The Golden Duke’s Forbidden Lover

A Strategic Departure

Ares had remained entirely ignorant of the specific purpose behind the measurement of his stature. Consequently, when he beheld the immense cache of raiment delivered upon a hand-wagon by Richard after a fortnight’s residency within Castle Pig Iron, he was utterly transfixed with astonishment.

"A total of eight ensembles, Professor," Richard announced with voluble enthusiasm. "An individual attire for the autumn and winter seasons, alongside a triple offering for the spring and summer. This deep chestnut greatcoat of fine wool is paired with doeskin gloves, featuring an interior lined with a dense, interwoven cashmere that far surpasses standard vestments in its thermal properties. The cream-colored morning dress is already coordinated with its waistcoat, whilst the silk shirts designated for the temperate months are each provisioned with a mathematically complementary cravat—"

The footman appeared prepared to lecture upon the technical nuances of the wardrobe for a full half-hour, compelling Ares to interpose mid-sentence. "Hold a moment, Richard. Are you entirely certain these effects are registered to my name?"

The situation seemed incredible. He had anticipated two standard uniforms commensurate with the domestic staff, not a sprawling collection of formal dress and winter cloaks capable of exhausting the capacity of his wardrobe.

Richard faltered, blinking in a state of shared confusion. "Indeed, sir. I am certain these are designated for your person."

"I was never apprised of such bounty," Ares countered, his brow furrowing. "The value is far too grand; I cannot accept them in good conscience."

The greatcoat alone represented an expenditure equivalent to three months of his academic stipend at Charnewcast University. By any logical calculus, a humble preceptor had no claim to such redundant opulence, even if his patron was the extraordinarily wealthy Golden Duke.

"Do not transfer these articles to the wardrobe just yet," Ares directed. "Is His Grace presently within the citadel? I must seek an audience to clarify this matter. There has undoubtedly been an administrative error, or perhaps the tailors have misinterpreted his mandates."

Richard hesitated, a look of sudden anxiety crossing his features. "The Duke is presently within the vestibule, preparing for an imminent departure... yet, Professor—"

"I shall interrogate the matter immediately and return anon."

As Ares’s silhouette vanished around the corridor's turn, Richard scratched his head in distress. "A thoroughly calamitous juncture," he muttered. "Particularly given that His Grace is bound for the Imperial Palace; his disposition will be subterranean."

Ares encountered Garrick within the grand hall, resplendent in formal evening dress, issuing a sharp command to an attendant to retrieve an alternative set of cufflinks from his master bedchamber.

"Your Grace," Ares initiated, "might I encroach upon your leisure for a brief moment?"

"To what purpose?" Garrick inquired flatly, his head remaining lowered as he adjusted the precise alignment of his starch-white cuffs. Even the most insensitive observer could discern that the Duke’s temperament was profoundly dark.

Ares pressed forward despite his mounting trepidation. "It concerns the wardrobe delivered to my quarters by your command. The volume appears erroneous."

Garrick upturned his gaze, his heterochromatic eyes pinning Ares with their customary brooding intensity. "Do you harbor some specific dissatisfaction regarding their quality?"

"No, certainly not. They are exceptionally immaculate. However, the quantity is excessive—there are eight separate ensembles. I could not possibly exhaust their utility." Before Ares could complete his objection, the footman returned with the requested articles.

"Your cufflinks, Your Grace." The domestic proffered a deep sapphire velvet casket, within which rested a pair of smoky diamond links, their clear facets entirely devoid of inclusions.

Garrick made no move to receive them. Instead, his golden vertical iris tracked Ares’s manifest nervousness. "Professor, my present attire constrains my dexterity. See to it that you affix them to my sleeves."

Ares faltered, wondering if his ears had played him false. "I... myself, Your Grace?"

Garrick afforded him no interlude for hesitation, extending his forearm immediately. The loosened linen partially exposed skin as pale and flawless as Carrara marble, the delicate tracery of azure veins visible across the dorsum of his hand. "Do you decline?"

Ares swallowed imperceptibly. "By no means, Your Grace. It is my privilege to attend you."

Taking up the smoky diamond links, he unclasped the toggles, guiding the silver pins through the starched buttonholes before securing them firmly against the wool.

Garrick's deep baritone vibrated from above. "What grievance do you have against an abundance of raiment? I am advised the armoire within your quarters possesses ample capacity."

Ares felt the faint exhalation of the Duke's breath stir the hair at his crown, inducing a subtle, prickling warmth. Suppressing the urge to retreat from this invasive proximity, he replied, "The capacity is not deficient, Your Grace. However, I am a man of no social consequence, nor do I frequent aristocratic salons. To bestow such formal dress upon my person represents a egregious waste."

He could hardly disclose the true source of his resistance: a profound loathing to accept the patronage of a sovereign suspected of abducting his sister. His strategic objective required him to view this citadel with cold detachment, maintaining an uncompromised boundary between himself and its master.

"Then you should reform your academic definitions," Garrick countered coldly, "and cease characterizing my decrees as a waste."

"...Yet, I persist in my belief that the measure is ill-advised."

The words had scarcely left his lips when Ares regretted his obstinacy; the atmosphere surrounding the Duke grew palpably frigid.

At that precise moment, a groom entered from the courtyard, rendering a martial bow. "Your Grace, the carriage is secured to the gryphons; we await your pleasure."

Garrick withdrew his hand, independently adjusting the remaining link with a practiced movement. His gaze locked onto Ares, his voice sharp and unyielding. "Sufficient. This colloquy is concluded, Professor. If those vestments offend your sensibilities to such a degree, you are entirely at liberty to commit them to the furnace. I shall not interrogate your disposal of them."

Throwing down this icy ultimatum, he brushed past the scholar without a backward glance.

Ares stood frozen as the grand doors closed behind the Duke, his mouth opening and closing in mute frustration at the absolute autocracy of the castle's lord. Completely impervious to reason, he mused, his features darkening with belated exasperation.