Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The words were floating in front of Crowley’s eyes, the elegant inky swirls blurring into one another, quite effectively stabbing a part of him he had always made a point of ignoring while the jostles of the cab matched the irregular tempo of his heartbeat. He felt nauseous, which had more to do with the contents of the familiar missive bearing the royal sigil than the abysmal skills of the driver for hire.

Queen Frances might as well have asked him to go to the moon and bring back a piece of it for her royal eyes to inspect. That certainly sounded like a much easier task than fixing the countless damages his father, the late Duke Lucian Morningstar, had done to their name and estate. Crowley had never had much interest in either of them – the name or the estate – until the old man had decided to cock up his toes and saddle him with an inheritance that was going to give him more problems than advantages. In fact, the inheritance in question was mostly problems, as well as the source of his current predicament.

Why was he even rereading the letter was beyond him! It certainly did not lift his spirits nor provide him with any sort of encouragement. He had pored over it so many times he could practically recite it by heart at this point. Especially the ominous, threatening tone of that last line.

Crowley might not have cared about the title or his place in a society he so despised, but he did have a particularly strong inclination for living the careless, thoughtless life of a well-off member of the ton, something he would have to stop doing were the Crown to decide to strip him of his father’s – well, his – Dukedom.

There was nothing else for it, he thought glumly while the carriage came to a sudden halt in front of the bow window of Angel’s in Oxford Street. He had to find himself a spouse, someone who did not know about the pitiful state of the Morningstar estate, someone whose interest in having a duke come up to scratch would override every last ounce of common sense.

“We’re here, Your Grace,” came the gruff voice of the driver.

Crowley quickly folded the letter and replaced it into the inner pocket of his tailcoat before pushing his dark lenses on his nose and retrieving the top hat sitting beside him.

Angel’s might not have been the best place to find one’s better half, but it was where a gentleman with his– let’s call it talent for gambling could acquire the necessary funds to spruce oneself up and entice even the most demanding of mamas to throw their offspring at him.

After the first couple of hours spent at the club on Oxford Street, one thing had become abundantly clear: despite its name, there were no angels to be found at Angel’s. Only vain barons and earls and whatnot who were, thankfully, not half as good at gambling as they thought themselves to be. That was yet another privilege the well-to-do had, Crowley supposed, they could afford to be bad at it.

Since that blasted royal missive had all but dragged him back to London, Crowley had taken to frequent all the gaming hells he could think of, in such dire need he was of ready money. Suffice it to say, looking like a duke who was not on the verge of being on the river tick was not cheap. This lot could forgive the most heinous of crimes: illegitimate children left to fend for themselves, maids and stable boys tricked into letting their master into their bed only to be shown the door soon after – hell, even high-robbery would be accepted provided one did not forget to make the proper introductions.

Everything could be forgiven in the face of decorum, influence and affluence, except frumpiness.

Looking the part was of the essence, a principle that Crowley, as the son of a duke who’d been deep in debt for most his life, had always taken to heart.

So, while he much preferred the Seventh Club on St James’ Street, where gentlemen were so in name alone and were much less inclined to keep up with pretenses like they did here at Angel’s, he’d forced himself to explore new hunting grounds. As he’d learned at his expense, the less proper the gentleman the less likely he was to pay his gambling debts.

Which was why Crowley had spent the afternoon enduring the terrible conversation at Angel’s, ranging from the latest scandals in Parliament and society, to who was bedding who (with all the appropriate discretion, of course), from the upcoming announcement regarding the much anticipated ball at Lady Nutter’s country estate to the viscount Eastgate running away with his paramour and defaulting the title to that soft-hearted soul of his brother. They even goaded Crowley into telling them, in great detail no less, about his gallivanting in Paris and Rome, and how exactly the continent ladies and lads of the night differed from those in London.

Crowley was exhausted, his face tired from all the grinning he was doing, as well as famished. So famished, in fact, that not even Lord Sandalphon’s vicious sneer and Lord Brown’s unfashionable side whiskers had made him lose his appetite. That was, unfortunately, another thing one needed funds for: sustenance.

Consequently, with the excuse of relieving himself after one too many glasses of brandy he had not actually drunk (drunkenness didn’t go well with games of skill and chance), Crowley found himself exploring the hallowed halls of the club, past portrait after portrait of boring lords with improbable facial hair, searching for the kitchens some renowned chef or other had probably just left after the dinner service. Crowley had arrived too late for that, but it was no matter. He would rather not be seen scarfing down his dinner like he was dying to do. Hunger was for the poor, after all, something a gentleman should never feel.

