Chapter Text
Louis did not know what impressed him more: the speed with which Harry flipped through the ledgers or the precision with which he pointed out each error.
"Here," Harry said, running his finger down a column of numbers. "This fence maintenance expense appears three times in the same month. Same amount, same dates. Finch was charging for the same service repeatedly."
Louis leaned in to look, his shoulders almost touching Harry's. The Omega's scent still muted by the pills, but with a subtle trace of lavender invaded his senses. He pulled back quickly, as if he had touched a hot coal.
"Are you certain?" he asked, his voice harsher than he intended.
Harry lifted his head, an eyebrow arched.
"I am certain. Look" he turned the book toward Louis, pointing with his finger "the date, the amount, the supplier's name. All identical. Finch was using the same receipt three times."
Louis examined the numbers, and his stomach turned. Harry was right. He had been right all along.
"This is..." Louis began, but the words failed him.
"It is scandalous," Harry completed, with a calmness that bordered on irritating. "But also predictable. Thieves are lazy, Duke. They always leave traces."
Louis sat heavily in the armchair, rubbing his face with his hands. Exhaustion was a familiar companion, but now it came with something worse: shame. How had he not seen all of this? How had his father let Finch steal from his land for years?
"Do not blame yourself," Harry said, as if reading his thoughts. "You were at war. Your father was..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Your father was not in a condition to manage. And Finch was a professional. He knew exactly what to do."
Louis lifted his eyes to Harry, surprised by the defense.
"You are being kind to me."
"I am not being kind. I am being realistic." Harry picked up another ledger, opening it with agile movements. "Guilt solves nothing. Numbers solve things. And I am here to help you with the numbers."
Louis watched Harry work for a moment. The young Omega was completely absorbed, his green eyes scanning the pages with an intensity Louis had never seen in anyone. His pale fingers, with impeccably groomed nails, glided over the numbers with the confidence of someone who understood them better than words.
"Why did you learn this?" Louis asked, curiosity overcoming his reserve.
Harry did not look up.
"My mother, as I said. She used to teach me at night, when my father was away." He paused, and his voice softened slightly. "She used to say that numbers were the only honest language. That people lie, but numbers never lie."
"She sounds like she was a wise woman."
Harry finally looked up, and Louis saw something shine in his eyes a spark of poorly hidden pain.
"She was. She died when I was ten." He looked away quickly, returning to the ledger. "My father never bothered to learn what she knew. That is why Styles Manor is run by stewards, and not by him."
Louis felt a pang of compassion. He knew the pain of losing a mother his had died when he was eight, victim of a fever that came too quickly. He remembered her scent, her voice humming lullabies, her soft hands stroking his hair.
"I know what it is to lose a mother," Louis said, his voice lower. "Mine died when I was a child."
Harry lifted his head again, and his eyes met Louis's for a long moment. It was the first time they had shared something real not a contract, not an obligation, but a common loss.
"I am sorry," Harry said.
Louis nodded, not knowing what to respond. The silence between them felt different now.
Harry cleared his throat, breaking the moment.
"Well," he said, returning to the book, "if we are going to redo all the contracts, we need a list of all the farmers. And we need to visit them. Explain the situation. Win back their trust."
Louis frowned.
"Win back their trust? They hate me."
"They hate what you represent," Harry corrected. "A noble who exploited them. But you are not the same as your father, and you are not Finch. They need to see that."
Louis felt the weight of responsibility press down on his shoulders.
"And how am I going to prove that?"
Harry smiled, and Louis noticed for the first time that his smile was beautiful not the polite smile of an Omega trained to please, but a genuine smile that lit up his green eyes.
"You are going to start here. Redoing the contracts. Reducing the rents. Paying back what Finch stole. And you are going to show them that the Duke of Somerset is willing to get his hands dirty."
Louis raised an eyebrow.
"Get my hands dirty?"
"Yes." Harry pointed at the window, where the fields stretched out, covered in the morning mist. "You are going to ride to the farms. You are going to talk to the peasants. You are going to listen to what they have to say. Not as a duke, but as a man who wants to fix the mistakes of the past."
Louis was silent for a moment, processing Harry's words. He had never thought of doing that. Never thought of lowering himself to the peasants' level, of getting his hands dirty with the earth they tilled.
