#guy thwarte

You lost your mother at a young age, barely remember her other than the smell of flowers and the mustiness of books. Duty has weighed heavily on you and your sister’s shoulders ever since because, after all, finding a suitable and wealthy husband is no easy feat. Since you’re younger, Cassandra has shouldered most of that task, showing herself off at countless luncheons, parties, events and balls like a butterfly spreading beautiful wings. You’ve always hated things like that, have overheard far too many men who’d be more than happy to pin those wings into place and never let her fly free again. 

Despite knowing this, your sister has never minded—would smooth your hair away from your face during early hours of the morning and speak of marriage as if it was a contract. As if it didn’t matter whether she loved someone or not. 

You’re not sure how to live that way. 

And yes, you might be the younger sibling, but you’re still expected to marry one day, your father will still have the final say. You love him, unsure what you and your sister would do without him, but it’s times like this that you miss your mother. 

You miss what could have been, what might be, you miss the assuredness of comforting words and sage advice. 

Maybe then you might be able to tell Cassandra that there has to be a better way than to end up with Louis. Lord or not, must she be expected to sacrifice everything? Even her wellbeing? 

Running a hand along your forehead, you nearly jump out of your skin when you hear a branch break in the distance, shattering your concentration. Your gaze whips over your shoulder, heartbeat thundering in your ears, and then draw in a breath when you realize it’s Guy. 

“You nearly gave me a heart attack.” The hand that was resting on your chest slides down your dress. 

A small smile teases the corners of his mouth as he comes to stand beside you, “My apologies. Never my intention,” He angles his body a little towards your own, “After all, if you perished, who would I speak to about the dreaded theme Lady Brightlingsea will no doubt put together for her next ball?” 

You hum lightly, a warmth returning to your chest that felt dwindled before, “I’m sure you’d manage.” 

“Unlikely.” 

You turn a little, your eyes drinking in the profile of your neighbor. Your family and the Thwartes have lived on the same land for a long time, this tree and small lake a connecting feature for both the households. As long as you can remember, Guy has always been there. Someone who you dearly call a best friend, a confidant…a secret feeling. You can’t recall when something shifted between the two of you, only that it did, seeing him somehow as you always have and brand new all at the same time. 

He’s always had a solid frame—though you’re certain that has less to do with physicality and more with how dependable Guy is. He’s dressed in a long-sleeved button shirt rolled up to his elbows, a navy blue waistcoat buttoned overtop. It’s simple, plain, paired with black slacks, and yet it just highlights the trim lines of his body. You linger on his face for what feels like far too long, eyes different shades of brown thanks to the daylight surrounding them, scruff along his chin, trimmed and orderly, tight curls kissing his forehead. 

A sight to behold, for sure. 

There’s warm amusement as he catches you looking, motioning to the lake in front of you both. “Hiding out?” 

Chewing on your lower lip, you shrug, pushing yourself up from leaning on the tree, “No. What gave you that impression?” 

He smiles a little, as if you can’t hide anything from him. Maybe you can’t. “Because you’re here. You usually only end up at the lake when something is wrong. Or you need space.” He takes a step closer to you, the fabric of his shirt brushing your arm, “And given that you haven’t told me to leave—” 

You can feel the heat of his body through his clothes. Through yours. And you visibly swallow, straightening your shoulders, 

“This is your spot too.” You’re not about to ask him to leave. 

Guy is quiet for a few moments, his hands interlocking behind his back. “Your father came to the house looking for you. Obviously I have no idea where you are.” 

Your lips twitch, “Obviously.” 

“Clearly.” He agrees and then smiles again, more earnestly. He leans into you, gently bumping his shoulder into your arm. “Is it about your sister?” 

“Isn’t it always?” You ask wryly, though that comment feels unfair, especially since you know Cassandra is relatively fine in the situation she has found herself in. 

She bears that responsibility with grace, far better than you ever could. Not to mention, you think she likes it, the show and dance of it all, the attention, the future laid out before her in even and expected stepping stones. Maybe it’s easy for her because she’s known all along where her destiny would take her, she’s been preparing for it her entire life. 

It’s not as simple for you to swallow. Especially since marriage has always seemed like such a far-off concept. 

“I’m just…” You draw in a deep breath, focusing on the way the water ripples underneath the light breeze, “I’m sad for her, I think.” 

Guy is quiet, contemplative, but when you look at him, his eyes are bright and empathetic. He’s always been a listener, someone you could talk to, share secrets with, trust. He’s not exactly the stellar example of a society member either—you know that he’s been struggling with money, with keeping his mother’s house, with debating whether it’d be better to stay alone or find a wealthy woman to make his wife. 

“It’s not enough that she has to carry the influence of our household but the fact that she’s had to marry someone so…” A breath leaves your lungs and you struggle for composure, your hands wringing in front of you. 

Guy steps closer, a quiet comfort, his hand finding your back. His touch is calming, up and down your spine, never lingering too long in one place. It’s not proper for him to be touching you, as a single woman of marrying age, society might consider you as somehow indecent, damaged…unworthy. And yet none of that has ever bothered you, regardless of what people think. Here, tucked away underneath an old tree, the breeze off the lake brushing cooly over your skin, you feel hidden, like something well-cherished. You lean into him, your shoulder pressing into his chest. 

“Have you spoken to your father about your concerns?” 

You shake your head, sniffling, Guy’s hand coming up to rest behind your neck. His thumb brushes the muscle there, back and forth. 

“Cassandra won’t allow me to. Louis is well-to-do, handsome, influential and wealthy.” You tuck a strand of hair that’s slipped free from your updo behind your ear, “And that’s all anyone cares about.” 

And maybe that’s unfair to say, given that you know your father would care if he knew. But it’s also about propriety, about a scandal, about your family ending up better than when you started. Things like that matter to your sister and father. The happiness of a wife and how she’s treated…are irrelevant. 

“I’m sorry,” Guy finally voices, the timber of his voice vibrating against you. “I know it has to be difficult for you, wanting to help and not being able to.”

A tiny smile pulls at the corners of your mouth, “Think your mother used to call me a meddler.” 

That garners a true laugh from him, “A menace.” He corrects, “And you are one. But she meant that affectionately.” 

You’re glad that he’s smiling when mentioning his mother—you know how difficult it’s been for him since he’s lost her, that not much time has passed. Though you know that time is often irrelevant, you miss your mother too, as if it was yesterday even though you were young when she passed away. Being able to speak with warmth when it comes to loss, to grief, lends to how much love that person has left behind. 

You hum lightly, turning a little, your hand finding one of the buttons on his waistcoat that’s loose. You know playing with it will likely make it fall off, but you can’t stop yourself, wanting to feel connected to him in some way. Wanting to touch him but unsure how to without it feeling like more. 

You tip your chin up to look at him, warmth spreading like a bloom in your chest as his eyes find yours. His other hand brushes that stubborn strand of hair away from your face again, tucking it behind your ear. 

Thinking about what he said, about how his mother meant that term affectionately, you raise your eyebrows at him. “Do you mean it too?” 

Guy’s eyes slip down to your lips, a brief gaze and yet it feels like eternity. “I do.” 

Before you can say anything else, or live within this single heartbeat, thunder booms nearby. It is all the warning you receive before it begins pouring. There’s a moment of brief disbelief as rain filters in through the branches of the tree, some covering you before the onslaught becomes too much. A squeak leaves your lips, the rumble of a laugh leaving Guy’s chest before he wraps an arm around you. 

He hoists you in the direction of his home, the complete opposite of where you should probably be headed but you can’t find it within yourself to care. You don’t want to go home, as awful as that sounds. When he moves forward in two large steps, his hand reaches back to grab your own, rushing with you through the sheets of water. Despite the quick movement, you’re soaked when you enter through his front door. 

As it closes behind you, another sound of amusement leaves Guy’s mouth and he shakes himself out almost as a dog does when caught outside in inclement weather. Wrapping your arms around yourself, you take a brief look around, the corners of your mouth pulling down just slightly every time you notice something else is missing. A portrait, an extravagant rug or elegant piece of furniture. Another item of Guy’s past sold to make his future a possibility. 

