* 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐨

EMILIO SAKRAYA (cr. chien sans médaille / csm)

Diana watched Louay pull himself together as if it were a physical exercise instead of just a mental one, and she was reminded that he had not been born into this life, nor even raised to it. Not for the first time, she wondered why he had chosen her, of all people, to be his bride. He could have courted some baronet’s daughter who thought the height of society was a private country ball and never had cause to enter the drawing rooms of Mayfair, where he was so obviously ill at ease. 

Then again, Diana was equally ill at ease, although she suspected she hid it better. She did not know how to behave in Louay’s presence. This was not a situation she ever expected to find herself in, betrothed to a man she had no intention of marrying, yet unable to reject his suit outright. It did not help that she didn’t strictly dislike Louay Farah—Sir Louay Farah. It would have been so much easier if he’d simply stayed in Yorkshire. She’d known that he was invited to participate in the season, but she’d never imagined he actually would. Indeed she was fairly confident he would not have, were it not for her.

“Of course, it is expected to make your presence in town known to your acquaintances.” Diana could not deny that his instinct had been correct, it was simply the execution that was indiscreet. “But you should have addressed your call to Josephine. As an unattached gentleman, which you are in the eyes of the ton, you should call on the head of the household first. To do otherwise is to declare your intentions.” 

It was steadying to slide into instruction, as she might direct Andrew with his pony or Georgiana at the pianoforte, and Diana needed to steady herself. Louay’s reassurances tugged at her heartstrings, and she felt a stab of guilt. He was so earnest it was disarming, something she quite simply could not afford. Yet, just like when he first arrived in Whitby so many years ago, there was an instinct to take care of him. The ton would eat him alive, if he continued like that, and it would be Diana’s fault. 

“Will you sit?” Instead of any of the groups of couches and settees in the center of the drawing room, Diana gestured to a pair of chairs in a corner. They were usually occupied by servants acting as chaperones, but they were comfortable, and out of view of the windows.

He lowers his head in acknowledgement, though the gesture is more differential than sincere or even wounded. "My apologies, Miss Blair. I had only thought to honor what we had agreed upon and did not take appearance into such careful consideration. I see how my presence may have done more harm that good—" But Louay does not regret it, and he does not turn for the corridor even before her invitation. He is not prideful in the way other men of the ton are, but his honor can easily be mistaken for it. Her correction stings, but not because it is true, no— it is true. He is not as versed in this world as he hoped he'd be. There were simplicities in the countryside that were easier to adhere to, while complications lied in London. This time of year was even more so demanding, creating a narrow path for what was acceptable and what was not. It was, plainly, quite exhausting and he had only just arrived.

Yet, he plans to remain here for her. That should count for something, reflect upon the very devotion his promise should carry until their promise is broken at the hands of death.

Moving to abide by her invitation, he sits at one of the chairs. Still, he is far more rigid than one should be. Amongst the pastels and soft embroidery, he stands out. He tries to fold his hands together, some attempt to create some harmony, but all it does is seemingly hold himself down.

“I did not intend to disrupt your peace either, Diana," He says plainly. Her name is delivered with practiced caution, something intimate but not a demonstration of his supposed claim over her as her fiance. "I only wished to be near if you needed to call upon me, and to be easily accessible when the time is right to bring this news to your cousin's attention. I may not know much of the rules of the ton, but I do know it is far from acceptable to allow the other half of our circumstance to wander on their own miles away."

He was supposed to be in Yorkshire. That was the first thought Diana had when she received Louay’s note, and only a lifetime of regulating her reactions kept the blood from draining out of her face. It was difficult enough to balance maintaining the appearance of a willing fiancée to Louay and a politely indifferent acquaintance to her cousins when he was hundreds of miles away. Clearly, her occasional letter, begging the demands of the season as an excuse for not writing more often, had not done enough to reassure him. 

She would have to find a new way to manage his attentions now that he was here, as well as avoiding her family’s suspicions. To that end, Diana took her time making her way downstairs, lingering in the music room before quietly excusing herself. This, too, was a miscalculation, based on his reaction when she finally entered the room. 

“I have never had reason to climb out a window in my life, and I would thank you not to imply otherwise.” Diana certainly could have tempered her words, gliding over her annoyance as she had so many times in her life, but she didn’t want to. And he’d been rude first.

For a moment, she weighed the risks of being found alone with a man against someone overhearing Louay saying something indiscreet, then closed the door behind her. 

“You did not tell me you were coming to London.” Again, she let the accusation sit boldly in the words.

The rules of a betrothal were known aloud, and in unspoken nods. Once an agreement was made, loyalty to the one you were to wed began. Any drift of one's eye, a stammer in attention, consideration for another would all lead to a termination of the agreement to spend a life together. The Ton has always been more focused on the politics of it, eager to start and end dependent on financial gain, but Louay Farah was an outsider. A promise like that, even if he was weary of such scriptures, held a different weight— they were tethered to his honor, to his soul, his very being.

"It seems I arrived before my letter," He huffs, pulling his shoulders back and pulling himself back into a posture good enough for the ranks of her circles. He lowers his voice, if only as another string wrapped around their intricate agreement. "I have arrived under the invitation of the knighthood. Your family will be none the wiser, and as promised, I will not interrupt until it is deemed appropriate. Though I felt it only polite to make the acquaintance of the household again, and to you, following our plans for the end of the season."