#guy thwarte

“You mistake the situation,” she insists. “There was no intent to disgrace you.”

“No intent?” Theo echoes, incredulous now. “Then I must wonder what name you would give it, for I find myself at a loss.”

Guy exhales, his patience thinning.

“It was not meant to become what it did,” he says. “You were never meant to see it at all.”

The words land poorly, only sharpening Theo’s expression.

“So the offence lies not in the act itself, but in my having witnessed it?” Theo replies coldly. “How considerate.”

A tense silence follows, thick with everything left unsaid.

“You presume too much,” Nan says, though there is strain beneath her voice now. “You presume intention where there was none.”

“And you presume I am blind,” Theo returns, quieter, but no less cutting. “Or worse, a fool willing to be made one.”

No one speaks for a moment after that.

Theo lets out a slow breath, shaking his head, the disappointment settling more heavily than his anger.

“I would have expected better,” he says at last. “From you both.”

The words linger in the room, heavier than any accusation. And still, no denial comes that can undo what has already been seen.

“I believe I speak for Nan when I say we are terribly grieved to have placed you in such a situation,” Guy says, his words carrying little true sincerity. Beneath the seeming apology there lies a subtle reproach, almost imperceptible yet unmistakable.

“Do you truly think that the greater pain in this matter lies in my being humiliated, and not in the knowledge that two of those I hold in highest esteem would take me for a fool?” Theo asks, his gaze unwavering. The resentment in the Duke’s voice is sharp, edged with hurt.

“I cannot say. It seems to me that the tarnishing of your reputation presents the graver concern here,” Guy replies, his composure effortless, his tone almost teasing. You watch, astonished at the insolence he dares to carry.

Theo’s jaw tightens. “You speak with a confidence that would be admirable were it not so reckless,” he says, his voice low and measured, yet the words sting. “Do you not perceive the gravity of your actions?”

Guy inclines his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I perceive it well enough, and yet I wonder if your own pride does not colour your judgment,” he says, carefully threading defiance and charm in equal measure.

Theo steps closer, the air between them charged with tension. “I should have expected candour from you, yet this; this is insolence wrapped in civility. You would do well to consider what alliances you may imperil with such behaviour,” he warns, each word deliberate, heavy with consequence.

Nan shifts uneasily, but says nothing, leaving the confrontation between the two men to unfold in sharp, unyielding silence.

You sense the unspoken currents, the danger and allure all at once, and cannot help but feel the room tighten around you with the weight of what is at stake.

“I suppose that, though it may be prudent for you to air your grievances, we are all perhaps too swept away by the heat of emotion,” you finally say, stepping deliberately between them, your voice calm but firm, demanding a pause in the rising storm.

“The lady speaks truly,” Nan concedes, her voice carrying a note of relief. “We might conduct a far more profitable discourse should we first allow ourselves a moment to consider our words and deeds.”

“There is nothing to discuss. A betrayal is a betrayal,” Theo replies, his tone measured, yet carrying a weight that silences the room. His eyes are steady, unyielding, and though his voice is calm, there is a chill in the air that speaks of irreparable fracture. “From the moment my fiancée grants another gentleman the liberty to kiss her, nothing remains to be mended.”

He turns first to Nan, and then to Guy, each glance deliberate, each word struck with finality. “Henceforth, both our engagement is dissolved, and our friendship as well.”

A hush falls upon the library, the very air seeming to still in response. Guy’s expression hardens, a flicker of something between indignation and disbelief crossing his features, while Nan’s composure falters, her hands tightening at her sides. You feel the tension wrap itself around you like a physical weight, the room shrinking under the gravity of Theo’s declaration.

“You do not understand the consequences of your own actions,” Theo adds, his voice quiet now, but sharpened with an edge that makes every word land with precision. “One cannot undo what has been witnessed, nor can one unmake the impressions left upon those who have been wronged.”

Guy opens his mouth, as if to speak, but the words falter; he recognizes the immovable certainty in Theo’s eyes. Nan glances at him, a flicker of regret mingling with fear, and even you, standing apart, feel the sting of the moment, knowing that whatever comes next will not be easily reconciled.