He misreads your expression, reaching out to touch your arms with his hands, “I’ll get a fire going.” 

So much he has to do on his own, the wait staff no longer employed. You would never comment on that, you know he can handle it but…it doesn’t mean he should have to. You still worry. “It’s really not n-necessary.” 

He smiles a little, amused, “Tell your chattering teeth that.” 

You draw your lower lip between your teeth, an action that is not missed by him, his hands lingering along your arms as his gaze flickers to your mouth. “I don’t want you to fuss.” 

Guy draws in what seems to be a calming breath, dropping his hands and taking a step back as if he needs that distance. “You’re shaking. It’s no trouble.” He motions with his hand towards his sitting room, as if you don’t know the layout of this house like it were your own. 

Heading into the large sitting room, you make your way around the couch and bypass it completely to stand in front of the fireplace. There’s plenty of wood and within a few moments, a fire roars to life. A soft sigh leaves your lips and you lift your trembling fingers near the flames before rolling your shoulders back. 

“Did you know my grandfather thought he could tell when it was about to rain?” 

Guy shifts besides you, undoing his waistcoat with deft fingers. 

“He always said his right knee ached—” Your voice immediately falters when you turn and see him tugging the waistcoat away, met with the material of his white shirt sticking to his skin, sheer, almost. Your mouth opens slightly and despite knowing you should look away…you can’t. 

Even when he lifts his chin to look back at you. “You didn’t inherit that from him, I imagine.” 

You blink. What? “Oh,” You laugh softly, shaking your head, “No. Obviously not.” 

A twinge of a smile on his lips, “Unless you like getting caught up in it and just never told me.” 

“Not like this,” You admit, glancing down at your dress. It’s beyond damp, the bottom dripping into the carpet, the fabric plastered against your chest and arms and creating a chill to seep down your spine. “This dress is rather heavy when wet.” 

“We could always take it off.” Then his eyes widen as he seems to realize what he’s said, “I mean—that’s.” He opens and closes his mouth like a fish caught in a net. You can’t help but smile at his flustering, how sweet it is. “Obviously I would find you something dry to put on.” 

You hum lightly, “Obviously.” 

“Right,” He mumbles, clearing his throat before taking a step back, “Well…I’ll just…” 

And then he turns, abruptly, to head out of the room—your guess would be to head upstairs to find you something to slip on. Amusement pulls sharply on your mouth, making you laugh, a warmth beginning from the inside out that has nothing to do with the fire. 

—

There are moments in your life that you would say define you, moments that feel ingrained, living in your lungs and blood, in the crevices of your heart. 

Somehow all of those moments involve Guy. 

—

7 months ago—September.

As much as you love dancing, you would rather never attend a party framed as a ball. Every interaction becomes a transaction, every stolen glance becomes a game, every dance a spectacle. But one would be a fool to ignore an invitation from the dowager duchess of Tintagel—and at this point, you know Theo as well as you know Guy. 

Moving through the beautifully decorated ballroom, you take another glass of wine off a tray, bringing the crystal to your lips for a long sip. Since you’ve arrived, you’ve lost sight of your father and sister, Cassandra making the rounds to find a husband or at least dance with as many eligible men as she can tonight. 

You’re just trying to slip under the waves of attention, quietly disappear, maybe involve too many glasses of wine and dance to a few songs. Alone. 

You should be so lucky. 

Unfortunately, you’ve garnered attention from several men, those that need no introduction, Lords that, at this point, know who you and your family are. And that you are of marrying age. By the eighth attempt by six different men (Lord Brandt really cannot take a hint), you excuse yourself towards the hallway to use the lavatory. 

In reality, you just don’t want to be followed. 

A headache blooms under your eyebrow and while you lean against the banister of a set of stairs, you close your eyes for a moment to rub your fingers along your forehead. A soft groan leaves your throat, your heels also beginning to throb from moving around the ballroom all night. It almost makes an ironic smile pull at your lips because…your feet hurt from outrunning men, not from dancing. A shame. 

Tugging off one shoe at a time, you hold them in your hand and tip your head back to look at the ceiling, the buzz of chatter and music floating in from the other room. You consider finding a balcony or something to get some fresh air. 

“Is that... Y/N L/N in a dress the color of violets?" 

You can't help but smile, transferring your shoes from one hand to the other. Turning slowly so that your dress swishes, you peer up to see Guy leaning against the banister of the second floor of the same staircase, smiling down at you. 

"Or is that lavender?" He asks, "Either way, both incredibly out of season. You're not trying to cause a scandal, are you?" 

Your smile grows, "God no, how will I ever find a husband that way?" You both know that’s not really a question, crinkling your nose the whole time, and it makes Guy laugh. 

When he makes his way down to you, he reaches for your hand, giving you a playful twirl in a tight circle as his eyes appraise. "He'd just need eyes, I imagine." 

Heat crawls underneath the collar of your dress, making you feel slightly lightheaded. Maybe that can be blamed on the full-circle spin after too many glasses of expensive alcohol. "I don't think it's that simple." 

Guy hums softly, pursing his lips. He hasn't let go of your hand, some of your fingers intertwining. "Fools then, the lot of them." 

Your heart feels like it might burst from the sentiment and if you were alone, you might kiss his cheek. But here, in public, you can do no such thing. Instead, you squeeze his fingers, shifting the conversation before you do something regrettable. 

"Speaking of fools, that's why I'm already tucked away. My feet ache," Your nose wrinkles again, "And Lord Brunt's hairline is nearly as bad as his breath." 

Guy's sudden guffaw makes an unrestrained giggle slide from your lips and you place your other hand over your mouth as he sneaks a look into the ballroom, "That's who you've managed to charm tonight? Out of everyone?" He glances towards the right at another familiar face, "Your sister seems to be doing well with a Lord herself." 

You watch Cassandra dance with Lord Louis before looking back at Guy. His hand is still in yours, his thumb absently tracing circles along your knuckles. He's astoundingly handsome in a three piece suit, black silken fabric pressed into the long, lean lines of his body. He smells of the woods, something clean, fresh. And your eyes trace a few tight curls resting on his forehead, begging you to reach up and toy your fingers through them. 

You're about to say something, anything as a distraction, when Lord Brunt appears out of nowhere in front of you. Your back goes rigid, faltering a step back so that the much older man does not step into your space. "Ah, there you are Lady Y/N, I've been searching for you." He grins, "Might I have the next few dances?" 

Guy bristles beside you, his hand reaching behind your back to pluck your shoes free. He shifts them to hide behind his body while his other free hand grips yours. He then encourages you to hold onto the inside of his folded elbow, demure and nonchalant. 

"I'm afraid she's been spoken for," Guy replies, his voice smooth as cool water. He holds Brunt's gaze, unwavering, something predatory in the depths of his brown eyes that's gone almost as soon as it appears. He licks his lips, "Of course, that's after we find her shoes. They seemed to have run off." 

Brunt blinks, looking down at your feet. "I see." 

"Yes," You speak up, clearing the small squeak in your voice. You can feel more than see Guy's lips twitch in an almost smile, "I think maybe around the lavatory somewhere." 

"We can check there first," Guy nods his head, "Good evening, Mr. Lundt." 

An unladylike sound surges forth at Guy purposely calling Brundt the wrong name but you fail to keep it clamped down. You try to cover it with a laugh as Guy steers you in the opposite direction, towards another set of stairs. Once you’re free and clear of Lord Brundt, you linger, standing on one of the steps so that you're an even height with the man in front of you. 

"I believe a 'thank you' is in order." He teases. 

You scoff out a laugh, reaching to fix his bowtie which isn't at all skewed, but it gives you an excuse to remain close. "Is that so?" 

Guy hums in agreement, his eyes brushing over your face, as if he's seeing you for the first time at this angle. "Actually, it's two-fold." 

"Is it?" You ask, "And why is that?" 

He lifts his hand, "Because I found your shoes." 

A bright smile spreads across your face, an unbridled laugh making your cheeks feel warm. This...might be one of the best balls you've been to in a while. You reach for your shoes, holding onto his shoulder with your hands, one at a time, to put them back on. 