It did not take him long to find the kitchens, now manned by the sparse staff waiting for the old fogeys upstairs to ring for their supper, and it would have taken him even less to ask the cook on service to help a foxed duke put something in his belly had Crowley not realised he was not the only gentleman present.

Sitting at the long wooden table where the help was probably used to take their meals, basking in the warm light of the oil lamps, was a man around his age, not one day over thirty, with the blondest curls Crowley had ever seen, a criminally outdated attire in shades of beige and brown, and his upturned nose buried in a book. The perfectly polished plate in front of him was proof that Crowley was not the first lord to saunter vaguely downstairs for something to eat.

He stopped at the door, briefly wondered if he should leave, then decided he would stay and wait for the man’s reaction, so he could devise the best strategy to make it out of there with a full belly and a mostly intact reputation.

And yet, it soon became clear that the only angelic looking person at Angel’s was not going to notice him anytime soon, absorbed as he was in his book. Some part of Crowley knew he should have discreetly asked for something to eat and left without attracting the man’s attention. Except he didn’t really deal in should’s and should not’s. What he did do instead was ask the cook to make him a plate of leftovers, then waited for it to be delivered straight into his hands before pushing his glasses on his nose and making his way to the table.

His sinful walk was all for nought, as the angel looked up only when Crowley put the plate down and moved to pull back the chair – the one conveniently placed right next to the man, of course. Some dangers were better faced from as close a distance as possible.

Stormy grey eyes widened in surprise and then slowly roamed all over Crowley’s face, moving even further south, along his waistcoat, his pantaloons, down to the blood red tassels of his Hessian boots.

Now, in polite company, such attention could only be described as rude. However, Crowley prided himself on being as far from polite company as one possibly could be and it was clear, at least judging by the unfocused intensity of the man’s expression, that he hadn’t quite realised what he was doing.

Besides, Crowley liked to be ogled. Thrived on it. There was no other reason for wearing pantaloons that tight. In his experience, the more he could get people to concentrate on his appearance, the more successful his deceptions.

So he grinned and folded himself on the chair with the snake-like gracefulness he’d cultivated over the years.

“Am I more or less interesting than your book?”

The angel frowned and drew back, cheeks pinkening and eyes blinking in sudden awareness. “Why, I never–”

Crowley smirked and popped a roasted potato in his mouth. “Don’t answer,” he said, mouth full. “That was terribly forward of me. Rude, even.”

A wrinkle appeared between the angel’s eyebrows, something akin to recognition not so slowly dawning on him as he straightened his back. “According to what I have heard about you, I should not expect anything less.”

“Oh, my fame precedes me, then.” He speared another potato as obnoxiously as he could.

“I am afraid it does, Your Grace,” the angel said, lips almost comically pursed in disapproval. “What are you doing at Angel’s?”

“Same thing you are, I wager.”

“Somehow I doubt it.”

“Came back to London, had to enjoy the sights.”

“There are no sights to be enjoyed here at Angel’s.” He tilted his head to the side and gave a little shrug, gaze brushing Crowley’s plate. “Well, except for the club’s library. It is surprisingly well stocked for a place frequented by people who care very little for it.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Crowley asked, nudging the plate in the angel’s direction in a silent offer, which was met with a quick shake of his head.

“In a way, yes. Well, that and Mr Pat’s cooking.” He threw another longing look at the plate. “He really is magic around a stove.”

“And here I thought people flocked here to bask in the light of Lord Sandalphon’s wit.”

The angel snorted. “There is not much of it to bask in, if you don’t mind me saying.” This said, he caught himself and blushed at his own forwardness. “In fact, I should not have said it. Please disregard my comment.”

Before he could think better of it, Crowley angled his body so he could better stare at the man. “It’s perfectly fine. I do tend to have that effect on people. I’m used to it.”

The angel’s pale blond eyebrows slowly climbed up his forehead in a remarkable show of loftiness. “And what effect would that be?”

“Tempting to misbehaviour,” said Crowley, waving his fork with the flourish of a magician.

If it weren’t for the unmistakable glimmer in his eyes, the angel would have come across as utterly unimpressed, his nose progressively more stuck in the air. “Hmm.”

“So, are you down here because you’re hiding from Lord Sandalphon?”

The man straightened again, but could do nothing for the guilt that flickered across his face. “Why would you even suggest such a thing?”

“Why indeed.” Oh, he so enjoyed poking at people’s pretenses and watching them squirm to keep them up in the face of his brazenness. “What else have you heard about me?”

