#also the way you have me wanting a regency feysand now?! what witchery is this

[whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk]

I simply cannot cope. I am a puddle on the floor and need to be sent to the seaside to recover my health. This was so perfect!!!!

You Are Not the Kind of Boy (Who Should Be Marrying the Wrong Girl): Part Three

A/N: Happy Day Three of @sjmromanceweek! This is the final part of Regency Elucien, and for this one, there's no prompt squinting needed since there's actually a proposal. Hope everyone enjoyed this little sequel as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Read on AO3 // Previous Part

Lucien Spellcleaver is going mad.

That’s the only explanation. It’s the only way to describe the way his mind has been spiraling, the way his thoughts swirl and swirl around only one singular thought. Only one singular person. It’s the only explanation for the way his heart writhes and throbs between his ribs, a palpable, tangible pain. The only explanation for why he’s pacing back and forth across his study, scrubbing a hand through his hair until it’s a tangle of knots.

“Well, this is a sad sight.”

Lucien rolls his eyes at the sound of that voice, whirling around to find Eris leaning casually against the door jamb. “What do you want?”

“Can’t I come visit my favorite baby brother?”

“Half brother.”

Eris shrugs, straightening and stepping further into the room. “Mother said that you were sulking.”

“I am not sulking.”

Eris raises an eyebrow, looking pointedly toward Lucien’s desk, toward the pile of paper and ink sprawled across the wood. Three letters. He’s written three letters and received not a single answer. Three letters, each one dissolving more and more into a mess of words and smeared ink and desperation.

He should have told her. He should have told her down by the lake before anything else had happened. But he'd been stupid. He'd been selfish and drunk off the way it felt to finally kiss her, to have her in his arms. Addicted to the way her skin felt against his own, what it was like to have her pliant and beautiful beneath him.

He’d been sure she must already know exactly how he feels. How he’d do anything for her if only she said the word. How his heart beats only for her and he’d gladly tear it straight from his chest and place it in her awaiting hands.

But then she’d vanished in the night like some sort of wraith.

He’d tried to give her space at first, thought that was what she needed and wanted to respect that. Then he’d tried to call on her, only to be informed by a neighbor that the Archerons weren’t home, off to the quick and quiet wedding of the eldest.

That’s when he sent the first letter that went unanswered.

He’d tried to catch Elain in town next, practically loitering at all the places he knew she frequented, but that had been just as unsuccessful. And had led to the second letter that went unanswered. Hoping for his opportunity at the promenade had followed, but the entire Archeron family was oddly missing. And his third letter went unanswered. Then, just a few days ago, he was sure his time would finally come at the house party hosted by Kallias and his wife Viviane, but it seemed the Archerons were uninvited from the festivities.

So, now, here Lucien is. Over two weeks removed from that night with Elain. And absolutely losing his mind.

“I don’t understand why you’re still panting after her,” Eris continues, pushing off the door jamb and stepping fully into the room. “You can’t possibly have missed the Archeron family scandal.”

“And yet, if I recall correctly, weren’t you courting the eldest Archeron not long ago?” Lucien fires back, still remembering the ball his father hosted last season, the way Eris had spent most of the evening twirling Nesta across the dance floor. He still remembers the way Eris’s proposal had been denied, Nesta with little interest in moving to Paris.

Eris hums, his face the perfect mask of boredom. “I can’t decide if I dodged a bullet or if I should be offended that she couldn’t be persuaded to warm my bed unwed.”

“Jealous of a Scotsman, Eris?”

“Never.”

Despite the growled tone of his half brother, Lucien doesn’t believe Eris for a moment. Still, he doesn’t have time for this. Doesn’t have time for their mother’s attempted meddling. Doesn’t have time for Eris’s judgment or opinions. He doesn’t have time to keep pacing around his study if he’s being honest.

“Look, I need to… if you’ll excuse me.”