"Why, thank you," You smooth your hands down your dress, playing along, "How can I ever repay you?" 

And because he knows you, he takes a step back and outstretches his hand for you to take, "How about a dance?" 

A zing of heat travels up your arm when your palm connects with his, allowing him to tug you off that step and guide you back into the ballroom for the next song. This is not the first, nor the last time, you and Guy will dance together. And yet when he pauses in the middle of the floor, facing you, his hand guiding along your back, pulling you close—it’s never felt like this.

An entire room filled with people, yet he’s the only one that you see.  

—

November.

Drawing in a deep breath, you center yourself as you walk through the tall grass, heading to a familiar destination. The same one you end up at every year at this time, on this day, no matter the weather. A chill courses down your spine and you tilt your head up to look at the gray sky, the clouds like puffs of smoke. You wonder if it’ll snow. 

You pull your thick cloak closer around your shoulders, passing the lake on your family’s property to a small area with headstones. When you were younger, you always used to make spooky comments to your sister that this area of the estate was haunted, that you could hear ghosts moaning in the middle of the night. Turned out to be wind passing through crevices in the windows and doors in the late hours, but still. 

Sometimes there’s a comfort in thinking someone is still here. That your mother…

You put a hand on your chest, swallowing over a thick emotion that feels like it’s capable of taking you out at the knees. Your bodice feels far too tight suddenly. 

Spreading a blanket out on the ground, you gather your skirts to adjust and sit in front of your mother’s headstone. You drag your fingers along the moss covered stone, tracing letters carved there that have faded from weather and time. Somehow, coming every year gets harder and easier all at the same time. 

You sense him before you see him, Guy’s presence something you know like the back of your hand at this point. He lingers behind you for a moment before joining you on the blanket, close enough that you can smell soap and citrus, can feel the heat of his body pressing along your own. You turn your head a little, almost smiling, your eyes falling to what’s in his hands. 

A bouquet of flowers. 

Tears instantly well in your eyes and you have to hold a breath in your lungs so it doesn’t shudder out of your mouth. 

“Hey,” Guy says gently, mostly in reaction to your emotions. His free hand reaches for one of yours, squeezing your fingers. 

“Hi,” You reply, sniffling. “You didn’t need to bring anything.” 

He sets the bouquet on top of the stone, the chilled breeze brushing through the field and rustling the petals. Something blue and purple, soft greens. It’s lovely. Thoughtful. The sentiment reaches directly into your chest and squeezes. It means everything that he’s here, that he’s always there when you need something. Someone. 

A thought flutters in the back of your mind, something that’s dangerous to consider. Something that you can’t keep. He’s not yours to keep. You shake your head, sniffling as a tear slips off your eyelashes and down your cheek. 

Guy reaches a hand out, thumbing it away. “I wanted to.” 

He wanted to bring flowers. He wants to be here. You squeeze his hand a little tighter, probably hurting him, yet he doesn’t move. 

It’s quiet for a few moments, another shiver that you’re not sure has to do with the cold making your body tremble. Guy inches closer, presses his shoulder into yours, both of his hands covering your right hand, warming it. You stare at the stone, almost feeling your chest wanting to cave in—if it weren’t for Guy showing up, you’d be alone. And while you were ready to weather that, it doesn’t mean you wanted to. Or should have to. 

“My father and sister don’t find any use in visiting, you know. Because it’s…” You trail off for a moment, trying to find the right words, even though those don’t feel like they exist. You settle with, “Because it’s the past.” And even that feels wrong. You remember your mother even less than your sister does, being some years apart, and yet you’re here. 

“I don’t know, I think there’s something comforting about being here, next to her, with her.” You turn your head to look at Guy, whose eyes are already on you. Gaze gentle, open, compassionate. “Do you think that’s foolish?” 

He quickly shakes his head, “No. No, of course not.” 

You draw in a sharp breath, suddenly realizing— “I’m sorry, this…this must be so difficult for you.” 

Death. Mothers. Grief. 

He nods gently because yes, it is. And yet, “You have nothing to apologize for.” His thumb traces the back of your hand. Back and forth, a comforting rhythm, “I’m here because you’d do the same for me. Because I care about you.” 

You swallow over a lump in your throat, those tears feeling like they’re overwhelming you again. This day is difficult as it is and then there’s Guy, here, being there for you in a way that is not altogether new. And yet it feels like something you’re clinging to, pulling you through the storm, a lifeline. Guy, who doesn’t need to be here, who is struggling with something similar and possibly more painful. He’s just lost his mother—you barely knew yours. 

You close your eyes for a few moments, attempting to center yourself before speaking again, “I know I was really young when she passed but it’s…” 

Of course he gets it. “Like you’re mourning for something that never was. Or…what could have been.” 

A shuddered breath claws out of your throat, “I hope she’d be proud of me. I don’t—” 

“Shh,” Guy murmurs, “Hey, of course she’d be proud.” He catches your chin between his fingers, angling your face towards him. “Of course she’d be proud.” He repeats, making sure he holds your gaze so that the words sink in. 

Your lower lip wobbles but you nod. You know you’re not exactly living up to society standards but…you take care of your family best that you can. You’re happy. You’re honest with yourself about what you want and what you need. About who you love. 

You hope she’d be proud. 

“Come here,” He says gently, encouraging you to lean into him, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. You instantly fold into his chest, burying your face in his shoulder, breathing him in. The crisp smell of snow mixes with his comforting scent, his hand sneaking up and under the cloak you’re wearing and pressing into the knobs of your spine. 

You squeeze your eyes closed, tears seeping into the fabric of his coat, arms winding around his waist. You linger there, holding one another, until snow begins to gather on the blanket. 

—

December.

There’s something about Christmas that makes you feel relaxed down to your bones. With the snow flurries outside making the inside feel cozy and intimate, there’s the constant glow of fires and candles along with the smell of chestnuts, pine and mulled wine. You’ve also always been a big fan of gift giving, even outside of the season, just a small way in showing someone you care for them. All your presents are carefully wrapped and tucked under the tree…except the one you’ve gotten for Guy. 

That one is sitting on your bed, tissue paper gently tucked around it. You’re still…unsure if you want to give it to him, worried that it’s too much. If he’ll like it. You suppose it’s the thought that counts but. Still. It’s been something you’ve been thinking about for a while. Christmas is the perfect time to hand it over under the guise of nonchalance. 

Usually you enjoy the festivities that your family puts together—an intimate party for extended family and friends, but this year it’s a little different. Your sister is set to marry Louis and…while you’re excited for her, this gathering has become more of a pre-wedding get-together than a holiday celebration. It’s all anyone can talk about, any time you spin towards someone new with a glass of warm, mulled wine in your hand, cinnamon stick swirling in the glass—how excited you must be for Cassandra, how lucky she is. 

And while these things are true, it’s taking pieces of Christmas from you, of the intimacy and memories you associate with this party at your estate. Selfish? Maybe. But is there something so wrong with that? 

Before you can run into Louis’s mother, who’s eyeing you up across the foyer—because of course Louis has a brother your age, you make a quick turn out of the room. A sharp noise leaves your lips as you collide with—

“Guy!” 

He manages to hold onto his small plate, a glass of mulled wine in his other hand. His eyes are a tiny bit glassy, telling you he’s been enjoying himself. You knew he was here but you hadn’t managed to find him yet. How fortuitous. 

“I’m sorry,” You laugh softly, helping him stabilize everything he’s got. 

“Menace.” He teases, using that tone of endearment that his mother gave you when she’d call you that. 

A breath of relief leaves your lungs to see him, but also that you didn’t manage to ruin the maroon knit sweater he’s wearing. The color does wonders for his complexion, for the soft brown of his eyes. Swallowing down a wave of butterflies trapped in your chest, you straighten your shoulders. 

“I was looking for you.” 

He raises his eyebrows, motioning to the room you’ve come from with his plate, “Couldn’t help but notice the scowl you’ve been wearing half the night, so I figured I’d bring you something.” 

“Cheese?” You ask, a bubble of a laugh in your voice. 

Guy crinkles his nose at the sound but there’s amusement in his gaze, “Who doesn’t love cheese?” 