“Plenty.”

“Only awful things, I hope.”

“Oh, horrendous,” the angel confirmed. “Is it true that you once downed an entire bottle of laudanum and provided assistance to a gang of grave robbers in Edinburgh?”

Ah, yes. His Scottish escapades. “Do you blame them? Dead people should not be better off than live ones.”

The angel did not dignify him with an answer. “And have you actually fathered enough illegitimate children to start your own army?”

Crowley shrugged. “That’s ridiculous. What would I need an army for?”

“How would I know? Tempting the entire country to bad behaviour, perchance?”

“Pfft. No, my interest lies in what is essentially the opposite of fighting.”

“Peace?” he asked, visibly unconvinced.

“Peace is not the opposite of fighting, merely the absence of it.”

After a moment of confusion, the angel’s breath hitched in his chest and pink slowly crept up his cheeks, which was all Crowley needed to know that he’d drawn the correct conclusion. Or at least the one Crowley wanted him to reach. 

“I’ll tell you what, though,” he continued. “This country could certainly use more of me and less of Lord Sandalphon. Never underestimate the power of a good pair of cheekbones.”

“Is that why you came back to London? To bestow your good looks on us all?”

Crowley grinned at him. “Do you find my countenance agreeable then?”

This earned him a splutter that Crowley found more pleasant than a thousand church choirs combined. Which was probably why he took pity on the man and added, “Came back to London because my father died.”

The angel sobered, embarrassment promptly forgotten. “Oh, I heard. My deepest condolences.”

Crowley glanced away and was reminded of the potato he was still waving around. He examined it for a moment before bringing it to his mouth. “Could have done without them, to be perfectly honest.”

The angel made some sort of tutting noise as he observed him. “You’re different than I remember.”

Crowley stopped his chewing to turn to him. “Remember me from where?”

The man opened his mouth to reply, but was soon interrupted by the now unpleasantly familiar voice of Lord Brown making inquiries from the door, where a maid was already trying to stop him from entering the kitchen.

“Oh, no,” the angel moaned before pushing back his chair and crouching to the floor to hide in the shadows under the table.

Taken aback, Crowley stood up and whipped around, instinctively positioning himself so as to hide him mere moments before Lord Brown finally broke down the maid’s resistance and ventured into the room.

“Your Grace,” he said, coming to a stop a few steps away from the table. The sight of his side whiskers sent a shiver down Crowley’s back. “I was not expecting to see you here.”

Crowley leaned against the wooden surface, crossing his feet at the ankles. “Can you believe I drank all that brandy and completely forgot to eat anything?”

“The brandy seems to be doing miracles for your whist skills, though. Quite hard to fault you for that, Your Grace.”

“What can I say? I’m primed to endure in the harshest of conditions.” Then, when Lord Brown moved to take half a step forward, he hastily added, “Since I was at it, I decided to share my vast expertise with the kitchen staff down here.”

Lord Brown halted his advance, perplexed. “What sort of expertise?”

“You see, and you may have already heard this about me, I have an extraordinary knack for curing meats.” An undeniable advantage of being used to putting up a show was the ability to regurgitate all sorts of nonsense without batting an eye (of course, when it came to this specific endeavour, the dark lenses shielding his eyes also helped). “I personally know how to handle the juiciest of cuts.”

Lord Brown all but giggled, visibly titillated. “A man like you, I can only imagine.” He cleared his throat, then possibly remembered himself, and finally averted his eyes from Crowley’s devilish grin. “Did you happen to see Lord Eastgate around? He is known to fraternise with the help.”

Oh? Was that the mysterious angel’s name? “Uhm, not that I recall, no.”

“Pity, I was looking for him.”

“What for?”

“I have been hoping to get a moment alone with him so I could propose.”

Well, wasn’t this an interesting twist to his evening? “You know what they say, the best ones are notoriously hard to catch.”

“Who says that?”

“Mamas everywhere.” Not that Crowley would know, as he’d been avoiding them like the plague for most of his adult life.

“You may be right, Your Grace. Well, I shall leave you to your supper, cooking lessons and your…” Lord Brown glanced behind Crowley. “Is that Miss Austen’s latest?”

Crowley turned his head around to look at the book lying on the table. While he certainly couldn’t be accused of being in possession of either sense or sensibility, he knew a thing or two about lying through his teeth. “Of course. One should always stay up to date with the latest publications, especially if one wishes to charm the fairer sex.”

Lord Brown chuckled and shook his head. “You are a resourceful one, Your Grace.”