It’s all that Lucien offers before he brushes past Eris and out the door. He doesn’t stop, heading down the main stairs and all the way out of the estate. He forgoes a carriage or even a horse, hoping the walk will help him clear his head a bit, will help him decide exactly what he intends to say.

But the afternoon sun does little to dispel the anxiety churning low in his gut. The late summer breeze only winding through his lungs, swirling with the tension there and squeezing. By the time the iron gates of the Archeron manor come into view, Lucien’s heart is a thunderous beat between his ribs. He just prays it doesn’t show too badly on his face as he makes his way up the front steps and rings the bell.

It feels like years while he waits, but soon the door is being pulled open and Lucien is met with a pair of blue gray eyes blinking as confusedly at him as he feels.

“Feyre?”

“Lucien. What are you doing here?”

Lucien clears his throat, flexing his fingers where they’re tucked neatly behind his back. “I was hoping I might speak with Elain actually.”

“We’re not allowing callers,” Feyre explains, already beginning to close the door in his face before she hesitates for a moment. “Sorry.”

The door closes with a soft snick, and Lucien can do nothing but gape at the wood, stare at it as if it will magically open and Elain will be standing there on the other side. With a frustrated huff, he spins on his heel, scrubbing a hand through his hair while he makes his way back down the front steps.

“Denied as well?”

Lucien snaps his head in the direction of the sudden voice, surprised to find Rhysand Night leaning casually against the wall of the manor, partially hidden in the shadows cast by the tall branches of the trees lining the street. The Duke looks almost out of place in the bright afternoon, with his dark hair, his black jacket and pants. Still, the sight of him has Lucien raising his chin, squaring his shoulders even as he shoves his hand in his pockets to give an air of indifference.

“Don’t tell me you’re calling on Elain Archeron as well.”

Rhysand chuckles, picking a piece of lint off his jacket sleeve and flicking it aside. “Don’t worry, Spellcleaver. No one but you is calling on your Archeron sweetheart. Especially after what Cassian pulled.”

“He’s your friend I thought.”

“He is, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still think him an idiot. Unfortunately, there was no talking him out of that one. Something about Nesta Archeron has had him ensnared for years.”

Lucien glances back toward Archeron manor. “Nesta MacLeod now I hear.”

“And are you hoping for Elain Spellcleaver?”

Lucien snaps his attention back to Rhysand, quick to fire back, “Are you hoping to make Feyre a duchess?”

Rhysand laughs again, shaking his head. “Touche, Spellcleaver.”

“I wish you luck. Feyre and I sometimes had lessons together as children. I remember quite distinctly the way she swore she’d never marry,” Lucien offers, not even bothering to bite back his smirk at the memories. Rhysand will certainly have his hands full if Feyre is who he continues to pursue.

“So she keeps telling me,” Rhysand mutters, rolling his eyes, but Lucien swears it’s not annoyance in the Duke’s expression. It’s almost excitement at the challenge brewing beneath that violet gaze.

“Is your plan to lurk in the shadows here then? Until she changes her mind?”

“What can I say? I’ve never been one for more traditional courting. Perhaps you might consider the same.”

Lucien scoffs, turning away from Rhysand and walking out of the Archeron manor gate. He makes his way down the path that leads back to his family’s estate, but Rhysand’s words continue to ring in his mind. Like a small, needling voice prickling along the back of his mind, scraping and digging their claws in. It’s stupid. It would be stupid. Possibly the most stupid thing he’ll ever do.

But isn’t idiocy what got Lucien into this mess in the first place?

He waits until the sun starts to dip low in the sky, shadows growing across the grass and purples and blues bleeding through the world around him. He waits until the flicker of candlelight casts the windows of the manor in glowing orange. Thankfully, he remembers enough from his conversations with Feyre, finding the balcony she often mentioned using when she’d sneak away in the night.

It’s more difficult than he anticipated, finding the right stones and bricks to use as hand and footholds, his grip slipping a few times. But soon, he’s pulling himself up over the railing and onto the balcony, more scrapes and bruises than he wanted but still worth it. Just like in Feyre’s stories, the door is unlocked, and Lucien is able to slip inside with ease.