“No, I do,” You touch his hand with a grin, “Very thoughtful, thank you.” 

Reaching for a small block of white cheese, you pop it into your mouth, chewing with enthusiasm. Guy’s lips twitch, 

“Spirit lifted?” 

“Tenfold.” You agree, glancing past him towards the steps. “But I can also think of something even better…” 

You begin to walk past him, tugging on the sleeve of his sweater. As if you’d need to encourage him to follow…he’s always right behind you. That warm weight of awareness sits low in your chest, licking downward in a way that makes you feel dizzy. You blame the wine as you snag a bottle right off the table that’s supposed to be used for the mulled bowl right next to it. You then lift up your skirt so you don’t trip going up the steps. 

You can hear Guy’s footstep behind you, all the way up, towards your destination—

“The roof?” He asks, “It’s freezing.” 

You stop in your bedroom first, picking up the small gift that’s for him, using a side entrance of steps to the attic and finally, the roof. You wave the bottle over your shoulder, 

“That’s what the wine is for, drink up Thwarte.” 

He smiles, shaking his head as if you exhaust him and yet he can’t get enough. 

There’s no protest from him as he takes the bottle from you, having a long sip as you both maneuver your way outside. It’s stopped snowing, just cold, yet not the wet kind that tends to sit too long in your lungs. It’s crisp, not windy, so it’s…it’s almost enjoyable. The heat of your skin certainly thinks so as you wander along the edges of the roof, tipping your head back to look at the spackling of stars. 

It’s perfect. 

Turning to look towards Guy, you grab the bottle from him when he offers, pulling a short sip into your mouth. It’s not as sweet without the spices and the coolness on your tongue is a slight jolt to your system. But it feels good to be up here with him, drinking, escaping a bit. You carefully set down the gift you got him in a spot that doesn’t have snow or dampness and sit down too. 

He raises his eyebrows. “We’re really doing this?” 

“Don’t be such a spoil sport.” You tease, “It feels good up here.” 

Guy hums, sinking down next to you, his body warm and solid and…there’s this ridiculous urge to bury your face in the fabric of his sweater. One that you outright ignore by looking at the stars again. 

“Feel like I’m always running into you when you’re trying to hide.” 

A small smile tugs at your mouth, looking over at him. The moon is big and bright, casting a cool glow along his curls, the handsome panes of his face. He appears almost iridescent, more beautiful than you feel like you could commit to memory. It makes your chest ache for some reason. 

“Not from you,” You assure quietly, as if a secret, as if it’s important for him to know. “Never from you.” 

He smiles too, gently bumping his shoulder into your own, “I know.” His fingers linger along yours when he takes the bottle back, “You’re a safe space for me too.” 

You breathe in, deeply, the cold air lighting your lungs up like a Christmas tree. But you feel more alive that way, in a sense, a small dizziness beginning behind your eyes from the wine. It’s a warm sensation, rose-colored. Safe. You think that describes how you feel when you’re around him perfectly. 

And because something else lingers on the tip of your tongue, Guy tilts his head a bit when he looks at you, reading words unspoken as easy as breathing, 

“You don’t like him, do you?” He asks, “Louis?” 

You’re not sure that you do. You’ve heard unseemly conversations about Louis, about him having a heavy hand, but it’s all just gossip. Nothing well-founded. And even if it was? Telling Cassandra, you already know, most likely wouldn’t change anything. 

You shake your head, “Doesn’t matter what I think.” 

Guy licks his lips, the bottle set down between your bodies. “It matters to me.” 

His words, paired with your attention drawn to his mouth, has you searching for another distraction. You clear your throat, remembering the gift for him that you brought up. 

“Speaking of mattering to one another,” You smile a bit, picking up the small square canvas, wrapped in tissue paper, that’s slightly larger than the palm of your hand. “I’ve got something for you.” 

Guy’s shoulders go a little rigid, staring down at the gift for one heartbeat, “You weren’t supposed to be getting me anything.” 

You shrug your one shoulder because…you certainly never agreed to that. When Guy mentioned maybe skipping an exchange this year, you merely let him believe whatever he needed to. You know why he offhandedly mentioned it, because he doesn’t have money to spend. And that’s fine? You don’t need anything. 

But that didn’t mean you weren’t going to get something for him. 

He doesn’t take it from you. “I don’t have one for you.” 

“Guy,” You say, voice stern but tone warm, “You know I don’t care about that.” You lift your hand with the gift, pushing it gently towards him. “Please.” 

He lets out a long sigh from his nose before taking it, unwrapping the tissue paper with a gentleness you know him for. Sometimes you picture his hands undressing you like that—careful, deft, almost reverent. 

His sharp intake of breath snaps those thoughts loose, your gaze lifting to his face as emotions swim immediately to the forefront. He tugs the tissue paper further away from the small portrait of his mother that you had done, nature around her, in all the ways that you remember her. Beautiful and vibrant. 

“I know it’s not much, I just…” His silence makes you nervous, wondering if maybe you’ve made a mistake. The last thing you wanted to do was hurt him. “I know you’ve had to sell a lot of the portraits of her and I—”

“Y/N,” His voice is thick with emotion, a sheen to his brown eyes. It’s like he doesn’t have the words, just shakes his head, brushing his thumb over the face of his mother. He sniffles, composing himself before speaking again, “I wasn’t sure what Christmas was going to be like this year. You’ve made it…bearable,” He whispers. “Worth celebrating.” 

You smile, lifting your hand to cup his cheek, brushing your thumb over the bone. Leaning against his side, he wraps an arm around you, keeping you close as he looks down at the portrait again. You feel Guy shift, tipping his chin down, pressing a kiss to your temple. It’s something that he’s done before…and yet it feels brand new. 

It’s the best gift he could have given you. 

—

February. 

Smoothing your hands along your dress, you try not to fidget with nonexistent issues in the fabric. There’s nothing wrong with what you’re wearing, and yet it feels like it’s suffocating you. This God-forsaken bodice. You had the corset laced too tight or something because it’s almost like it’s crushing your ribs, making it difficult to breathe. The wine you drank a little earlier is sitting heavily in your stomach, a sickening feeling swirling forward like you’re on a ship. 

Your father insisted on hosting another party, this one with the sole purpose of finding you a husband. And while he hasn’t set a date for you to marry, given that his oldest has been, it’s highly encouraged that you begin courting someone.

Or rather that someone begins to court you. 

The concept makes you absolutely nauseous. Half the night has been spent dancing (which you usually love), paired with shallow conversations, unwanted hands brushing against your lower back, shoulders, arms, and a man actually trying to touch your face. You feel like your skin is crawling. 

Thinking some cold, fresh air will do you some good, you move through the dining room towards the balcony, turning a corner and bumping right into Louis’s younger brother. Xavier. He reaches out a hand to steady you but you pull yourself back, making amusement tug the corners of his mouth. 

He’s handsome, it’s a shame his reputation is just as loathsome as his brother’s is. 

“Sorry,” You clear your throat, “Just need a little bit of air.”  

He hums, lifting his drink to his lips. “Escaping?” You don’t like the tone of his voice, like you’re somehow ungrateful for your father putting this together. And while you never asked for something like this to be done…you still appreciate where he’s coming from. Regardless that he’s doing all of this for the wrong reasons. 

You don’t need a husband. Not until you’re ready. 

You’re about to offer an invitation for Xavier to step outside with you, just so he’ll step out of your way, but then he opens his mouth, “A bit inconsiderate, don’t you think? Given that this whole event is for you?” 

You feel yourself bristle, straightening your shoulders. “Needing to take a breath is inconsiderate?” 

He’s got some nerve. Yes, your father put this together for the sole purpose of having you consider your options, but not everyone in attendance is here for that. A party is a perfect excuse to drink a little bit too much, dance, and most importantly: gossip. That’s what the majority in attendance is doing tonight. 

He reaches for you, his open palm resting against your upper waist, “Maybe your dress needs to be loosened.” 

You jerk back from him a bit, but your hip bumps into a nearby table positioned against the wall. “Don’t touch me.” You snap, bringing your hand down onto his wrist. 

