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**•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*

England, 1841

Addilyn Sybil Heatherington bumped into an imposing marble statue of some half-clad Roman goddess and mistook it for a real human.

Rubbing her shoulder from the jarring impact, she mumbled a hurried apology to the inanimate lady and continued on her way towards the drawing room in the expansive Ravensfield manor house, the rooms she had been substituting as her meeting chambers in the interim - at least until something more permanent took root.

If she had time to even establish that.

"I am quite sure that Minerva does not need your apologies," Finnegan Holt muttered, amused, as he joined her.

Addy glanced up sharply, and then quickly surveyed her surroundings. She had lost track of the time, again, and had her nose buried in the wealth of applications streaming into the Anxious Hearts Society's matchmaking service. There was more than she could possibly process in a short space of time and, between her and Finnegan Holt- her "faux" husband and very real confidante- they were only just managing to filter and accept clientele at a pace that kept everybody satisfied.

She noted the polished wooden tablet tucked under his arm, the single sheaf of enchanted parchment lifting at the edges with the slightest breeze from their brisk walk. "I beg your pardon?" Addy blinked up at him, perplexed. She had forgotten what she was about.

A concerned frown crossed his brow then, his wide lips pulling tight. "Addy, when was the last time you had an adequate night's sleep?"

"Just last night," she trilled happily. "Several hours, at least." She promptly bumped into yet another blasted statue, this one with more velocity that sent the expensive decoration teetering on its pedestal. Thankfully, Finn was more alert and nimble than she and caught the statue before it came crashing down about their toes.

Setting it straight and ensuring its stability, he gave her an exceedingly droll look. It was not an effort on his part- he was quite droll and lazily boyish in his appeal in general, and more often than not she was on the receiving end of one of his signature laconic looks.

"Fine," she relented, mimicking his pose and tucking her own tablet under her arm. "Two hours, I believe."

"God, Addy-"

"I am fine, Mr Holt," she told him firmly, continuing down the hall. "There are new applications to assess every day now, with an avid interest rising from our human clientele specifically." She glanced at him askance, noting once more the tablet tucked under his arm. "Have the next round of male applicants faired suitably?"

Finn snorted, deigning not to respond to that.

Addy huffed a sigh. The male applicants were by and by eager and optimistic faeborns, intrigued by the allure of companionship and the surging interest of the human women clients. This stemmed from fervent rumours about Lady Mildred Ravensfield finding her love-match with the exotically handsome and romantically possessive Draëllian beastkeeper who was always spotted close to her side in public and not averse to extending any form of physical affection towards his tempestuous human bride.

Who would have thought that women would be susceptive to an openly doting husband?

It had been an unprecedented boon to Addy's failing business that she had allied herself to Lady Ravensfield, especially during the young duchess's time of strife but a few weeks ago. In a show of gratitude, Mildred Adams had insisted that Addilyn linger on close to her side as advisor and, more recently, friend. As it stood, Addy had taken Lady Ravensfield up on her offer to handle proceedings of the matchmaking service from the massive ducal seat on the premise that it was lavish and extensive- and it was some distance from London, allowing her time to meet with less clients each day who would traverse from the city upon mutually agreeable meeting dates and allow Addy and Finn more time to screen the applicants.

Then there was the additional problem of onboarding Lady Lillian Adams, the true heir to the Ravensfield dukedom, who had avoided meeting any potential matches like the plague.

But matters pertaining to Lillian Adams would only take precedence once the young woman allowed them to, so Addy shoved them from her thoughts and concentrated on more pertinent subjects- the meeting she was running late for. With that, she pivoted and continued her march down the majestically arched hallway which would lead her to her intended destination.

Finn trailed in her wake, grumbling something insensible about stubborn employers. Addy stifled a smile at that, knowing that he only thought the best of her- and truly, he had served her unquestionably from the outset, never once baulking at her contrived notion that he was to appear as her husband. They were naught more than friends and colleagues, and it was only the desperate situation that Finnegan Holt had found himself in at the time of his employment that ensured his acquiescence to her ludicrous machinations. He needed the coin a steady wage would provide and she needed a man as a front- for who would purchase the services of a renowned matchmaker knowing that she was very undoubtedly unmarried? Alas, even the affluent bankers guffawed outright in her face at the notion when she approached them for her business loan- until she had Holt at her side.