He has to be quick, but he has to be quiet too. He tiptoes down the hall, pausing at each door and pressing his ear against the wood to listen for voices. He even dares to open a few, just a crack, to peek into the rooms beyond. Finally, on the fourth door he tries, Lucien is greeted with the sight of long, beautiful curls of golden brown hair.

He darts into the room, closing the door quickly behind his back. Elain whips her head around at the sound, brown eyes widening in surprise and her brush clattering against her vanity table. She’s on her feet in a second, and for a moment, Lucien feels struck dumb. Her hair is a beautiful curtain of gold where it falls along her shoulders and down her back, her night dress lacey and white. Her warm, brown eyes draw him in as much as the pink beginning to dust across the constellation of freckles on her cheeks.

“Lucien,” Elain exclaims, snatching up her robe and tugging it on. “What are you doing here?”

“I am going insane,” Lucien explains exasperatedly, stepping closer to her. “You have made me insane, Elain.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’ve been avoiding me. And do not say that you are not because I know you are.”

Elain crosses her arms across her chest, not quite meeting his gaze fully, and Lucien knows that he was right all along. Knows that her sneaking out of his room, that this silence between them, was fully intentional. He dares to step even closer to her, until they’re practically toe to toe, until he can fully track the way her bottom lip finds home between her teeth. His hands reach up, skating a hair's breadth away from Elain’s arms before he hesitates, dropping his arms back to his side again.

“Did I do something wrong?” Lucien asks gently, practically pleading. “Did I hurt you our night together?”

Elain opens her mouth before seeming to think better of whatever she was going to say. She swallows hard, and when she finally speaks, her voice is quiet enough that Lucien almost doesn’t hear it. “I missed my monthlies.”

“Oh.”

It’s all Lucien can think to say, the only word, the only syllable he’s able to push past the pressure suddenly squeezing in around his throat. It’s certainly a turn of events. Certainly not how he expected this night to go. But there’s no denying the spark that flares to life in his gut, fanning the embers glowing warmly between his ribs.

“I’m so sorry,” Elain says, turning away from him completely.

“Why are you apologizing?”

“You’re going to be a Duke after your father. I am sure you do not wish there to be any bastard children. But don’t worry. I’ll speak with my mother. Perhaps, there is somewhere far away I can go. Then no one will ever know.”

“Go away?” Lucien splutters, reaching for her shoulders and trying to turn Elain back around to face him. “Elain—”

Elain steps out of his grip, but she at least whirls back around, brown eyes misty with unshed tears. “And I won’t tell anyone. I swear it. I will lie if I have to.”

“Elain…” Lucien feels near hysterical, finally giving in to the desire twitching through his fingers and cradling Elain’s face between his palms. “Marry me.”

Elain huffs, tugging his hands away from her face. “Don’t be stupid, Lucien. I did not tell you to trap you into wedding me. You’re going to be a Duke. You’re meant to have a respectable wife.”

“And who says you are not? Who says you are not everything a gentleman could ever dream of in a wife? Who says you are not everything I could ever want?”

“You’re crazy. What will your father say? Marrying an Archeron after everything that’s happened?”

“Let him try and stop me. And if he does, I will give up my title. Gladly.”

“Lucien!”

“Dammit, Elain. I love you.”

Elain rolls her eyes, and if Lucien wasn’t so exasperated, he would be more endeared by the gesture. “You are not thinking straight. I know our night together was… pleasurable… But I didn’t think—”

“You think this is just because of that night?” Lucien asks with a frustrated huff of his own. He grabs Elain’s hands in his, clutching them to his chest, to where his heart beats solely for her. “Elain, I have loved you for months now. I’m sorry that my poor courting attempts have not made that abundantly clear. For all your accusations about me being a scoundrel, being around you turns me into a fumbling fool. I never know what to say. And oh, I wanted to say it. That night. Before that night… But my love, you were the one who said no talking. The one who promised we’d speak only to sneak away while I slept. I would have asked you for your hand right there beside that lake. I would have asked you that night in my bed. And I am asking you right now. Marry me.”