He maneuvers you far too easily, using his weight to create an imbalance, pushing you against the table so you’re trapped against it. He locks your arm down by your side, pressing himself into you, bringing his head down to speak against your cheek. 

“This entire party is a ruse anyways,” He whispers, gripping your chin between his fingers, “You’ve practically been promised to me.” 

You feel ice slither down your spine, blind panic bubbling in your stomach at his words. That…that can’t be true. Your father would never—

“You’re lying.” You wish your voice sounded stronger. You hate giving him the satisfaction that the notion scares you, that the loss of your freedom, of your ability to choose, crushes something inside of you. 

His smirk is cruel, “Don’t worry, you’ll enjoy being my wife. Your sister certainly enjoys being Louis’s.” 

You bite down on the inside of your cheek so you don’t do something as shameful as crying, emotions building up in your chest and clogging your throat. It’s almost completely overwhelming and you try to channel it in a way that matters, that restores a semblance of self-control. You bring your knee up and step, hard, heel first on his foot. 

Xavier hollars, jumping away, but before you can rush down the hall, he grabs your elbow and yanks you towards him so violently that your head nearly snaps back. 

“Take your hand off of her.” 

A breath of relief instantly skitters from your lips as you turn to see Guy coming down the hall, his eyes boring into Xavier. And while his expression is calm, cool, stoic even, the brown of his eyes are the embers of a roaring fire. He’s pissed—barely controlled as he comes to stand in front of you both. He’s only a half a head taller than Xavier but the tension in his body makes him appear as if he’s towering over him. 

Xavier scoffs, unaffected, “Excuse me?” 

A muscle in his jaw clenches, “You heard me.” 

God, this is bad. Not only are you caught up on the awful reality of Xavier’s previous words, you don’t want this to turn into some sort of scandal. You know Guy—he’s sweet, thoughtful, gentle, but he’s also protective of who he cares about. He’s not about to back down from this, from seeing you in this position. There’s a glint in his eyes that tells you he doesn’t care about what happens to him, but you care. You don’t want him to get hurt. You don’t want whispers and scandals to involve him. 

You step forward to place your hand on your friend’s chest, “Guy, it’s alright—” 

Xavier grips your arm, making you wince, “See? She's perfectly fine. Besides, she could use a little help in finding her place.” 

The flash of pain on your face, combined with Xavier’s words, is all it takes for Guy to snap forward. His fist flies through the air, cracking him in the nose and causing him to stumble backwards. Your arm dislodges from his grip and before things can further escalate, you press on Guy’s chest. 

“Stop,” The tremble in your voice breaks his attention, his gaze finding yours. The harsh edges around him soften and he nods once before his hand snakes down to carefully squeeze yours. 

Xavier is still sputtering behind you, but luckily Guy is leading you both down the hallway, towards the kitchen. You don’t even spare the other man a backwards glance, have no idea whether his nose is broken or he’s bleeding or whether he’s perfectly fine. You don’t care. You’re shaking from leftover adrenaline and the cruel words that Xavier spouted before Guy’s arrival—you have to talk to your father. They can’t be true. 

He tugs you into your kitchen, a few staff handling food and refilling beverage trays. 

“I need a few minutes.” You manage to tell them and wait until they all file out before squeezing your eyes shut. Your breathing is a little unsteady as you attempt to get your bearings, a soft noise leaving your lips when you feel Guy wrap his arms around you. 

He gently encourages you to lean against his chest, his one hand smoothing down your back while the other massages the muscles of your neck under your hairline. It takes several minutes, but you eventually calm down, your hand wrapping around one of his biceps. 

“What were you thinking?” Your voice is muffled along the fabric of his suit jacket at his shoulder. 

He lets out a slow sigh, “To be fair, I wasn’t. Just saw red at the look on your face.” 

You swallow, pulling back a little to look up at him. You’re not sure how all of this is going to unwind, what Xavier is going to mention to his family, to your father, but at least…at least your sister’s marriage is secured. It feels silly to be thinking of concerns like that but the last thing you want is for this to somehow impact Cassandra. 

You look down as his hands slip away from the back of your body, and you reach for his right wrist. Splaying his fingers open, you wince at the reddish bruising beginning on the bones of his knuckles. 

“Your reputation is going to go right down the drain.” You mumble to which Guy lets out a short laugh, mostly air out of his nose. 

He waits until your gaze meets his own, “I don’t care.” 

Your stomach does a full flip, and regardless of how sick you felt in the dining room before all this happened, you find yourself utterly at ease in his presence. Your eyes linger on his lips far too long and you pull yourself away before doing something foolish. Making your way towards the icebox, you grab a chunk of ice and wrap it in a tea towel, bringing it back over to him. Guy shifts, leans back against the kitchen counter, allowing you to take his hand again to set ice down on his sore knuckles. He pulls a face, his eyebrows drawing together before his shoulders even out. His thumb brushes back and forth over your own. 

You concentrate on the task in front of you even though his hand is relatively fine, no broken skin, no blood, but it gives you something to do while your mind spins. He angles his head down but doesn’t say anything, waits for you to tell him what’s still bothering you. 

You’re not sure you even want to get into it, shaking your head, “Sometimes I really hate being a woman.” 

A small smile tugs the corners of his mouth. It’s not what he expected you to say, “I would look rather silly in a dress.” 

That encourages you to laugh and based on his expression, that was his intention, “I don’t know, I think you certainly got the legs for it.” 

A laugh rumbles in his chest as well and the sound blooms heat in your stomach, curling lower. You pull the ice back to check on his hand before bringing it up to your face. You place a kiss on his knuckles and Guy visibly swallows, his thumb moving to trace the line of your jaw. 

Suddenly the words unfortunately unspool from your lips, “I think my father might want me to marry Xavier.” 

Guy’s body stills, his jaw clenching as he listens to you. His reaction flames that same heat to curl in your veins, spreading it throughout your body. You suddenly feel far too close to him, the warmth of his body kissing your skin, the scent of pine and something purley him brushing against your nose. 

You look down at his hand, tracing circles into the underside of his wrist, along the tree of veins there. 

“I have to talk to him about it. I’m sure he wouldn’t…” You shake your head, chewing on your lower lip, “Xavier mentioned—”

“I wouldn’t believe a word out of his mouth,” He finally offers, his voice more of a comfort than he realizes. 

And maybe he’s right—it certainly wouldn’t be the first time men have told you things that were lies. To garner favors, attention, respect. Xavier definitely seems like a person who might do that. Who’d want to make you squirm, influence you, hurt you. Just because he can. 

Guy turns the hand that you’re holding so that his fingers can grip yours, “Your life is your own.” 

And as you linger in the kitchen with him, your hands joined, fingers slowly lacing together—you wish more than anything that that were true. 

—

March.

You speak to your father. And while Guy was right, Xavier was just trying to get under your skin, you’re still expected to find a husband before the next season. Someone suitable. You suppose you should be thrilled, given that some parents choose outright for their daughters who they’re going to end up with. But…you also know that while the choice might fall into your hands, it’s an illusion. You can’t pick just anyone. 

There are standards, expectations. Things you couldn’t care less about. 

Your father might not tell you explicitly, but you can see it in his eyes when you talk to him about what happened with Xavier. About Guy. He’s grateful that Guy didn’t allow anything to happen, his expression is fond, something that comes from knowing the Thwartes for so long.  

But there’s also a sternness to him, like he can sense where this conversation might be going far before a certain thought colors everything for you: he likes Guy, he thinks he’s a good man—but he’s not the marrying type. 

Of course this would come down to money, to prestige, to influence. 

 And, what—someone like Xavier would be more ‘fitting’ because he has money to burn? The fact that Guy Thwarte is a good man should be more than enough.

As you walk through the grass towards the lake on the estate, you try to push as many of these thoughts that you can right out of your mind. It’s not as if you and Guy haven’t spoken about marriage but…never between one another. 

It’s not just about the technicalities, either. You know how you feel about him, how you’ve always felt about him, but that doesn’t mean he feels the same way. Doesn’t mean he’s interested in being tied down. You know just as well as he does that marriages to influence and money mean something, and while you’ve got something sizable to offer…he could want more than that. 

