• the party •

❝ americans ❞

Rays of evening sunlight stream through the large windows, casting the spacious bedroom in a golden glow. Twenty-four year old Roselyn Arquette lays sprawled across her bed in a silk nightgown, her auburn curls partially obscuring her face as she remains hunched over a thick journal, her face pulled taut in concentration as she scribbles across the pages.

"Miss Roselyn," a voice calls out from the opposite side of the bedroom door, followed by timid knocking that successfully startles the woman out of her thoughts. "May I come in?"

"Yes, Cecilia," she replies, sitting aside her journal and stretching, having been sitting hunched over the pages for the majority of the day.

Cecilia, the Arquette's maid, bustles into the room, carrying a large box in her arms.

"Your dress for tonight's soirèe has arrived," she informs her excitedly, placing the box down gently and removing the lid.

Roselyn groans, flopping back onto her bed dramatically as Cecilia pulls the sleek light pink fabric out.

"What is wrong, Miss Roselyn?" Cecilia questions worriedly, her smile fading into a concerned frown. "Do you not like it? We can find something in your closet instead, if so."

"It's gorgeous," Roselyn reassures there older woman, clambering off of the bed and taking the dress from her to further admire it.

Its design is nearly identical to several other dresses Roselyn owns, her mother knowing it's her favorite design. The bodice is designed to tightly fit to create the allusion of the perfect hourglass figure without the usual assistance of a corset, and the rumpled short sleeves will rest off her shoulders. The skirt consists of layers of sleek silk that reach the floor, perfect for when she eventually removes her uncomfortable shoes sometime during the event.

"The only problem is that I told Mother I won't be attending tonight's gathering."

"She was worried you'd be upset," Cecilia admits as Roselyn attempts to stuff the outfit back into the box. "Your father insists that you go."

"The guest list consists entirely of Americans," she argues, scrunching her nose in disgust. "I've heard the stories about them."

"As have I, but they're helping us win the war," Cecilia attempts to reason. "The least you could do is grace them with your presence while your father congratulates them."

"I suppose, but I'll only stay for an hour."

✉︎✉︎✉︎✉︎

Governor Lèo Arquette's soirèe is in full swing as the last of the sunlight fades from view in the mansion's ballroom and the Howling Commandos found themselves incredibly bored, to say the least.

Howard Stark - who more or less invited himself - and Steve are speaking with several older gentlemen and their wives about the war as Bucky stands by his side, more for support than to add anything to the conversation. Despite being Captain America, he's well aware Steve still grows anxious in crowds.

The large, castle-esque doors open, catching Bucky's attention as a late arrival walks through them.

"Holy-"

Steve discreetly elbows his best friend's side, preventing him from finishing his unprofessional sentence.

Roselyn glides into the room, the clicking of her silver heels no longer able to be heard over the elegant music and quiet murmuring of the guests. Her diamond bracelet slides up to her elbow as she accepts a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, her eyes scouring the room for a familiar face.

Following the sound of her father's raucous laughter to the center of the crowded room, she spots him and her mother surrounded by French aristocrats she recognized from past events and three of the infamous Americans her father speaks so highly of. Tapping his shoulder, she plasters on a smile as he turns around.

"I'm happy you're home," she greets, kissing his cheek.

"It's so good to see you, my little flower. Come, come, I have some important people you ought to meet," he exclaims, carefully pulling his only daughter into a hug so as not to spill either of their drinks. Tugging her into the circle of conversation, he gestures across from him. "These men are Howard Stark, Sargeant James Barnes, and Captain Steve Rogers. Gentlemen, this is my daughter, Roselyn."

"Good evening, ma'am," Steve says with a polite nod of his head as Bucky merely stares, mumbling an incoherent agreement when Steve nudges him.

"It's a pleasure to be in the presence of such heroes," Roselyn quotes the sentence her and Cecilia spent the hours prior practicing, her French accent adding a lilt to her voice as she speaks the foreign language.

"Believe me," Howard interjects, swooping forward to lightly grasp her empty hand. He gazes up at her and presses a kiss against her fingers, a smirk lifting the corners of his mouth. "The pleasure is ours."

The men chuckle good-naturedly as the women let out nervous giggles at his brash behavior, thankfully preventing Roselyn from replying as she focuses on preventing her features from falling into a scowl. She shoots her mother a pleading gaze, hoping to be excused, but the only answer she receives is a stern shake of the head.

"Roselyn, darling," Lèo begins as the music tempo slows, an idea forming. "I was just about to tell these fine men how much you enjoy dancing. Why, when she was younger, her deepest desire was to become a ballerina. Isn't that so?"

"Yes, father," she lies through her teeth, disliking where this is leading. "That is until I took one ballet class and decided to quit."

Everyone laughs, but her statement does little to deter the older man.

"You wouldn't mind treating my daughter to a dance, would you, Captain?"

Steve's face flushes a bright shade of red and he glances to Bucky for help, who keeps his gaze on his champagne glass in an attempt to hide his amusement. Roselyn finishes off her own glass and looks around for a waiter so she can have another one before the inevitable fiasco.

"If she'll have me," Steve gives in, outstretching his arm and failing to hide his nerves. "I'd be honored."

"Of course," Roselyn concedes, placing her hand in the crook of his arm. "After all, I have been dying to learn the American dance moves the ladies speak so highly of."

"I'm afraid I have to admit I'm not too good of a dancer," Steve mumbles as he leads her away from the group. "There isn't exactly too much time to learn these days."

Roselyn hands her glass off to a passing waiter before turning to face the man fully as they reach the designated dance floor. Guiding his own free hand to her waist, she rests hers on his shoulder as she enterlaces the fingers of their other hands, offering what she hopes to be a convincing reassuring smile.

"You're not what I expected," she admits, taking the first steps in the slow waltz. "Your short friend, however, fits the stereotype I had in mind perfectly."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Steve chuckles.

An awkward silence falls between the duo, broken only by the occasional apology from Steve when he steps on her toes. He keeps his gaze trained on the floor, watching his steps as Roselyn's wanders - although there's little room for it to do so considering his broad chest takes up the majority of her line of vision. With the steps drilled into her mind after years of these dances, she no longer needed to even think about the movements.

"Tell me, Mr. America," she says as the music nears it's ending. "What was my father really talking about before my arrival?"

"He, uh, he mentioned-" Steve pauses to fix his footing before leveling his gaze with hers. "He talked about the political side of the war in the beginning, but the subject changed when Mrs. Arquette joined us and he started speaking rather highly of you."

"And?" Roselyn presses, knowing there's an underlying motive to needing her presence this evening.

"He mentioned the fact that an arranged marriage between someone with power in the U.S and someone with money in France could have many benefits," Steve admits, his face lighting up in realization. "And then invited me to dinner tomorrow night."

Roselyn's smile fades as she lets her hands fall away, the music fading into a slightly faster beat.

"Excuse me."

Turning on her heel, Roselyn heads directly for the doors, ignoring the sound of Lèo calling her name.