“I strive to be.”

“I hope to see you at the hazard table. Or not, I would not mind keeping my money where it is.” He patted his tailcoat. “In my pocket.”

As soon as the man disappeared from whence he’d come, Crowley crouched down to meet the angel’s eyes under the table. “Lord Eastgate, I presume?”

The man slowly got back to his feet in the prissiest way known to humankind, fixing inexistent creases in his waistcoat and cravat as he went, with another delicious blush colouring his impeccably shaven cheeks. “Apologies. I suppose one could hope for a better introduction.”

Crowley leaned on the table and grinned his most rakish grin. “No need for apologies. As a rule, I tend not to complain when people hide under tables and desks when I’m around. It’s usually for a very good reason.”

He expected Lord Eastgate to flush and splutter in scandalised indignation, and while the angel’s blush did darken, his gaze only turned more steely. “Does that actually work?”

“What?”

“The over-the-top…” He paused, looking for the proper word, and finally settled on, “Raking?”

“Most of the time,” lied Crowley.

“Well, this day and age really has something to say about poor taste.”

Far from offending him, the barb made Crowley’s smile turn even wider and, strangely enough, more genuine. It looked like the angel had claws on him after all. “Is that why you’re running from Lord Brown? Don’t want him to make an honest man out of you?”

The man gasped. “That is preposterous! I do not need anyone to make an honest man out of me. I already am.”

“Of course. Didn’t mean to imply otherwise.” Crowley waved his hand behind him. “Should we expect anyone else?”

The angel – Lord Eastgate – paled and pushed his gaze towards the door. “Why? Did you hear someone coming down?”

How interesting. “Exactly how many people here would like to propose to you, Lord Eastgate?”

“Too many, as far as I am concerned.”

“Wait. You’re the viscount they were talking about.” For someone who had barely drank a drop of alcohol, Crowley was a little slow on the uptake tonight. “The one whose older brother has–”

“Yes, I know the story.” Lord Eastgate sighed and sat back down. “I am the story.”

“Newly minted viscount,” Crowley said, crossing his arms while still leaning on the table. “You must have a long line of callers outside your door.”

“Unfortunately, yes. And annoyingly enough, I cannot keep telling them I am indisposed. Or ask my butler to lie about my whereabouts. The poor man is getting rather restless, you see.”

“I am very familiar with your predicament.”

Lord Eastgate glanced up. “Are you?”

“Why, yes. It just so happens that I came back to London to find someone to make an honest man out of me.”

The angel pursed his lips and quite visibly refrained from looking Crowley up and down. “Well, I pity whoever will be burdened with such a Sisyphean task. You are known to be lacking in that specific department. If the rumours are to be believed, of course.”

“Of course they are, that’s how rumours work.” He tipped forward with his whole body and smirked. “Where did we meet exactly? I’m pretty sure it wasn’t under certain circumstances, or I would remember you.”

Lord Eastgate’s left eyebrow resumed its haughty ascent toward his hairline. “I genuinely fail to understand how you managed to gain the reputation of a rake.”

“Lucky for me, not everyone has your standards.”

“Suppose not. Anyway, we met… blimey, some twenty years ago. I believe you bullied me into climbing up an apple tree at Morningstar Hall.”

It took everything in him to stop his surprise from showing. “You’ve been to Morningstar Hell?”

“That is what I said,” the angel confirmed. “One of your late mother’s events.” He narrowed his eyes. “Do you make a habit of poking fun at your ancestral home?”

Crowley ignored him, struck as he was by the memory slowly resurfacing of a boy reading a book sitting against an apple tree in his garden. “I remember.”

“You do?”

“You were crying like anything. And I rescued you, didn’t I?”

Lord Eastgate tutted. “I am not sure ‘rescued’ is the proper term considering you were the one who put me in harm’s way in the first place.”

“I didn’t force you to go up the tree.”

“That is quite debatable.”

“You cried a lot.”

“That is how I convinced you to help me down the tree. You were very distraught, if I remember correctly.”

“I was not.” ‘Distraught’ was something Crowley always made great efforts not to be, at least not in public.

“Very well,” Lord Eastgate conceded as though he wasn’t conceding anything at all. “You were not.”

“Are you somehow insinuating you manipulated me into helping you?”

“I am a good crier, if that is what you are asking. Can do it on cue when I find myself in a muddle.”

“I don’t believe you.” Who on earth took pride in how good of a crier they were? Had there been a way to ensure no tears would ever come out of his eyes ever again, Crowley would have done it ages ago.

