burning red upon her cheeks, glazed with a heartbroken rage.

“You’re not the man I chose to marry,” his mother shouted back, throwing her hand upon the brass handle to the manor’s doors. With trepidation, he watched his father stride to mother’s side, struggling with her as she fought to pull the door open. Lawrence shook atop the stairs; he felt his sister’s comforting touch upon his head, but it did little to still the river of hurt roiling in the boy’s chest. He watched his mother wrestle back at father’s iron grip on her wrist; a smattering of sounds he couldn’t understand spat roughly between the two most important people in the boy’s life as he watched something no child should have to see. His cheeks burning with the flame of liquor and the cinders of rage, his eyes glazed, Lawrence felt his body shake when he saw his father raise his hand and, in a wide and arcing swing, slap hard across his mother’s face; hard enough to send her reeling to her knees. A little yelp rose from the woman’s throat; one of surprise, of anguish. He would hear that sound in his nightmares for the rest of his life. His sister quickly lifted her palm across his eyes to shield him from the indignity of seeing his mother in such a place, but as well-intentioned as his sibling had been, she could not stop him from hearing the roars of his father. He had forgotten the precise words, and remembered only that his father sounded like something possessed; a beast bearing within it a wicked soul, one Lawrence had never recognized or known. For all of his short life his father had been something different; an actor, perhaps. 

That day Lawrence saw the reality of love - of marriage. Of the life he feared himself doomed to, splayed out in the hot outline of a tingling palm-print on his mother’s face. He saw in her tears the pain of every woman in all the world, as they suffered beneath the burden of expectation and of marriage. The young boy swore he would never look upon that face again. As time passed he came to the realization that he bore the same blood as his father - the same name, the same title. And when he grew to inherit over his sister, in spite of his desires, he realized that fate weaves itself strict and ironclad before even the most well-intentioned mind could hope to break it. And no matter what happened, should be hazard marriage - he would wind up just like his father. Awash in the glow of brandy and hate, he would see that face again.

Lawrence’s eyes flashed open again. No more was he a boy cowering atop a stairwell; he heard the door of the grand foyer slam shut, and behind him stood a woman he had claimed physically; a woman for whom his heart had pounded in silent, wishing desire since the moment they had first laughed together. A woman he desired, but a woman he desired never to see suffer that same fate - wearing that same face.

“I shall need to bathe and clear myself of this wicked filth, and change my clothes, m’lord,” Anne said; she had maintained her chipper tone and bright outlook on their future, in spite of what he knew had been a harsh demeanor on their ride back to the manse. Their embrace had not been pleasurable for him, for when he held her in his arms, he saw that expression burned into her face - the same expression her mother had worn, tears staining reddened cheeks. He could never trust himself not to fall into the brandy the way his father had. And he had for so long feared the rakish life of a man like the Earl of Carteret, a life spent using women until they no longer served him, that he had instead forbidden himself from all but the most socially acceptable of touches; of courtships.

And yet now a woman stood before him who conjured feelings he had never understood; never confronted. And his blood burned for fear - and it was truly his father’s blood. Anne came close again, her smile warm, and embraced him; not full of tears, this time, a circumstance for which the duke was quite thankful. Whether her face contained joy or fear or sadness, he could not bear to see it burning, eyes red, full of tears. He had heard his father’s unearthly screams when he had seen her cry against his chest - and he tried as best he could to quell that unholy rage, consuming all of his memories. They embraced; he gave her a gentle hug, though he wished to hold her close and tight forever.

“Shall I see you when I return from the bath, then?” Anne chirped, full of hope. He could not bear the thought of lying to her, particularly after the intimate moment they had shared, but he could do little else. She would thank him in the end.

“O... of course,” he answered. She looked, bright-eyed; happy. Content with that answer. Another squeezed shared between them, she left him with a dash up the stairs, though she spared no gaze back over her shoulder in delight at him.