But Harry was right. Trust was not bought with contracts. It was earned with actions.
"Will you come with me?" Louis asked, surprising himself.
Harry blinked, clearly surprised.
"Me?"
"Yes, you." Louis leaned back in the armchair, crossing his arms. "You understand numbers. You can explain the contracts better than I can. And" he paused, a nearly imperceptible smile forming on his lips "you are good with people."
Harry blushed slightly. A rosy tint rose in his pale cheeks.
"I am not good with people. I am good at pretending I am good with people."
"It is the same thing." Louis stood, extending his hand to Harry. "So, Duke of Somerset, would you like to accompany me on a visit to our subjects?"
Harry hesitated for a second, his eyes fixed on Louis's outstretched hand. Then, slowly, he placed his hand in Louis's and stood.
"I will accept," he said, with a smile that was half challenge, half shyness. "But only if you promise me one thing."
"What?"
"Promise that you will call me Harry, not Duchess. And I will call you Louis. We are married, not in a courtroom."
Louis felt the corner of his mouth curve into a smile,the first genuine smile in months.
"Deal, Harry."
Harry's hand was still in his. Louis felt the warmth of the soft skin, the lightness of the fingers, and for a moment, he forgot they were strangers, that the marriage was a farce, that all of it was a lie built on debts and despair.
He just allowed himself to feel the moment.
Then Higgins appeared at the door, carrying a tray of tea, and the spell was broken.
"Your Grace, Duchess... I have brought tea. And some toast. I thought Your Graces might like to eat before..."
"Before what, Higgins?" Louis asked, releasing Harry's hand reluctantly.
Higgins hesitated, his eyes scanning the papers scattered across the table.
"Before... you begin the work, Your Grace. It will be a long day."
Louis laughed, a hoarse, surprising sound that made Higgins's eyes widen.
"It will be a long year, Higgins." He picked up a piece of toast from the tray and offered it to Harry. "But I think we have a good start."
Harry took the toast, and his fingers brushed against Louis's for a second. They looked at each other, and Harry smiled a small, hesitant, but genuine smile.
"A good start," he repeated.
Hours later, the two were sitting side by side at the desk, surrounded by books, papers, and piles of contracts. The room was silent, except for the occasional sound of Harry's quill scratching the paper and pages being turned.
Louis watched Harry work, fascinated by the young man's concentration. Harry did not lift his eyes from the papers, did not hesitate, did not make mistakes. Every number was recorded with surgical precision, every calculation made with a speed Louis found impossible.
"You are incredible," Louis said, without realizing he had spoken aloud.
Harry lifted his head, confused.
"What?"
Louis blushed the first time he could remember blushing since adolescence.
"I... I mean, you are very fast. With the numbers. It is impressive."
Harry smiled, a shy smile.
"My mother used to say that numbers are like music. Once you learn to read the score, everything flows naturally."
"And you read the score very well."
Harry lowered his eyes, and Louis saw a blush rise in his cheeks. It was a charming sight and Louis immediately chided himself for thinking that.
"Thank you," Harry said, his voice lower. "No one has ever praised me for that. My father thinks I am a freak for liking numbers."
"Your father is a fool."
Harry lifted his head quickly, his eyes wide.
"What?"
"I said your father is a fool." Louis leaned forward, his voice firm. "You are brilliant, Harry. Anyone who cannot see that is blind."
Harry was silent for a long moment, his green eyes fixed on Louis's. Then, slowly, a smile formed on his lips a true, open smile that lit up his entire face.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Louis felt his heart race. It was not just a compliment. It was more than that. It was the first time he had made Harry truly smile, and the feeling was... intoxicating.
He pulled back quickly, turning his attention back to the papers.
"Let us continue," he said, his voice rougher. "We need to finish these contracts before it gets late."
Harry nodded, but Louis saw the smile still shining in his eyes as he returned to work.
"Let us," Harry agreed. "But Louis..."
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For giving me a chance. For listening to me."
Louis did not lift his eyes, but he felt the words pierce his chest like an arrow.
"Everyone deserves a chance, Harry. Even those who have already given up on themselves."
Harry did not respond. But Louis saw his hands tremble slightly as they held the quill.