“Suit yourself.” Lord Eastgate opened his book with an air of finality. “You should eat your dinner before it gets cold.”

Somehow, the cutting remark was all it took for Crowley’s brain to lead a veritable mutiny against him. “Look at us, practically married already. Would you do me the honour of becoming my husband?”

The glower Lord Eastgate aimed at him was so severe Crowley felt a shiver skitter down his spine, and yet he did not backtrack. The royal missive was burning a hole in his pocket and this was a viscount. A supposedly soft-hearted viscount with means who knew how to make interesting conversation. He could do much, much worse.

“I really wish you would stuff your mouth with that delicious roast beef you have on your plate,” the angel said, not very angelically. “It would probably prevent more balderdash from oozing out.”

“I’m serious,” Crowley said, realising right then and there that he actually was. “I am in need of a spouse and you’re…”

“I am actively avoiding any more commitments from complicating my life, Your Grace.”

“Lord Eastgate–”

“Aziraphale, please.”

“Did I leave London for so long I’ve missed the rise of a new deity?”

The angel huffed. “That is my name, Your Grace. Aziraphale.”

“Well then I insist you call me Crowley.”

“Who’s Crowley?”

“Me, I believe.”

The intrigued glimmer was back in Lord Eastgate’s – Aziraphale’s – eyes. “You go by your mother’s name?”

“As I said, I was not particularly fond of my old man. And before you start feeling sorry for him, I assure you he returned the sentiment in spades.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I am sorry.” And he meant it too, Crowley could tell.

“Why? He’s dead.” He certainly had less things to worry about than him.

“You are very crass.”

“No, it’s merely the familiarity between us. All the more reason for us to get married. Childhood friends turned–”

“Oh, please. We were hardly friends. We met once and you almost got me gravely injured. You also did not remember me until I pointed out that–”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“Something I reckon you would know quite a lot about.”

“Are you sure I can’t convince you to marry me?”

“If I were to list all the things I would rather do than marry you, I would be forced to take residence here for the foreseeable future.”

Crowley smiled. “Well, I’m not doing anything after this.”

“Do you not spend your nights seducing your way into multiple people’s beds?”

“Only on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Today’s Thursday, so…” He shrugged. “Why not? It would certainly solve your pesky suitors problem.”

“I am not sure diving straight into a trap qualifies as escaping said trap.”

“I’m not a trap.”

“Hmm. Those unmentionables you have on tell a different story,” he said with an obvious glare at Crowley’s pantaloons.

“My, my, Lord Eastgate. Did you take a good look at my rear while you were down there?”

The angel sniffed and looked away. “It is not like I had much else to do.”

“You’re quite feisty for someone who hides under tables to escape unwanted social interactions.” The contrast was fascinating to say the least.

“Must be your influence, surely. You are tempting me into misbehaving, you said so yourself.”

The mutiny in Crowley’s head devolved into utter bedlam. “What about a fake engagement?”

Aziraphale stared at him as if he were mad, and for the first time since he’d come down here Crowley couldn’t really blame him. “What on earth is a fake engagement?”

“We tell people we’re engaged. You get a reprieve from your suitors and I–”

“And you?”

“You’re a viscount with a nice enough estate to entice Lord Brown to propose.”

“That does not answer my question.”

“If we were together, people would take me seriously.” A rake like him engaged to this angel right here? It would do miracles for Crowley’s reputation. There was only one thing the ton loved more than a rake, and that was a reformed one. Someone knew they were all the rage lately. 

Besides, the Queen’s letter mentioned a proper match and a marriage license, she did not clearly state that he had to go through with it. She said she’d keep an eye on him, so even just requesting the necessary paperwork could gain him a hint of approval and buy him some time until he could find a better, more permanent solution.

Hell, given enough persuasion, maybe he could even convince Lord Eastgate to marry him for real. Then they could go back to ignoring each other and living separate lives like most married couples did.

“That is pure poppycock.”

Or perhaps not.

Be that as it may, Crowley didn’t let the man discourage him. “You should think about it. Properly, I mean.”

“I shall do no such thing, you fiend.” Lord Eastgate stood up and retrieved his book, clutching it to his chest as though protecting it from Crowley’s nefarious influence. “Have a good night, Your Grace.”

Crowley opened his mouth in mock-surprise, took great pleasure in the man’s indignation and watched him leave with a whispered, “Good night to you, angel,” on his smiling lips.

At the age of eight and twenty, Aziraphale Eastgate had thought his days in the marriage mart were well and truly behind him. 

