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Pirate!England x Reader
Vehemently
Part One

You couldn’t contain your displeasure at the monotony of the entire extravagant affair. You yawned, covering your mouth, and leaned over to Naomi.

“I wish we didn’t have to attend. It’s not like anyone’s going to want to join in an alliance with us.”

Naomi, sweating a bit from the lights of the chandeliers, tried not to look desperate as she fanned herself. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, dear; I’m sure someone will want to make an associate of Saint Kitts.”

You exhaled, trying to get in the path of the air her fan was taking. “Of course. I, of all Spanish land, will accept courtship this very night. Don’t be silly, Naomi. You have a better chance than I.”

Naomi let out one of her high-pitched laughs. “No one’s going to chance himself on me.”

“Naomi,” you said, dragging out each syllable, “Let’s get out of these lights. I think we can step over to the balcony over there.” You almost dashed over to the veranda, tired of the clunky interactions with the other Spanish territories. You spun around to face Naomi, leaning on the railing. “No, I think you have a chance,” you teased, “everyone knows of Spain’s precious hold on the Barbados.”

“Stop it,” Naomi said, hiding her blushing face behind her fan, “You know he feels just the same for me as he does the rest of his territories.”

“But yet no one has approached you!” You pondered, your hand on your chin in a pensive position, “Perhaps they are intimidated by your elegance and charm.”

“Oh, shut up.” She smiled, swatting you with her fan.

“Better.” You jumped to sit on the railing, your skirts puffing up around your legs. “Just imagine if any one of these guys tried to court you,” you told her as she moved to sit on the railing as well, “He would be charming himself, of course. He too would be victim to the soporific effect of the ball. He would swish his wine around in his glass, sough softly, and do his best not to offend his acquaintances and their tedious conversation.”

Naomi giggled. “Really, you need to stop this! If we get our hopes up too high—about whom should we be speaking?”

You scanned the crowd. “How about the brunet on the edge, the one who’s talking to the ginger in the green dress?”

“No, no, he looks like he’s enjoying himself. The blond by the orchestra. Him. He looks like he’s only here to examine the strings.”

“Okay.” You accepted this. “He grows tired of trying to amount the cellists’ skill and wearily glances around the room for an escape. It is then that he spots you—Naomi, the glorious Barbados—and to him, you are glowing. He must speak to you. He plunges through the crowd, eyes never breaking their hold on you. It is you he desires above all, and no one else will ever live up to you. If you were ever to leave his life, his soul would not rest one day until you returned to him.”

Naomi sighed heavily. “That’s a very nice thought, dear, but I’m afraid it’s never going to happen. No one would dare court me with the knowledge of Antonio’s possession.”

“I see,” you nodded with a solemn expression. You took Naomi’s fan and hit her with it. “So you do have affections for him!”

“I…I do not,” she insisted, reclaiming her fan and holding it firmly in her lap, cheeks burning.

“Whatever lets you sleep at night, Naomi.” You smiled and looked back into the ballroom. You yawned. The figures seemed to blur together in swirls of orange and white. You blinked to try to clear it, but upon failing, you rubbed your eyes. You swore something had to have been in the air to make you as lethargic as you were. “I’m going to fall backwards off of the balcony if I don’t wake up soon.” You hunched over and buried your face in your hands.

Naomi nudged you, whispering your name with desperation. “It’s the cellist boy!”

“Mm-hm.”

“He’s coming over here.”

“What?” You bolted upright, sweeping your fallen hair back out of your face. You frowned. “That’s not the cellist boy.”

“He may as well be; he’s coming over here. Who in their right mind would—”

“Maybe he’s a secret cellist.”

The man who entered the balcony was clearly not your cellist. He held himself highly, with a firm, confident manner about him. He was all softened angles and polished surfaces. Colourful coattails hung around his legs, and he had his blond hair in a ponytail, which wasn’t bad but kind of surprised you.

He stopped directly in front of you and bowed curtly.

Naomi stood up hastily, and, with clear panic in her voice, told you that she would leave you two alone. Once she was behind him, she flashed you a brilliant smile. He’s beautiful, she mouthed. You nodded very slightly.

He smiled at you. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance at last, my dear. I’m afraid I find the Court so terribly dull, but now that I have finally the courage to speak to you, I find that my interest has been sparked again.”

You clutched your hands in front of you. “The pleasure is all mine. I too think the Court balls so tedious. I always anticipate a political scandal, but it’s only the same couples dancing as last Court.” Admittedly, you were so much younger last time; perhaps your youth had addled your views of the Court meetings.