His shoulders fell as she disappeared beyond his sight. With duty heavy upon him, he resolved to do what he had promised to do - what he, at least, knew himself capable of doing. Arranging for the freedom she so desired, if not the love she thought she had found in him. He knew he could not love her - not as a woman with so vibrant a soul deserved, without that specter of trust haunting him into his grave.

“M’lord,” Lawrence announced as he pushed open the doors to the dining chamber. At its far end, across a table emptied of the steaming meats and silvery serving platters it had borne just a few hours earlier, he saw the man waiting patiently - the viscount, with what remained of his wasting grin worn proudly in anticipation at the far end of the table.

“Ah! Lord Strauss, I had hoped to see you again,” the skeletal man responded. As greatly as disease had ravaged him, he took every opportunity to play the role that laid before him of the stout and self-assured gentleman. Unfortunately, the ragged wheeze and coughs that accompanied each statement told a different story. Lawrence knew the man’s time had grown only more limited with each passing week, and he felt himself obligated - now, certainly more than ever, with the passion of intimacy he had so thoroughly and roughly robbed from lovely Anne.

“I’ve come to discuss the matter of your estate, and your daughter,” Lawrence declared businesslike. 

“Indeed,” the viscount responded, brimming with what joy he could still radiate. “An afternoon in the moors... and quite a torrential one, at that,” he laughed. “I’ve a curiosity in my mind on just precisely how you and lovely Anne spent the afternoon, amid the rain, but I shall keep my questions to myself, for your own sake,” the viscount commented wryly, his expression playfully conspiratorial. “Have you taken to her, Lord Strauss? I know her exterior is rather rough, and I blame myself, but beneath is a soul so willing to live.”

“I hoped we could talk about the terms - perhaps even draw up some manner of agreement that outlines our obligations to one another,” Lawrence answered, quite unmoved by the lord of the house’s gestures. Taken aback, the viscount cleared his throat, gesturing to the serving girl standing near the kitchen’s swinging door; a few whispers later, and the girl disappeared to fetch supplies from the study.

“You need not tell me the details, of course, Lawrence, but I should hope the courtship itself is going well?” the viscount attempted again to discuss the topic amiable.

“It is...” Lawrence’s memories flashed into his mind once more and he held his eyes shut in a pained expression. “M’lord, I shall make this as simple as possible for myself, and for your daughter.”

“Simple?” the lord queried in confusion. “Such relationships are rarely simple,” the old man joked. “I imagine her thoughts on you are not quite so simple, either.”

“I do not relish complications, m’lord, particularly when it comes to the matter of a woman who seeks freedom as yours does. I will not get in her way,” the duke responded, a chill not unlike the freeze of cool autumn rain on his tone. The viscount’s expression began to curdle, sunken eyes once full of hope, now growing empty and wallowing.

“I’m... certain, that you’re the right man for my daughter, Lawrence, but,” the viscount expressed, “I’m not certain I understand. She’s an emotional woman, of course, but those emotions I’m quite certain, will work in your favor. Sir Gilbert spoke to me about the two of you at dinner. He said...”

“I wish not to offend, m’lord, truly, but I think it best we discuss the terms more concretely,” Lawrence rebuffed the dying man. Lawrence had not expected that the elderly man would worry so much on whether his daughter had found love - in fact, he believed that the viscount in truth did not care on the matter at all. Lawrence stilled the regret panging dully in his stomach, reassuring himself that the viscount, if he knew the truth, would be thankful for Lawrence’s unemotional approach to the idea of marriage. His daughter would certainly be better off, the duke reasoned.

“Ah, thank you, my dear,” the viscount said as the serving girl returned. Lord Strauss intervened with a wave of his hand.

“I shall draw up the terms, m’lord - no need to trouble yourself with such matters,” he insisted. The serving girl hesitantly delivered the pen and heavy, thick sheets of paper, quite official-looking with the viscount’s seal upon each sheet, to the duke. He took a deep breath and began to scribble; each word, each letter presented a pained struggle. He knew the conflict hadn’t subsided within him, but he had already come to his determination. As he completed the contract’s terms, fidgeting with the pen so that it bled ink properly, he slid it across the table to the bewildered, ailing man, who seemed utterly mired in the confusion.