After a good ten years of his life spent skirting the popular edges of good society, fantasising and waiting for someone to notice him all the while, he had long since ceased hoping there was a handsome gentleman out there ready to make him swoon with some grand declaration of love like they did in the books he so loved to read.

Far from letting this tempt him into self-commiseration, Aziraphale had come to rather enjoy his life on the shelf. The shelf was quiet, cosy and cluttered with the things he held most dear. Not only that, his being the second child of the late viscount Eastgate once meant that he would not be required to tend to the family estate, leaving him plenty of time to indulge in his interests, such as reading, writing, drawing, and occasionally trying (and consistently failing) to play the piano.

Naturally, being the spare had not saved him from participating in good society. While he was partial to the country, at the beginning of each season Aziraphale was unfailingly dragged back to the city where he was subjected to a slew of balls, fetes and soirées, which would not have been such a burden were people in London not so exceedingly dull and preoccupied with everyone else’s opinion about them.

Social commitments aside, he was happy to say that, up until a few weeks ago, he had been mostly left to his own devices. The Eastgates had never had much use for him, relying on his brother Gabriel and his younger sister Michael as representatives of the family at large. If this had once been a source of great sorrow for Aziraphale, with time it had become a comfort instead. Sometime in the past three or four years, being considered a wallflower had stopped being a curse and had turned into a blessing instead.

A blessing Aziraphale had been rather enjoying.

Until Gabriel – his perfect, unflappable, impeccably mannered older brother – had run away with an actor, leaving Aziraphale the title and the burden of the Eastgate estate, as well as a scandal to contain. 

All things considered, that had been the easiest part. The Eastgates had always enjoyed the reputation of being irreproachable, upstanding people. Sticklers, some would say. ‘It was only time something like this happened’, Aziraphale had heard the whispers at Angel’s. ‘No one can be this faultless all the time. Poor old viscount Gabriel must have gone mad.’

While Aziraphale did not exactly resent his brother for following the whims of the heart, he did blame him for leaving him to contend with all these… tasks. So many of them. Honestly, with all the things tending to an estate apparently entailed, it was a wonder Gabriel had not lost his head and run away years ago.

It was, quite frankly, all too much, not unlike pulling teeth as far as Aziraphale was concerned, and he hated every moment of it.

Simply put, his days were not his own anymore, as he now spent his mornings trying to avoid (but mostly enduring) his suitors – people of all sorts, some of which had simply gone from courting Gabriel to courting him – and his afternoons listening to Mr Glozier explain at length what the ledgers piling on the desk were, since Aziraphale was now expected to make decisions about them. About tenants and rents and excruciatingly detailed financial accounts he could not make heads or tails of. Apparently, redistributing profits among one’s tenants was not how one runs a successful estate, which was all rather inconvenient as that was the only suggestion Aziraphale had come up with, much to Mr Glozier’s ill-concealed outrage.

As for his evenings, he had been told under no uncertain terms that he was now expected to blend with the beau monde of Mayfair, which had resulted in him taking the habit of dining at Angel’s, hoping to avoid any further visits from his sister Michael, who had once seen fit to hound him for two weeks straight until he resigned himself to give up his quiet evenings in his bedroom in favour of – God help him – mingling. (She had no idea his time at the club was mostly spent hiding from the very people he was supposed to be mingling with, but this way he could tell her he had been to Angel’s without lying.)

Aziraphale could not say he understood his family – it was no secret that they did not understand him either – but he could not help but love them dearly. And yet, he had to admit that holding them in great affection had been easier when he was not the one directly responsible for them all.

“Good afternoon, brother,” Muriel’s cheery voice reached him from the door of Gabriel’s study. Well, his study now. The only silver lining in his current predicament was his youngest sibling, the only one still living at Eastgate House beside him, coming to relieve him of his duties every once in a while. If his pained grimace was anything to go by, not even Mr Glozier could resist their sweet smile.

Aziraphale perked up, then just as quickly deflated when he was met with the glower of his steward. Whatever had possessed Gabriel to hire two Prussians to manage both their Mayfair house and their country estate, Aziraphale would never know, but he did resent him for keeping Mr Harmony at Eden Abbey and Mr Glozier here in London. 

Had Mr Glozier not been very patiently trying to get him to make some ridiculous decision or other for the past two hours, Aziraphale would have felt greatly irritated. As it was, though, the man had probably suffered enough. “Surely, we can take a small break,” Aziraphale said tentatively.