He laughed briefly. “I’m glad were think of it similarly.” He clasped his hands behind his back, facing the balcony. The breeze flicked his hair over his shoulder. After a moment, he said, “Spain has never been very experienced in the art of celebration. He’s always been such a bore.” His attention was caught by the twinkling constellations above him. “But this time is different, for some reason. I find the night sky is more beautiful this time. And you are, as well.”

Doing your best not to let your emotion not show through your voice, you asked him if he had been in attendance last time.

“Chaton!” he said, causing you to smirk a little. Was this a word play on your title? Wait, that was French… What was a French province doing here? “Did you really think this was my first time in Court? I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

Okay, you thought, Now he’s just making puns on purpose.

“I just presumed, since it’s obvious you’re not supposed to be here,” you said, your jaw shaking a bit.

“That’s true. My name, my dear,” he said, taking one of your hands to kiss it, “is Francis Bonnefoy.”

Your mouth dropped slightly. Definitely not a province. “You’re not France, are you?”

“Guilty as charged, but I could not resist sneaking into the Spanish Court to see the one whom I do so admire.”

You bit your lip. A country admired you. You were trying to hide your excitement. You couldn’t wait to tell Naomi. Francis Bonnefoy, of all people, was your first caller!

“I have seen you in Court before, and I was instantly overwhelmed by your beauty. If I may,” he said, one of his hands grazing your cheek, “I should like nothing more than to stare into your eyes all night.”

You had to keep your mouth shut, for fear of babbling something wildly inarticulate. You were sure you were an embarrassing shade of red. This gorgeous man had seen you in Court and thought that what you tried to do to help your fellow territories was wonderful. He had seen that you were a small island with not much to offer, but he adored you anyway. You felt a bit lightheaded. You too were feeling like looking at him all night, his bright blue eyes poring over yours with nothing but starlight to reflect in them.

“If you were at the last Court, how did you recognise me? I have… changed greatly since then.”

Francis sat next to you on the balcony railing, ducking his head a little, so it seemed he was looking up at you. “Chaton,” he began, “last time you had shone far more than anyone else in the room. It was easy to find you… You shone with the same dazzling starlight as before.”

You broke eye contact, blushing. You couldn’t recall when anyone had ever paid you this much attention. You were unsure of what to do. Francis was charming, but somehow it felt odd, like something was out of place. You paid it no mind.

He continued to converse with you, never treading the waters near anything disheartening. Francis clearly thought very highly of you, and you were addicted to the feeling that you were worth something. He listened to your comments and responded in genuine concern. You liked that, as you saw too many exchanges with bathetic actions. Francis was certainly a charismatic interlocutor. He would grab your hands at something about which he felt strongly, and he would always turn the conversation to compliment you. You thought it was a bit much, but it was unusual to have such attention, so you let it happen. It couldn’t hurt, and perhaps he would even formally court you. A bubble surged inside of you.

You didn’t know how long you two were outside, but you were eventually drawn to the ballroom by a particularly vivacious piece being played by the orchestra.

“Come, now,” Francis said, standing and pulling you up with him, “We must dance, for it is not every night that I am in the presence of such a beautiful woman.” He glanced into the ballroom before turning back at you, smiling with his blindingly white teeth. “And she must tell me her name, so that I may whisper to her on a much more intimate level.”

He pulled on your hands, but you had frozen. The bubble inside of you had burst.

What.

Francis’s eyes widened, his eyebrows arched in gentle concern. “My dear, what is the matter?”

“Excuse me?”

His eyebrows now furrowed. “I believe I was the one who was confu—”

“You don’t even know my name?”

“Well, no, but I thought—”

“You had the gall to lead me on to think that a moment was beautiful and perfect, that you were going to court me, that you had known me from before. You led me to believe that you valued who I am.”

“I do.”

“No, you valued what you thought was admirable.”

“And you are.” You could hear the desperation in his voice. He didn’t want to lose you.

“I am not. I should have realised from the beginning you knew not of my identity. If you really knew who I am, you would not have approached me. I am nothing.” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “I’m such a fool.”

“But I did have the intent to court you,” Francis insisted, his voice cracking, “I was going—”

“Get away from me, or I’ll inform Spain of your presence.”

“Chaton,” he pleaded, taking your hand.

You shook it off. “I want none of your affections. Lay them upon someone you have met more than once. Leave me.”

Francis stood up straight, swallowing. He bowed tersely again. “My… my apologies.” He strode with what was left of his pride off of the balcony, keeping his head high.

You exhaled heavily.

How could he?

You stormed off to find Naomi.