The tears slip free from Elain’s eyes, and Lucien is quick to reach a hand up, catching them where they roll down her cheeks. “I can’t.”

“Elain,” Lucien begs, his voice almost broken.

“I have not told you everything.” Using their hands that are still joined, Elain tugs Lucien toward her bed until they’re both sitting. “It’s about my family… You know that my father is a merchant, but what you don’t know is that there was an awful storm. It sank all of my father’s ships with everything on them.”

“Okay, but what does that—”

“You don’t understand, Lucien. We lost everything. My family has nothing now. We had to dismiss the staff. Mama has had to sell her nicest jewels just to keep food on the table. It’s why Nesta was going to marry Viscount Mandray, and now? Now, we’re nothing.”

Lucien squeezes Elain’s hands in his. “You think I care about that?”

“But you should! You’re going to be a Duke someday.”

“Elain,” Lucien starts, leaning close until his forehead rests against hers. “Do you love me too? Do you want to marry me?”

“It’s not that simple,” Elain whispers, already beginning to shake her head.

“It’s a yes or no question, my love.”

Elain sighs softly, sliding her hand across Lucien’s cheek until it’s cradled in her palm. “You already know the answer.”

“Then that’s all I need to know.”

Lucien closes the breath of space between them, pressing his mouth to Elain’s. She makes a quiet, contented sound into the kiss, parting her lips under his ministrations, and it feels right. It tastes like coming home. It takes everything within Lucien to will himself to pull back, to not allow himself to sink and drown in the feeling of Elain’s soft, golden hair threaded between his fingers, of her body pressed warmly against him, of her lips slotted firmly and perfectly against his own. But he does all the same, pulling away from Elain and pushing up to his feet to stride back across the room.

“Where are you going?” Elain asks, jumping up to her own feet.

Lucien pauses with his hand curled around the latch to the door. He turns over his shoulder back toward Elain, offering her a smirk and a wink, before he yanks open the door and slips out into the hall. It’s easy enough to retrace his steps, back out of the balcony, to climb over the railing and jump down onto the grass. He takes a moment to brush off his pants, straighten the cuffs of his sleeves, and then he’s stalking back around the manor and right to the Archeron’s front door.

He has to ring the bell twice before the door is finally pulled open. Lady Archeron’s face is pinched in annoyance, but Lucien watches the exact moment her eyes widen in recognition, realizing just who is standing on their front step. In an instant, her face morphs into a polite smile, and she dips into a small curtsy.

“Your Grace. To what do we owe the pleasure at such an hour?”

“Lady Archeron,” Lucien greets, dipping his head politely. “I am actually hoping to speak with your husband.”

Lady Archeron’s eyes glance away, further into the house, before meeting his gaze again. “Forgive me, your Grace, but we are not currently accepting callers or visitors.”

“I must press, my Lady. It is quite urgent.”

Lady Archeron’s attention darts away again, and Lucien can see the conflict playing across her expression, but finally she appeases. She pulls the door open fully, gesturing for Lucien to step inside. His footfalls echo across the floors, through the silence of the front hall. He glances around, spying Elain standing at the top of the stairs, one foot raised as if she’s about to step down. He waits until her mother’s back is turned before sending her another wink and following Lady Archeron further into the manor.

“You’ll have to forgive our home, your Grace,” Lady Archeron offers, leading Lucien down the winding halls. “A terrible sickness has torn through our staff. We had to send them away tonight.”

Lucien hums in understanding, not correcting her or letting on to the fact he knows the real reason for the lack of staff in the manor. Lady Archeron comes to a stop in front of a door, but she doesn’t even bother knocking before pushing it open, revealing a study on the other side. Lord Archeron sits behind the large desk in the center of the room. Papers are spread across the wood around him, but judging from the glass of amber liquid at his elbow, the way his head is cradled in his hand, Lucien suspects little work is actually being completed.