The administrator sighed and glanced at Muriel, whose smile became even wider. “Should I ring for tea?”

God bless them, Aziraphale thought some minutes later, whilst they were sitting in the drawing room with a warm cup in hand. Muriel was droning on and on about Miss Sarah Kelley, her governess, and the tedious books about good manners the poor dear was forced to study by heart in preparation of their coming out next year.

Aziraphale kept nodding and smiling politely, gasping and tutting in all the appropriate places, pretending he was not lost in his own thoughts. Thoughts, perhaps, of a certain dashing duke he had met at Angel’s a couple of days prior. He entertained himself for a few minutes – he could not be blamed for it, everything was better than those blasted ledgers – thinking of long legs, red tassels and black velveteen waistcoats, until Muriel said something that, for a change, did not seem to have anything to do with any finishing school nonsense.

So he blinked and came back to himself as he asked, “Did you say something about a duke?”

“Yes, the new Duke of Morningstar. He was at the Ormerods’ ball last night, apparently.” Muriel glanced back at the maid standing near the door, then scooted closer to Aziraphale on the settee, lowering their voice to a whisper. “He danced with fourteen different people.”

Aziraphale scoffed. Of course he did. “Well, is he any good at it?”

Muriel giggled. “What sort of question is that, brother? Someone like him is certainly very well versed in the art of–” They dared another look over their shoulder, before mouthing, “seduction.”

Aziraphale made a great show of ignoring them and took a dainty sip of his tea instead. Muriel was too apt at gossiping for their own good, something that was only bound to get worse once they would make their debut and experience the gossip for themself. (As much as he was loath to admit it, Aziraphale could relate.)

Anthony ‘Crowley’ Morningstar was a fine-looking fellow who certainly knew how to make an impression, there was no doubt about that, but well-versed in the art of seduction? While he did rely on the latest fashion, those mystifying dark shades of his and a never ending supply of rakish smirks, seduction did not really appear to be his forte. 

No, as far as Aziraphale could tell, it seemed more a matter of letting other people draw whatever conclusion they wanted from his appearance alone so they could seduce themselves with their wild assumptions about him. Or perhaps that was Aziraphale’s prejudice speaking. Maybe he had become so jaded about romantic affairs in general as to make himself immune to the duke’s wiles.

“I find him greatly overrated,” he said, drawing himself a little taller.

“How can you say that?” Muriel’s eyes went wide. “Did you meet him?”

“I did. And he was not half as impressive as they describe him to be,” he lied. The duke was impressive, only not in the way people said he was.

For one, Aziraphale had never seen another gentleman venturing in the kitchens at Angel’s before, not unless they were bothering a maid or a footman. Strangely enough, the duke had been there to eat. Even more surprisingly, he had covered for Aziraphale when Lord Brown had come downstairs looking for him, no questions asked. 

Sure, the favour could be chalked up to the duke wanting to ensnare himself a viscount – alas, the Eastgates were one of the richest families in Mayfair – but the man had not realised who Aziraphale was when he had first struck a conversation with him.

And that was another astounding thing about that night at Angel’s, possibly the most astounding of all. Talking with the duke had been easy. More than that, it was pure, unadulterated fun, the sort Aziraphale was not used to having. So fun, in fact, he had behaved more brazenly than ever. He could not say if it was the duke’s reputation as a Corinthian that had relieved Aziraphale from observing his usually impeccable manners, or if there really was something unusual about the man…

One thing was for sure, he knew how to dress himself. Aziraphale did not particularly care for the latest fashion and he was quite convinced the duke’s attire would have looked ridiculous on anyone else, but the man knew what looked good on him and those pantaloons… dear lord, Aziraphale would not have been surprised to find out he asked his valet to paint his legs black every morning. And that tailcoat perfectly emphasising the line of his waist? My, but he cut a slender, elegant figure.

His personality, on the other hand, left much to be desired. He certainly enjoyed poking fun at people and getting a rise out of them. Aziraphale still had not decided if the marriage proposal had been a gibe or a serious matter. 

Come to think of it, if he had actually danced with fourteen different partners at the Ormerods’ last night, perhaps the duke was serious about his intention of getting married. Aziraphale loved dancing in theory, but even he would not subject himself to fourteen different stilted conversations just to take a spin around a ballroom.

Meanwhile, Muriel – who was not familiar with the concept of a ‘stilted’ conversation – was back to talking at length about–

“What was that you said about Lady Nutter’s ball?” Aziraphale asked suddenly.