In the space of a fortnight, her business had exploded as its name lined the gossip sheets of every publication in England- the change so sudden and unanticipated that neither of them was prepared to receive the sheer amount of interest from prospective clients- both human and Other. They perused profiles until late into the evenings to ensure discretion and the safety of her clients, and Addy knew Finn was probably chaffing at the bit for a reprieve. Normally he was able to come and go as he pleased, beckoned as she needed him for some minor task or duty- but that had been when business was quiet and seconds from bankruptcy entirely.

She owed him a break, she knew, but as she pushed open the heavy, intricately carved doors of the drawing room where she was meeting her three new clients, Addy realised that she may not be able to allocate Finnegan Holt his deserved time off after all.

The misses Maria Asgill, Johanna Cotherington, and Margaret Hawkes- her three prospective clients that afternoon- were giggling most unashamedly as they clustered together upon a floral-patterned settee. The brightness of the colours of their gowns almost blinded Addy as she stumbled to a halt upon the threshold, but the sheer amount of face fanning and twittering hardly caught her attention more than the faeborn male they were positively gushing over as he reclined indolently upon a chaise longue beside them, one long muscular leg propped up in a position of unapologetic hedonism.

Her eyes narrowed and she clutched her tablet to her chest, her entrance unnoticed by all the occupants within, which is why she was privy to these scandalous words that left the lips of Miss Margaret Hawkes, who was a very proper and popular London debutante with faultless manners and angelic decorum, "I simply will not believe, sir, that it is that big. You are jesting!"

Addy shared a speaking look with Finn.

The man addressed was a barely tolerated guest at Ravensfield for a favour he bestowed unto the ducal couple, though he had made himself sparse for the most part, favouring the larders and the alcohol services to cavorting with pretty human ladies who were frequenting the estate recently... until presently.

"Aëghan," Finn said tautly, and the ladies all snapped their heads in unison to the entryway, eyes wide and surprised.

The sinfully handsome Aëghan Dranora grinned almost lazily, unmoved by the interruption, and tilted his chin in Addy's direction- the tiniest amount of respect he could probably offer to her position of authority within Ravensfield. "Ah, Holt, is it?" the other man drawled. "I was entertaining these very patient ladies by regaling them with the size of my... snuffbox."

They all giggled excitedly in concurrence.

"Mr Dranora," Addy said with a firmness that dragged his glinting midnight eyes to her person, "is there a reason you have intercepted my appointments this afternoon? Or are you simply lost, or bored? Or perhaps both?"

He grinned at her flawless rigidity, a crescent flash of white in starkness to the swarthiness of his cheeks. But before he could formulate a response, Miss Maria Asgill extended her delicately arched finger and pointed directly at Aëghan with a boldness that was unheard of in the girl of her upbringing, an eager and titillated light in her bright green eyes. "Is he one of your clients?" she demanded excitedly. "I'll happily pay whatever fee you require, Mrs Holt, for your service! Happily!"

"And me!" Margaret added happily.

"And I!" the third and final lady, Miss Johanna Cotherington was quick to add.

For his part, the smug expression on Aëghan's face appeared nothing short than if he had acquired all the gold in England and knew precisely what he intended with it. Addy shifted uncomfortably, the presence of the Dravolese male igniting her unease. He was deliberately unpredictable and obtuse- his kind a rarity in their realm and therefore mysterious. The extent of his abilities had not ranged further than their knowledge of his ability to change forms, and Aëghan's choice of beast was none other than a huge serpentine dragon with glittering black scales. But that was until he healed Lord Ravensfield, an act in itself which was highly frowned upon in human circles and the inflictor could face persecution should he be named to officials presiding over the legalities of magic use in London.

"I am afraid he is not, ladies, but I assure you that our society has plenty of other suitable males at your fingertips. Now if Mr Dranora would be so kind-"

"Actually, Mrs Holt," Aëghan said smoothly, rolling to his feet in a swift movement that made every ounce of cool nonchalance that he embodied vanish in a second, "I intend to change that. This very moment."

If Addy hadn't been rendered shocked and wordless, she would have felt somewhat amused when Miss Johanna Cotherington swooned with a dramatic whimper of ebullience.


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