Lord Archeron looks up in surprise at the intrusion, practically jumping to his feet when he takes in exactly who is stepping inside his study. “Lucien Spellcleaver. I must say I am surprised to see you in my study.”

Lord Archeron shares a pointed look with his wife, the two sharing some sort of silent conversation, but Lady Archeron doesn’t seem to back down from her husband’s ire. She merely closes the study door and walks around to stand at her husband’s shoulder. Lucien takes it as his cue to settle into one of the open seats on the other side of the desk.

“I do apologize for the intrusion,” Lucien begins, leaning back casually. “But I simply could not wait. I’m here to ask for your daughter’s hand. For Elain’s hand.”

Lord Archeron clears his throat a bit awkwardly, turning to share another look with his wife. “We are, of course, honored at such a proposal, your Grace…”

“I am well aware of your family’s financial situation, Lord Archeron, if that is your concern.” Neither Lord nor Lady Archeron are able to cover their surprise, their panicked expression, but Lucien merely chuckles quietly. “Don’t worry. I have no intention of informing the gossip mob of the ton. But I do wish to marry your daughter. I will write for a Special License. We can keep the ceremony small and private if you’d rather avoid your family being the center of the gossip ring any more than it already is.”

“You’re a mad man,” Lord Archeron scoffs, shaking his head.

“Maybe I am.”

“If you’re aware of our financial situation, then you know we have nothing to offer. You’d really marry my daughter without a dowry?”

“I will. Feel free to draw up the contract right now,” Lucien offers, leaning forward and meeting Lord Archeron’s gaze head on. “But I will have Elain move into my family’s estate tonight. You’ve dismissed your staff, and I will not have my wife living in such conditions.”

“Your Grace…”

“Do we have an accord?” When Lord Archeron doesn’t answer right away, Lucien stands up, leaning over the desk. “Do we have an accord? I can assure you, you will not receive such an offer from any other gentleman of my status and title.”

Lord Archeron considers for a moment, eyeing Lucien, but then he’s turning back to his wife. “Gather Elain.”

Lady Archeron nods her head, vanishing back out of the study and closing the door behind her with a soft snick. It doesn’t take Lord Archeron long to draw up the contract, even with the way he pauses in bewilderment each time Lucien demands the conditions be most favorable to Elain, with the way he practically balks at the pin money suggestion Lucien makes. But the ink has barely dried before Lucien is taking the pen and signing his name.

There’s a knock at the study door, and when the door swings open, Elain is standing there with her mother. It takes barely three steps for Lucien to stride over to her. He takes her hand in his, bringing it up to his lips and pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

“Lucien…” Elain whispers, peering up at him in confusion.

“Pack your bags. I’m going to go get a carriage from my family’s estate, and then I’m going to come back for you. Wife.”

~ * * * ~

Lucien all but sprints up the gravel walkway to his family’s estate, yanking open the large front doors and rushing inside. He quickly glances around the front hall, spying one of the house maids with a bundle of linens in her arms. Her eyes widen at his slightly frazzled state, the way he all but burst through the doors, but she seems to come back to herself quickly, dipping into a low curtsy.

“Have you seen my father?”

“I believe he’s in the east drawing room, your Grace,” the house maid offers quietly.

With a nod of thanks, Lucien starts to head in that direction before another thought occurs to him and he turns back around. “Oh, and can you inform Mrs Baxter to have one of the room’s in the west wing made up? My betrothed will be arriving at the estate tonight.”

Lucien doesn’t wait for the house maid to confirm she understands or to say anything else. He continues down the halls, his strides hurried and determined until he comes to the door for the east wing’s drawing room. Thankfully, his father is indeed there when he steps inside, lounging in one of the large, comfortable chairs, a book opened in one hand and tea still steaming on the small table at his elbow.