He’s the man you’ve always talked to about everything and suddenly you have no idea how to speak to him about this. 

The weather is fading into a soft chill, no longer freezing or snowing, but not yet spring. You glance down at the edge of the lake, reaching the toe of your boot at the water and tap the surface. A small smile tugs the corners of your mouth because this would be absolutely absurd to do…and yet. 

Making the decision before you can change your mind, you tug your coat off, toeing your boots to the side. Parts of your dress go next, even though getting out of the bodice and corset is difficult, a ping of sudden excitement at the thought that you won’t be putting them back on. At least not by yourself. You strip down to the sheer, full-body slip underneath the thick fabric of your skirt, goosebumps spreading along your thighs and arms. 

And then you jump into the lake. 

A sharp squeal leaves your lips at the temperature, but when you feel your body catch up with your half-brained idea, there’s something refreshing and utterly cleansing about disappearing under the surface of the cold water. You close your eyes and wait as long as you can before wading to the top. 

Dragging a deep breath into your lungs, you lean your body back, floating slightly and looking up at the sky. Clouds speckle the grayish blue, like big puffs of cotton stuck to fabric. A small smile tugs the corners of your mouth, finally beginning to feel centered once again. 

“What on earth are you doing?” 

Your foot slips on a rock, nearly pulling you under as you look over your shoulder at Guy approaching the lake edge. He’s got his hands in the pockets of his slacks, his eyes wide and touched with amusement, dancing over your form submerged in the water. You wait for the moment for his presence to send you off-kilter, to disrupt the calm you desperately just sunk your teeth into…but that moment never comes. You suppose you shouldn’t be surprised, he’s always made you feel this way. 

Calm, comfortable, safe. 

Turning to face him, you float a bit on your front to get to a place in the lake where you can stand. Your shoulders and the top of your chest exits the water and you’re well aware how sheer this slip is, plastered to your skin. 

Guy is aware too. His eyes travel down your form and then snap back up, as if he realizes what he’s doing, looking away a moment before a twinge of a smile tugs the corners of his mouth. 

“You’re going to catch your death.” 

You hum, shaking your head, “I’m tough.” 

He laughs suddenly, though the sound is warm and intimate, like a shared secret. And maybe it is. “I’m well aware of that.” 

You lift one of your hands and send a small splash towards Guy’s leg, not enough to soak him, but enough to tease, “Get in here with me.” 

His mouth opens, eyebrows shooting up, “Absolutely not—”

“Get,” You send another splash, this time with purpose. It sprays along his side even though he attempts to jump back to avoid it. You laugh, “in here.” 

“Menace.” He tosses out, but it’s so affectionate that he can’t even begin to hide it. Especially with that handsome grin on his face. 

You lean back into the water and you know you should turn away when Guy starts to take off his coat, when he unbuttons his pants, when he removes his waistcoat. And yet you don’t. You drink him in. There’s a moment where his eyes find yours, when his fingers slow, and there’s a drawn breath into his lungs, his mouth slightly parted. 

And heat gathers in the center of your body, dipping between your legs. You swallow over an emotion in your throat, something you can’t (or don’t want to name), and eventually you tear your gaze away. You don’t look up again until you hear him slip into the water, a harsh breath leaving his lips at the temperature—but your thoughts zip elsewhere, that heat between your legs giving a sudden pulse. 

“Alright, you got me in here.” He says it begrudgingly, but his tone of voice doesn’t match his expression as he wades closer to you. 

You’re not sure whether you’re just getting used to the water or because you can feel the warmth of his body, but you slip into that contented state that you usually are with him. You walk backwards, the water brushing over your shoulders, and for a moment you wish he wasn’t taller than you—because your gaze is drawn to the broadness of his chest, the map of his shoulders, the soft slope of his neck. 

You drag in a breath, attempting to clear your head. “Wasn’t sure you would.” 

He huffs out another laugh, “And how often do you find me denying you anything?” 

You grin. 

Comfortable silence stretches between you, birds stirring in the singular tree that’s near the embankment. You wonder if that means spring is truly close, hugging winter through its last bout of chills. A sound of chatter draws your attention towards Guy’s estate, the crunched gravel of carriage wheels, the huff of horses. Eyebrows drawing together, you see someone moving in the distance, but can’t make out whether they’re coming or going. 

“Did you have a visitor?” You ask, slowly rotating back to look at him. 

He’s quiet, contemplative, chewing on words in his mouth. He drags his fingers through the water, “Yes,” Guy pauses, his focus returning to your face before, “Jean Hopeleigh, actually.” 

Oh. You know her—you’ve seen her at various parties, have heard her name passed around like a tray of champagne at a party. Women and men alike are enthralled by her, by the promise of attachment, not just because she has the impressive promise of wealth, but because she’s beautiful. 

And she’s been to visit Guy. 

A thousand questions begin to pelt the inside of your mind, like rainfall, did he invite her? Did she come on her own? What did they discuss? Is he interested in her? How could she not be interested in him? Is he going to see her again?

Is it too late? 

“Oh she’s…” Words fail and you try to come up with something that doesn’t speak to what feels like a sickening rock settling in the base of your stomach. “I’ve heard she’s sweet.” 

Your cheeks feel hot at that being the only thing you have to offer, and the twitch of a smile that pulls on Guy’s lips makes you want to look away from him. To slip underneath the water until your lungs burn and beg you to resurface. 

“She’s lovely,” He agrees. 

“Are you courting her?” Blurts from your mouth so fast it takes you a moment to even realize you’ve said it. It’s not supposed to sound so…so accusatory. 

There’s hesitation in the way Guy’s body stills, as he watches you. It’s a singular heartbeat, a one breath in, before he steps closer. Your eyes tip up, unable to look away, nowhere for you to hide from the aftermath of your question. 

“Would it bother you if I was?” 

Yes. 

It’s an instant response strangling your tongue and you bite down on everything inside of you in order to keep that word under lock and key. 

“No,” You whisper, “No, of course not.” But despite the words leaving your lips, Guy is still looking at you the same. Like he doesn’t believe you. Like he knows you, because he does. He knows you better than anyone. 

You clear your throat, trying to float away from him by tipping yourself back and lifting your feet off the lakebed, “You’ve always talked about if you were to…find a wife, you’d want someone who could be a friend, a partner. Jean, I’m sure, would be your equal in every way.” 

Guy purses his lips, “Would she?” The question is asked like he already knows the answer, and it catches you off guard in a way that you were not prepared for. 

“Wouldn’t she?” You toss back, arching your knee up to gently send a splash in his direction with your foot. 

The movement seems to break the odd spell between you two, silence melting into the water and disappearing, Guy grabbing hold of your leg and tugging so you have no choice but to float into him. Your breath catches in your chest and it takes everything in you not to wrap your legs around his waist when his body lines up with your own. 

“I spoke with my father,” You tell him after a moment and while his touch disappears from your leg, it lingers near your waist, a teasing reminder of how close he is. “You were right—I’m not set to marry Xavier.” 

You don’t tell him other things that were said, about inferences that were made, about how you ended up at this lake to be alone. About how some of society must think about Guy if your father was saying the same thing—that he’s not ‘good enough’ to be called someone’s. Yours.  

You can’t think of anything that feels less true. 

You pick your hand up out of the water, fingers gently toying with a tight curl that rests on his forehead. You’re not sure whether it’s an accident or on purpose, but Guy tips his head down, his nose and lips brushing against the soft skin on the inside of your wrist. 

“Looks like we’re both free to make our own decisions.” He murmurs. 

We’re both free—meaning—

“You’re not courting Jean?” 

Guy smiles a bit against you, pulling back a little as he shakes his head, but he doesn’t look up at you. Your fingers twist his curl for a moment, eventually letting it go. Your heartbeat is ricocheting against your ribcage, your hand slipping under the water. There’s a certain secrecy in being cloaked by the water, his fingers grazing your wrist, like it’s only a world for the both of you that no one else can see into. 

His hand wraps around your own. 

Both free to make our own decisions—you squeeze his fingers. You hope more than anything that that’s real. 