“I must confide, Lord Strauss, I had doubt you’d find her manner agreeable - or, at least agreeable as any manner of lord in this entire nation would find her agreeable,” the old viscount coughed out with a laugh. “Below the skin, and the fire, and all those wild ideals she carries in her head, she’s one of the gentlest, sweetest, and most dedicated hearts you’ll find, I trust.” The ailing lord’s words hurt, each of them a reminder of that passionate moment Lawrence had spent with Anne; a reminder that he would fail so beautiful and wonderful a woman as Anne, just as his father had failed his mother. “I’m fortunate to know a man like you will be taking care of Anne, and the estate, once things... well, once I’m gone.”

“There’s no need to be fatalistic, m’lord. Anne will have what she wishes,” Lawrence insisted, finishing the last lines. He drew an ‘x’ and a line at the bottom of the contract, drawing a line across it and scribbling his name to the terms he had drawn up - then left two more lines for Anne and her father. He turned abruptly and offered the page to the viscount, who began to read its terms with a face full of mirth.

“May it be known the Duke of Amhurst, Lawrence Strauss, and Lady Anne Hatley of Roxborough, be joined into a contract of matrimony, this contract be its binding and governing document,” the viscount’s smile bloomed, though the next line began to sour what had been a hopeful grin. “...and maybe it be known that their marriage be one of... financial, marital convenience, for the maintaining of Roxborough estate and title, and that the new Duchess Anne shall be known as steward of Roxborough, bound not by the usual... sorts of marital expectations...” the old man’s voice trailed as he continued to read the terms; Lord Strauss recalled them in his head, and when the old man finished, he nodded.

“A marriage simply for your daughter’s convenience, inheritance of title. Protection of your family. She’ll not be beholden to me. She’ll be free to court and to live as she pleases. I’ll have... well, nothing to do with her. This is what we discussed, isn’t it, m’lord?” Lord Strauss queried; he felt warmth in his cheeks as a melancholy struck him, as if tears threatened to well over his eyes and splash upon the pages of the contract. “I think it best for both of us. And for the future of your estate.”

“B... but, Lawrence, certainly you don’t think my daughter would be happy with this?”

“I fear you were mistaken on the matter of me, and my character, m’lord,” Lawrence admitted, fighting away the pain. “I don’t... think, I’m the man that your daughter would want. But for your sake, and for hers...” he recalled his sister; those painful nights spent arguing. He sighed. “...I want to ensure everything is good and proper before anything dreadful should happen to you.” Lord Strauss’s tone implied that the decision he had made had been quite final.

“Lawrence, did you... not get along, with my daughter, today? Did... something happen?” the shocked old man asked through a cough. “I was certain you would... grow to... love her,” he said, his words limp and pained.

“We got along fine, m’lord. Knowing your daughter... this is what she wants. It’s what’s best for her,” Lawrence said resoundingly. He could see the heart break in the father’s eyes as the dying viscount gained realization. “If you’ll sign it, and have your daughter do the same, all problems will be solved.” Lawrence felt only emptiness at that barren declaration.

“I just don’t... understand, I suppose,” the viscount said with bluster. “My daughter... she deserves love. I had hoped I would see it, before I died. Her face... experiencing that amazing feeling. Do you know it, Lawrence?” Anne’s father asked. Lord Strauss looked away, stilling his raging heart.

“I should really be off for the eve, m’lord,” he evaded answering the question deftly. 

“You won’t stay the night? Certainly, it’s too late to be out among the moors, and perhaps we could share a dinner - the hunters have brought back some wonderful venison...”

“I should be off,” the duke insisted.

“...Very well,” the viscount said with a weak sigh, a coughing fit claiming him.

“It’s been a pleasure, m’lord,” Lawrence said.

“... A pleasure,” the ailing man replied.