“Oh, I said I am curious to see if the duke will have a betrothed in time to attend. It’s no surprise that she would host a ball with such silly requirements. If it is indeed true that the spirits guide her decisions, the ones she knows are pretty silly. Remember last year, when she announced only blond people were invited?”

Aziraphale did remember. He had become the envy of London for an entire month while the ton rushed to lighten their hair in the ghastliest of manners. The papers, even the most highbrow ones, had been overflowing with miraculous recipes, ranging from mostly innocuous, such as mixtures of lemon juice and chamomile tea, to dangerous concoctions of lye, wood ash, and sulfur, that had left quite a few eminent ladies and lords smelling and covering their hair for at least a fortnight.

“What is it going to be this year then?” And what did the duke have to do with it?

“Only married and engaged couples are invited, apparently.”

Aziraphale blinked, flummoxed. “Does that not defeat the very purpose of a ball?”

Muriel rolled their eyes, affecting the air of some grand dame who knew everything about life. “You know how she is.”

Aziraphale did not. No one knew what manner of nonsense crossed Lady Nutter’s mind or why she did the things she did. It was part of her charm. Surely, being the owner of the most extensive collection of rare and esoteric books in the whole of England, she must not have been as unreasonable as she seemed.

“I am sure married couples all over Mayfair are rejoicing,” he muttered for lack of better things to say.

“They must be. She is apparently going to open the doors to her library as well. The last time she let anyone see it was back in 1798,” they said, clearly taking great pride in delivering the news.

Like a deer trying to escape the hunt, Aziraphale’s heart skipped several beats. “B-beg your pardon?”

Muriel nodded sagely. “It was in the paper.”

“Well, I–”

“Were you not reading that this morning?”

He might have been pretending to read it, hoping the suitors crowding his drawing room would take the hint and leave, perhaps taking some of their flowers with them. There were so many around the house one might mistake the space for a conservatory. “I must have been distracted. Is she going to let people read the books?”

“Apparently so.” Muriel gently prodded him with their shoulder. “Is Lady Nutter’s ball what will finally convince you to accept one of your suitors?"

“Do not be silly, my dear. It would be most unreasonable,” Aziraphale rushed to say, not quite believing his own words. But he had to. Who in their right mind would get married only for the chance to look at some books, rare as they may be?

(Although, Lady Nutter’s collection was far from a simple collection of ‘some books’. In fact, it was said to contain the only surviving copy of a prophecy book compiled by Lady Nutter’s ancestor of the same name, a woman widely considered to be a witch. A proper one.)

“One is allowed to be unreasonable every once in a while,” Muriel argued lightly. “Is that not what you always say?”

Aziraphale sighed and took in the flowers lining every single piece of furniture in the room. Not a single yellow tulip in sight, either.

Now that he was the head of the family, he probably was not allowed his ‘unreasonable moments’ anymore. He could ask Mr Glozier or Michael for confirmation, but deep down he already knew the answer. There was no margin for error for someone like him, someone whose presence had always been mostly endured by his family and that now had to atone for the grave sin of being the second-born child.

Then again, marriage might have been out of the question (he was not as mad as a hatter), but a fake engagement?

That was an entirely different matter indeed.

It took Aziraphale so long to find the duke he almost gave it up as a bad job. He was not at Angel’s and he was not at the Seventh on St. James’ Street, where Aziraphale had been informed the duke liked to waste away his evenings.

He was on the verge of caving under the increasingly annoyed expression of his driver and the equally gnawing suspicion the duke was gallivanting in some brothel – it was a Monday, after all – but just as he was losing all hope, he found him at Mrs Potts’ establishment, holding court at the whist table with his dark lenses glinting in the low lights dotting the main room.

Seeing him approach, the people sitting with the duke glanced up with an assortment of surprised expressions. Aziraphale felt a pang in his chest when he realised Mr Mutt and Mr Arnold, Mr and Mrs Cheng and even Miss Nina and Miss Maggie were all there. It had been some time since Aziraphale had darkened these halls. Gaming hells were not his scene, exactly, but Mrs Potts always had the most interesting guests around, including writers and artists of all sorts.

“Lord Eastgate,” Mrs Potts herself welcomed him, red lips stretched into a wide, delighted smile. “Why, it’s been so long. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

But Aziraphale’s eyes were firmly trained on the duke, who, upon hearing his name, turned his head around and, after a moment of confusion, bared his teeth in a sharp smile, allowing his posture to become even more anatomy-defying than usual.

And since it has always been known that desperate times call for desperate measures, Aziraphale took a deep breath and burst into tears.