—

Present—April, continued. 

When Guy returns from upstairs, he’s got a set of dry clothes on himself, a long-sleeved dress shirt for you draped over his shoulder and then a bunch of blankets tucked under his arms. 

“It’s not much but I figured the trousers would be swimming on you.” 

A small smile because yes, that’s probably true. He’s taller than you, so the dress shirt should be fine. You can wrap the blankets around you, anything to get this damp dress off. It’s keeping a chill lingering in your chest and the tip of your nose. 

He sets the blankets down on the floor and when your fingers touch his as you take the shirt, Guy seems to realize that he should be turning around or leaving so you can undress. 

“I’ll just—” He motions over his shoulder. 

But before he can disappear, you reach for his wrist, waiting until his gaze meets your own, “Can you…” 

You’re unsure why it’s difficult for you to finish that sentence, suddenly the room feeling overwhelmingly warm. You think it’s from the heat of the fire but your skin still seems cool to the touch. Luckily, Guy doesn’t need you to explain, just gives you a brief nod before encouraging you to turn around. 

And he begins removing pieces of your dress. 

The elaborate skirt comes first, untied with practiced hands, and tugged down so you can step out of it. The cage-like petticoat is something you always felt was rather silly, and yet you sometimes enjoyed wearing it. Like your legs were birds, or something, kept behind flexible wires. A small smile tugs the corners of your lips at the thought as it's untied and gently lifted over your head. Your chemise is left along with your corset and you're not sure whether the small intake of breath comes from you or Guy when you feel him step closer, a shiver slipping down your body as his fingers tug on strings. 

It doesn't take long for him to loosen it, the fabric falling free, and there's something about taking an unrestrained, deep breath with him so close by that makes you feel dizzy.

Turning to face him, you tilt your head back to look up, fingers gripping the bottom of your chemise. Your nipples are hard against the soft stitching, from being cold or from anticipation, you’re not sure. But you can tell that Guy is purposely looking at your face, his nostrils flaring a little, jaw gently clenched in concentration. A gentleman. 

“Would you be willing to help me with this as well?” You ask, heart beating so fast you can nearly hear the reverberation in your ears. 

This is a line that cannot be redrawn once it’s erased.

And Guy destroys it as if it never existed in the first place. 

His fingers curl into the chemise and he uses it as leverage to yank you closer. The moment your body bumps into his own, he leans down and kisses you with fervor—like he may never get another chance. Like he’s been thinking about this as long as you have. That’s all the encouragement you need. Your hands rake into his hair, gently tugging, titling your mouth against his own. A noise you’ve never heard him make before, but have thought about him making far too often, climbs up his throat. It creates another fire in your chest, seeping outward, liquid heat pulsing between your legs. 

When his hands bunch the fabric of your slip near your thigh, you draw in a sharp breath. He seems to pause at that, looking down at you, lips slightly wet, eyes dark. 

“Do you want me to stop?” He asks against your lips, “We can stop.” 

You shake your head, your hands moving to his shirt, pulling it out of his waistband. The muscles along his abdomen twitch as your fingers find the buttons of his trousers. “No.” 

Guy holds onto that thread of control, just for a moment, “If you change your mind…” 

You pause, making sure he sees your face before you nod in understanding. And then that thread of control snaps. He cups both sides of your face with his hands, leaning down to kiss you again, gently encouraging you onto the floor where blankets are still haphazardly piled up. You reach blindly for one, fanning it out, before you end up lying on your back. Guy brackets your body at your shoulders, his mouth finding the curve of your neck, his hand sliding between you to tug up the fabric of the chemise. 

You didn’t have a mother to tell you about the inner workings of what you’re supposed to do in situations like this. Your sister’s eyes would go wide any time you might mention a man was attractive, like it was some dirty little secret that one shouldn’t pry with. The only reason you have any semblance of how to move, on what happens, is because you have an aunt that’s saucy after she’s had a few champagnes. 

Not wanting Guy to interpret your thoughts as hesitation, you also reach down between your bodies to work on the buttons of his trousers again, groaning slightly at the heat of his skin. His fingers caress the inside of your thighs before he inches up, right where you want him most. Your eyes close when he spreads your lips, thumb finding that bud of nerves, circling. Drawing in a sharp breath through your nose, you slide a hand inside his pants and wrap your fingers around him, stroking upwards. 

Guy groans, moving a little into your touch, his lips crashing down onto yours again. The stubble of his facial hair against your skin almost adds to the pleasure—you wonder what it’d feel like between your legs. 

You’ve explored your body on your own, but nothing has felt nearly as good as this. He maps out kisses down your jaw to your neck, one finger sliding inside of you, and then two after you’re used to it. His wrist turns, he curls his fingers up—

Fuck. 

You try to continue your ministrations for him as well, but it’s almost difficult to concentrate, contentment pulsing in waves, making you feel like you’re too close to the fire. Your thumb circles over the tip of his cock and he moans, pulling back just a little to look down at you. 

“I don’t…” You begin, worried you’ve done something wrong. 

He shakes his head, the thumb of the hand holding his body above yours brushing against your shoulder. “You’re doing so well,” He promises, assuring you, “Especially if you do that again.” 

You lean up so you can reach him, nipping at his lower lip and then follow his suggestion. You roll your thumb back and forth across the tip of his cock, his whole body reacting by thrusting into your hand. He begins to show more attention to your clit, a strangled whine emptying from your lips, and suddenly all that build-up comes to a peak—and you feel yourself falling right over the edge. 

Your eyes slammed close with your release, hoping Guy isn’t far behind. Seeing you come apart, along with a few more strokes, your thumb pressing against the head, he loses himself against your body. Even though both of you are breathing heavily, he kisses you again, his tongue sliding along yours languidly—like there’s all the time in the world to be here, doing this with one another. 

There’s a moment in which you both pull back, catching your breath and Guy takes the opportunity to clean you up, removing the chemise entirely. His eyes drink in the sight of your body, completely naked before him, leaning down to brush kisses along your sternum, stomach and between your breasts. It almost makes you want to begin all over again. Almost. 

He reaches for the shirt he brought down, helping tug it over your head and slide your arms through. When he’s pulled his trousers moreso around his waist, he lies down on top of you, but not enough for his body to crush your own. He becomes a comfortable, solid and warm weight, using his elbows to keep himself propped up. He smiles at you, curling his fingers around some of your hair that’s framing your face. 

You bring your hand up as well, cupping his cheek, encouraging him to lean down so you can kiss him again. 

“Warm enough?” He asks, his nose bumping against yours. 

“Perfect.” You whisper back, another kiss following. 

—

May. 

The prospect of snagging a husband is so far in the back of your mind, it’s practically something you’ve forgotten about. Your father, however, hasn’t. And while you love him, you’re starting to lose a little bit of respect for him.  He’s not only begun to pile that pressure onto your shoulders, but he’s also been ignoring how terrible of a husband Louis can be to Cassandra. He may not be putting his hands on her (at least nowhere that can be seen), but the light is gone from her eyes. It’s clear any time you look at her. 

If your father wants to ignore that fact, if Cassandra would rather stay in a loveless, brutish marriage just because it’s ‘what a woman does’...then the only thing you can vow to do is now allow yourself to become that. 

You refuse to settle on any man just because it's ‘what one does’. You will not sacrifice your happiness for anyone. 

You’ve also been seeing Guy behind closed doors for the past month. 

Now, there’s nothing to be ashamed of and it’s not like you’re trying to hide, exactly, but moreso being together feels like something precious, intimate. Yours. And you’re unwilling to share that, lest it crumble like ash between your fingers. 

To those with prying eyes, you and your neighbor, your best friend, appear as you always have been: close, friendly, confidants. But…seeing him in the morning as light filters in through curtains, the way he cups your cheek and brushes his lips along your temple when you’re in the kitchen, the way he smirks before he kisses you, his hands wandering to undress you and eventually pulling you close to help put clothes back on, 

—that version of Guy belongs to you. 

“Escaping again?” You hum at the familiar voice behind you on the roof of your home. “Are you ever where you’re supposed to be?” 