“Lucien,” Helion greets, his smile slipping away after he takes in the state of his son. “Is everything alright?”

“I’m getting married,” Lucien explains, deciding not to bother with beating around the bush. “To Elain Archeron.”

Helion closes his book and sets it aside. “I see…”

“And there’s no point trying to protest or stop me. I’ve already signed the marriage contract with her father.”

“Well, then I—”

“Lucien Spellcleaver,” Aurelia’s clipped tone precedes the door swinging open again, his mother’s pinched face coming into view. “What is this I hear from the staff about you being engaged?”

Lucien winces at his mother’s expression, but he refuses to back down. “Because it’s true. I just came from the Archeron manor, and Elain will be moving into the estate tonight.”

Aurelia huffs, her exasperation clear. “And you didn’t think to tell your mother what you were planning?”

“Weren’t you the one who taught me that love makes you do crazy things?”

“You do then? Love her?”

Lucien thinks of the honey strands of Elain’s hair, the way they curl around her face and cascade down her shoulders and back. He thinks of the deep brown of her eyes and the way they spark beneath the afternoon sun. He thinks of her kindness, of the beautiful sight of her smile and the melody of her laugh. He thinks of the sweetness of her kiss, and the adorable expression that takes over her face when she calls him a scoundrel.

“I do,” he breathes, unable to fight down a grin. “I really do.”

His mother steps closer, reaching a hand up and lovingly patting his cheek. “Well, alright then. I best go make sure everything is ready for the future duchess.”

Everything seems to happen in a whirlwind after that. His mother vanishes back out the drawing room door, and his father helps him to ready a carriage. Then, Lucien is off back to the Archeron manor. The footmen work to load all of Elain’s trunks and bags onto the carriage while Elain takes the time to hug her younger sister goodbye.

When everything’s secured, he holds out his hand, Elain’s fingers curling around his palm as he helps her into the carriage. He slips into the carriage as well, closing the door behind them and signaling out the window to the driver. The carriage jerks forward, and Lucien turns his eyes back on Elain, watching as she curls and twists her fingers through the fabric of her skirts. He reaches across the carriage, capturing Elain’s hands in his own, squeezing and tracing his thumbs across her knuckles soothingly.

“What if your parents hate me?” Elain whispers, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

“That’s impossible,” Lucien assures her, moving to wedge into the space beside Elain. “They will love you as much as I do.” He reaches forward, pressing his palm against her stomach. “Love both of you as much as I already do.”

Elain reaches her own hand down, covering Lucien’s and lacing their fingers together. “I overheard some of the other ladies talking at the market. Apparently, even if you miss your monthlies, it’s still possible it will merely come late.”

“Then we will just have to try again,” Lucien explains, moving his free hand up so that his fingers curl around the nape of Elain’s neck, his thumb tilting her chin up. “And again.” He brings her mouth to his, kissing her. “And again.”

When Elain pulls back, her lips are parted, eyes slightly glazed over before she blinks and comes back to herself. “You truly are a scoundrel.”

“Get used to it, my love.”

“People will talk, you know,” Elain sighs softly, fiddling with the laces of his shirt like some sort of nervous tick. “I’m sure the whole ton will have something to say about… the speed of everything.”

“Let them. Let them be green with envy over my beautiful wife.”

Lucien pulls Elain into another kiss, all but hauling her against his body. He presses her back against the walls of the carriage, until she’s laughing breathlessly into his mouth. It’s his favorite sound, one he much prefers to her worrying. He pulls back but doesn’t go far, settling his forehead against Elain’s. Even in the low light, it gives him the perfect opportunity to count every eyelash where they kiss her skin, to count every freckle dotted across her cheeks. She reaches a hand up between them, fingers gently tucking the strands of his hair behind his ear.

“Lucien Spellcleaver, you are something else.”

“And you are everything, Elain Spellcleaver.”

—

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