Chapter Text
When Mama and Papa tell her, it is all she can do not to run from the room screaming. How could they have kept it from her for this long? Doesn’t she deserve to know her own future?
“When?” she asks, throat tight, eyes averted from her parents.
“At the end of the Season,” Mama tells her. “Alinochka-“
She shakes her head. “What’s the point of waiting? What’s the point of having a Season if we all know who I’ll marry at the end of it?”
“This will give you time to get to know each other,” Mama says.
Alina huffs and folds her arms across her chest. “But what’s the point of that? It’s not as though I have any say in this, in whether or not I actually marry him. Why would getting to know him make a difference?”
Papa narrows his eyes at her. “If you’d prefer marrying a total stranger, we can accommodate you,” he says dryly. “Lord Kirigan is the one who suggested waiting until the end of the season, but I can write to him and tell him that you are ready to be married now, if that is your preference.”
Alina glares at the floor, then looks up at her father and says, “Go ahead. Write to him.”
Across from him, his mother rolls her eyes. “Control yourself, boy,” she grumbles. “Don’t act too excited.” But there is a tiny hint of amusement in the quirk of her lips, and he knows by now not to take his mother’s words too personally.
“You’re the one who set us on this path, Mother,” he reminds her. “Forgive me for showing an interest in the girl I’m to marry after hearing for most of my life that she’ll be my perfect balance.”
“Once she’s trained,” his mother warns.
He inclines his head. “When will you start?”
“Not before we’re back on the estate, as we have discussed before.” She narrows her eyes at him. “You know the danger in telling her of what she is before she’s safe there.”
He can feel his lips turning down in displeasure, and smooths his expression before his mother can comment on it. “And I have told you that between the two of us, we can protect her. Besides, from what we’ve heard of her, she won’t like us lying to her about something so important.”
Baghra scoffs. “Lying! The child wouldn’t know a lie if it bit her on the nose.”
“I think you underestimate her,” he says, keeping his voice calm, free of the frustration he feels. “And clearly she feels that an omission of such scale is a lie.”
The Lebedevs — all four of them, his bride included — are waiting on the steps when they arrive. He swings down from the carriage and holds a hand out to assist his mother down, too; she slides a hand through his arm and smiles warmly at Lord and Lady Lebedev as they walk up the stairs.
Lady Lebedev steps forward and embraces his mother, murmuring, “How lovely to see you again after so long, Baghra,” into her shoulder.
“And you, Nada,” his mother replies. “You have always been such a good friend to me.” When she and Lady Lebedev step back from each other, his mother turns to Lord Lebedev and says, “Branimir-“
He blinks in surprise to see Lord Lebedev, too, embracing his mother like a long-lost sister. While they are occupied, though, he glances toward the younger two Lebedevs — Miroslav and Alina. His bride is pretending to have her eyes trained on the ground, though they dart up towards him so often that the pretense is rather hilarious. Her brother, on the other hand, is watching him openly, eyes narrowed. He tries to remember if his mother has ever mentioned Miroslav Lebedev knowing about this arrangement — tries and fails.
Well. No wonder the boy — a scant two years older than his sister — is just shades away from glaring like someone is stealing his sister away. From his perspective, that must be what it feels like.
“Lord Miroslav,” he says, stepping forward and bowing slightly, before turning and giving a deeper bow as he murmurs, “Lady Alina.”
“Lord Kirigan,” they murmur, nearly in unison. Alina executes a deep, flawless curtsy, one more suited to royalty than her future husband.
“Truly a joy to meet you, my lady,” he says, lifting her hand, letting his lips linger over its back, keeping her eyes caught up in his gaze. A light flush rises in her cheeks, and he is about to ask her if she is ready for the wedding tomorrow when Lady Lebedev suggests that they adjourn to a sitting room for tea.
He’s unutterably handsome, this marquess they have arranged for her to marry. Handsome and charming, though not as smoothly confident as he seems to wish he was. Twice now he has stumbled over some word, too caught up in watching her to respond appropriately to the questions her mother is asking him.
He’s handsome and charming, and she still wants to hate him for the way her choices are being stolen from her, but… he’s easy to like.
Saints, she can’t believe that by this time tomorrow, they’ll be married.