A thrum of amusement plucks in your chest as you turn to look at Guy, who’s walking towards you with his hands in his pockets. The perfect portrait of easy handsomeness, dressed in trousers and a white button down, a pine green waistcoat over top. It somehow makes his skin glow, the warmth in his brown eyes like toffee as he steps closer. No matter how often you see him, it’s still the same reaction of fluttering butterflies and your stomach turning inside out. 

“It’s right here,” You tell him with a smile, tipping your chin up to look at him. “On this roof. With you.” 

It’s a much smaller get-together than your father has thrown before, but Louis’s family is here too. And you don’t want to see Xavier unless you have to. 

He reaches for your hand, bringing it up so that he can encourage you into a small spin that makes you laugh. Which seems to be his intention, if the answering smile is any indication. “I brought treacle toffee.” 

You sigh softly, tipping your head back in a dramatic fashion, “I suppose those are the magic words.” And some of the only ones that could get you off this roof. 

Guy holds onto your hand to lead back downstairs, briefly squeezing your fingers on the steps before letting go, offering his arm instead so you can walk with him into the main living space where people are gathered. You ignore gazes that feel like someone is trying to get your attention and allow Guy to guide you into the kitchen. He lets go of your arm so you can make a b-line to the toffee on the table, grabbing a small chunk with a content hum. 

“This is your mother’s recipe, right?” You ask. 

He makes a noise of acknowledgement, “Brought something else of my mother’s today too.” 

You turn to see what he’s referring to but you almost inhale the toffee when you see him get down on one knee. 

Instantly, “No.” 

Guy’s lips twitch, “You didn’t even let me ask you anything yet.” 

You know exactly what he’s going to ask you—he has a small, red velvet box between his fingers. It’s not open yet, but you know what’s inside. His mother’s wedding ring. The bridge of your nose stings as tears well in your eyes. You can’t accept this from him, you can’t say yes to any of his questions. 

“No, Guy.” 

He sighs softly out of his nose, but he doesn’t lower the box, nor stand. “Why not?” He asks quietly. 

A choked laugh leaves your lips but you try not to cry. Is he being serious right now? “Don’t play games with me.” 

He brings the box down, but he doesn’t put it away. Instead he opens it. “You think that’s what I’m doing?” The ring is beautiful—plain, but not meager. It’s not meant to be flashy or overly expensive, gentle in its craftsmanship, elegant. It was perfect for his mother, who was so stunning inside and out that she made jewels look superfluous. 

“I think,” You sniffle, “You’ve always been someone to protect me, to rescue me when I needed it. Be there for me when no one else was. You know my father is close to forcing my hand when it comes to marriage.” A tear slips down your cheek, “And I’m terrified it might have to be Xavier.” 

Guy’s entire body tenses, like he wants to stand at the sight of you beginning to cry. But he doesn’t move, just takes his mother’s ring out of the box. 

“Those things might be true, but that’s not why I’m asking if you want to marry me.” 

You swallow over a lump in your throat, a shuddered noise leaving your lips. You have no idea what to say, what to do. You feel frozen to the kitchen floor, so afraid beyond anything that you’ll somehow lose him. 

“You want me to say it?” He adds, waiting until your gaze meets his, “It’s because I love you.” 

All the air in your lungs rush out, two twin tears skirting down your cheeks in the aftermath. The room suddenly becomes tight, like it’s filled with cotton, your heart hammering in your chest at simple words you thought you’d never hear him say. Yet the moment he says them, you feel at home, like it's the most honest thing you know. 

Because maybe they’ve always been true.

“I think about you every day—” He continues, “From the moment I open my eyes to when I put my head back on my pillow. Because I can’t picture a day not spent with you.” Then he smiles, finally standing from where he was kneeling and reaches for you. His hand cups your cheek, brushing away your tears with the pad of his thumb. “Please don’t cry.” 

A wet laugh sounds from your throat and you tip your chin into his touch, closing your eyes. You press a series of kisses to the palm of his hand, relishing in how he makes you feel. How he’s always made you feel. 

You allow yourself a moment to calm down before you give him the very real consequences of a decision like this. Just…just in case he wants to choose a different path, you wouldn’t blame him. 

“My father might disown me if I marry you.” The words come out shameful, a whisper. “I wouldn’t have anything to offer you.” You know that he’s been forced into a role that often falls to women in society—to marry someone with money. In this case you know how important that is, what’s at stake, his home…his mother’s home.

Guy is quiet for a moment before tipping your chin, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. He makes sure his gaze is fully on yours before, “I don’t care—we can build something together. It doesn’t change my question.” 

Drawing in a soft breath, you look at him. Your eyes memorize the handsome lines of his face, crystallizing this moment, because things will not be the same again, “Then ask me.” 

He doesn’t get down on one knee, but he does take your hand, “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” 

Wife—something about that has never felt so right, a small smile pulling at the corners of your mouth as you look at him. Guy, your neighbor, your closest friend, someone you never saw coming but fell in love with all the same. 

The word yes is barely out of your mouth before Guy is kissing you, sliding his mother’s ring into place. 

—

June. 

Your father is not thrilled at the secret proposal but in a surprising turn of events, he does not disown you, either. There’s a conversation he has with you in his study, asking you if you’re happy. You remember how quickly you told him yes, how unequivocally easy it was for you to give that response. He looks into your eyes as you say it, how he weighs that word with precise care, like maybe he’s asked your sister the same thing and has come up with something dishonest. 

“That’s all your mother would want,” He tells you, then a ghost of a smile, “She decided to marry me against her parent’s wishes, you know. And look how well that turned out.” There was a teasing lilt to his voice that made you hug him all the tighter towards the end of that conversation. 

You’re not sure what changed his mind on the matter…but maybe the mention of your mother should be all the answer you need. Things are not altogether settled with your sister either, but…there’s hope that you can eventually help. Cassandra has to want to be happy just as much as you want it for her. 

Walking through Guy’s estate until you find him in the unkempt greenhouse, a small smile tugs the corners of your mouth as you see him perched on the ground above wildflowers. There’s no waistcoat, just a long-sleeved button down rolled up to his elbows. It’s unclear whether he’s trying to plant something or tame weeds when you approach him. 

“Think you’re making it worse.” You tease. 

His entire body relaxes at hearing your voice, turning his head to look up at you. “Quite possibly. I admit I don’t have a green thumb at all.” 

He stands to his full height, waving around a few stems of wilted daisies. Or…at least you think that’s what they are? They’re terribly discolored. Your nose twitches and you take a step back from him, stifling a sneeze into your arm. 

Guy lets out a soft laugh, “Bless you.” He tosses the flowers aside, digging into his pocket for a handkerchief to hand you. “Won’t be using these in the bouquet then.” 

He means for the wedding. Your stomach does a full-bodied swoop, warmth kissing the back of your neck, chest and cheeks. “Well I would hope not,” You sniffle, dabbing your nose with the handkerchief. “They’re wilted.” 

He purses his lips, “Valid point.” He reaches for you, wrapping an arm around your waist and uses his body to back you up a step, “Let's get you out of here before your nose is all red.” He leans down and teasingly kisses the bridge of it. 

You playfully swat his chest, “I don’t mind being in one of your mother’s favorite places.” 

Guy hums thoughtfully, tipping his head back to look at the greenhouse as you both step outside of it. “It was. Other than the walled garden.” 

You smile, pressing yourself up on your toes to steal a soft kiss. It’s a quick thought, but you find yourself saying it anyway, “We should get married here.” 

He pulls back a little, brushing some of your hair aside that’s caught in a breeze. His eyebrows draw together in gentle confusion, “What, here?” 

You nod, “On your estate. I don’t need or want anything fancy.” Your hand rests on his chest, relishing in the strong pattern of his heartbeat beneath your fingers. “I just want you.” 

Guy watches you for a few moments, perhaps to gauge if you’re serious. He then picks up the hand that’s resting on his breastbone, bringing your fingers to his lips to press a series of small kisses there, making you smile. 

“Well there’s no need to worry about that. I would think by now, it’d be fairly obvious.” He murmurs, “I’ve always been yours.”