Dragon Age One Shots

Regency Cullen 14

"...and if I take 1/4th from a half, what is left?"

Gwen sits upon her knees before the tiny desk watching Branson struggle to piece together the problem. He scowls at the answer just within reach, his usually jubilant face taking an instant turn into his grace's. It is rather hilarious to find upon a seven-year-old, the sneer upon the thirty-year-old, however, causes her knees to tremble and heart to flip.

The door to their private tutoring room opens, Gwen barely glancing from the boy attempting to double the fraction before subtracting. She presumes it to be the chef with the boy's afternoon snack, her voice rising in an attempt to ask it to be placed on the table, when she spots the same familial sneer.

"Your..." she launches to her feet, "your lordship."

The Duke tips his head once to her, his eyes sweeping over the boy chewing on the end of the pen that looks as if a rat's gone at it. "How is your day Branson?"

"Fractions are bollocks!" the exhausted boy spits, bringing a flush of shame to the Governess who should be keeping him in check.

"We," she dances in a square, her feet scrambling for footing, "we've been working on mathematics. But I'm afraid he's not a fan."

The Duke snickers, "As is true of all Rutherfords. Ah, Miss Trevelyan, I was wondering if I could speak with. In the gardens. If you have a moment." Where before his commands were cool and crips, these cut off and floundered in circles, like a dog searching for the sunbeam to nap in.

Gwen bobs her head. "I think so. Branson could certainly use the break."

After giving the boy leave to play, Branson with kite under wing as he leaps ahead of the adults, Gwen walks beside the Duke whose shuffling slower than usual. Does he not want to have this conversation? Is she in more trouble for the rising curses from his nephew? She tried to train them out, but a year of grief and running wild alongside whoever visited the estates left him with a low-brow vocabulary. She didn't think it was hurting anyone, plenty of time for him to learn proper speech as he aged.

But now...

Rather than the streams of wisteria or the bushy roses, it's to the fountain where the Duke leads her. A lion with a mane of real gold stands in the center. Water should be spurting from its roaring jaws, but only a dribble manages out on this summer day.

His lordship comes to a standstill beside the trickling fountain, the cane hooked under his hand. He begins to reach a hand out for the water the way a young boy would, but pauses and shakes off the thought. "It is a...nice day?" he begins, calming at least some of Gwen's fears. If he were truly angry at her work, he'd open with more vim. What does he want?

"Indeed, though I for one am quite looking forward to fall's cooler embrace. This summer has been..." Her eyes drift across the man's stark jaw, his amber eyes shaking from the lion to hers, and those sculpted lips with the tantalizing scar, "very hot."

The Duke smiles at her confession -- though she prays he does not catch her double entendre -- and wrings a hand over the back of his neck. His eyes, candles across a stormy sea, burn into hers. For a flicker, they drift lower, canvassing her lower neckline and the frills curling across her bosom. That cursed summer heat increases ten-fold in her belly, Gwen having to turn away first.

"Was the weather what you wished to discuss with me?" she asks, fearing the dreams her carnal side could create after too much time with his grace in the garden.

"No," he admits, a snort trailing his confession. "I..." he glances at her, and the smile falters. His Lordship fiddles so with his cane, it begins to rise up in his hands, the iron cap bouncing into his stomach in thoughts he traps inside. The worry in him, the clear anxiety wafting from his pores, causes Gwen to place a comforting hand to his chest.

"Do you have any prospects?" he blurts out so suddenly, Gwen stumbles a step, her hand falling from him.

"Prospects as in..." Was he going to fire her? Did they find a better suited Governor for Branson? Most hated the idea of a woman teaching a future heir after a certain age.

The Duke gulps deep, his eyes softening along with his voice, "Are you affianced?"

Oh. "No," she shakes her head, turning away as a blush burns on her cheeks. They assured her that wouldn't be a problem on this job.

He nods hard at that fact as if itis what he wants to hear. "Your family?" he suddenly pivots and a gulf opens in Gwen's chest.

He knows. Samson told him. Or one of the others at the various parties. Or her brother. It would be like him to try and dictate her life once again.

"Yes?" Gwen speaks in a calm tone while her insides scream.

"Are any of them of noble blood?"

Noble blood. What is he on about? "My mother's father is a Lord," Gwen says slowly, her eyes drifting around the silent gardens. Is Samson out there waiting? Or has the port authority finally come for her?

To her confusion, a great smile rises across the Duke's face. He bends his legs as if he feared them locking up prior. "Wonderful. That's...that should be enough."

"Enough what?" Gwen asks slowly, wishing she already mapped out an escape route. She thought herself finally safe.

"Miss Trevelyan," the Duke reaches out to grip her fingers in his and she stills. He has to feel her heartbeat through their crossed palms, it's plundering in her ears. "I would like to court you."

"What?" she gasps, her eyes bulging as she tries to follow this logic. "But you're...you're--" A handsome, wealthy, kind-hearted man -- perhaps the nicest she's ever met. Why would someone like that want anything to do with her?

"The title, yes," he swallows and she jabs a finger at him as if that was what she meant. A Duke and a governess? That's absurd.

He swallows both her hands in his, pulling her palms to brush against his chest as those amber eyes plead in hers. "The crown has given me permission to court whomever I so choose."

And you picked me?

A giggle escapes from Gwen's lips, disbelief and the rise in her ego competing with her fragile emotions. Her. He wants her? He cannot be serious...

He's always serious. Fanning her fingers out across his coat, growing more aware of the strong build below, Gwen says, "The nobility would allow such a thing?"

"Provided you are of noble blood, yes. No doubt they'd have to check, because they love nothing more than cramming their noses where they don't belong. But I don't see a problem..."

Check. Meaning delving into her family's history. Where the money came from. Who she truly is. Run, Gwen. Forget this job. Forget this...this insane man who thinks he can just sweep a silly Governess off her feet.

Forget the soft touches as he guided her on and off his horse. The lingering stares across candlelit rooms as her smile brought one to his. The encouragement for her book and delight in her wit. Forget him.

"Do you...?" the Duke gulps, his eyes peering deeper into hers, "Do you want to be courted...by me?"

He'll learn the truth. You'll lose. But he's so handsome. It will destroy everything you've fought for. And he touches her head in a way no man ever has. Perhaps none ever will.

The agony of choice thunders through Gwen's brain while he stands before her with his heart in his hand. She needs time. Time to think. To find a way to explain that as much as she cares for him, it isn't wise for a man of his stature to elevate someone so low. So worthless.

Gwen tips over, her legs giving way as she fakes a dead faint. Cullen's arms scoop around her, holding her tight as he calls her name, but she keeps her eyes tight. While he runs off for help she can form a plan.

To her shock, the man with a wounded leg, lifts her and begins to carry her to the house all while calling for assistance. She shouldn't be putting so much pressure on him, wake back up with an answer to save him the pain, but it is nice to be in his arms at least one more time.