“So be it, Your Grace, the Duke of Tintagel,” Guy says, the title falling from his lips with a stiffness that betrays his anger. Whether it is directed at Theo's decision or born from the frustration of being unable to speak plainly of whatever truly exists between him and Nan, you cannot tell.

“Theo, I beg you to think more carefully,” Nan says, her voice softening. “Do not cast aside two relationships that have long been dear to you on account of a single moment.”

For the first time, genuine desperation creeps into her expression. She takes a tentative step towards him. Theo immediately withdraws. The movement is slight, but it strikes with more force than any harsh word could have.

“I have thought carefully,” he replies. “Far more carefully, I suspect, than either of you.”

“Please—”

“No.”

The single word is calm. Calm enough to be alarming. Theo draws a slow breath before continuing.

“You ask me to reflect, yet I have done little else since leaving that garden. I have reflected upon my friendship. Upon my engagement. Upon the regard I bore you both.” His gaze settles on neither of them. “And I find that the more I reflect, the less reason I discover to preserve either.”

Nan's face pales. Guy squares his shoulders, his jaw tightening.

“You are being unreasonable,” he says.

“No, Guy. For once, I believe I am being exceedingly reasonable.”

The words hang heavily between them. Theo turns away then, directing his attention towards the tall windows overlooking the grounds. His hands are clasped behind his back with such force that his knuckles have nearly turned white.

“Leave my house,” he says quietly.

Neither of them moves.

“Leave my house,” he repeats. “And do not permit my eyes to fall upon either of you again.”

The silence that follows is unbearable. You had expected shouting. Anger. Accusations. Instead, Theo's composure makes the entire scene infinitely worse.

He does not rage. He does not plead. He simply sounds like a man mourning something that has already died.

Nan looks at him for a long moment, as though hoping he might turn around, soften, offer some sign that his decision is not final.

He does not. At last, her shoulders slump. Guy's expression darkens, but he says nothing further.

There is nothing left to say. As the reality of the moment settles over the room, an uncomfortable ache forms in your chest.

You know Theo has every right to be wounded. You know Nan and Guy have given him reason to feel betrayed.

And yet, watching him stand there alone, facing the window as though the sight of them has become unbearable, you cannot help but feel sorry for him.

The library suddenly feels far too large. Far too quiet. And somehow, despite there being four people in the room, Theo has never looked more alone.

“If you would go after Guy and settle whatever remains unresolved between you, now would be the proper moment,” Theo murmurs, watching you with a nervous sort of apprehension.

“And leave you alone?” you ask, and then step closer to him, resting your head lightly against his shoulder.

A breath is shared between you, soft and weary.

“Do you think I was too severe with them?” he asks at last, and there is something in his voice that suggests he is close to tears, though he struggles with every ounce of strength to keep himself from breaking apart.

“I think you acted as the pain in your heart commanded you to act,” you answer gently.

Theo says nothing at first. His silence is not empty, but heavy, burdened with all that has been wounded in so short a span of time.

For a moment, he only stands there with you beside him, the weight of the evening pressing down upon him in a manner far crueler than any sharp word could have done. When he finally speaks again, it is in a voice barely above a whisper.

“Then I fear my heart has become a most unkind master.”

You lift your head just enough to look at him, your expression softening.

“No,” you say quietly. “Only a wounded one.”

That seems to touch him more deeply than any argument could have. His eyes close for a brief moment, and when he opens them again, the strain in his face has not vanished, but it has shifted, becoming something more vulnerable and less guarded.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, almost as though he does not know how else to say it.

You remain at his side, neither of you in any haste to move, while the room around you still feels suspended in the aftermath of what has passed.

Before the darkness of night had fully claimed the sky, after comforting Theo, you returned by carriage to your residence. To your surprise, Guy was waiting for you.

“Mr. Thwarte, I do not know to what I owe the honour of your presence, but I am in no temper to receive you this evening,” you say the moment you descend from the carriage.

“I know you must be angry at what you witnessed,” he murmurs, trying to keep you from walking on.

“Stand aside, sir,” you say, attempting to put distance between you, but he takes your arm and draws you to a corner beyond the view of the house entrance.

“Pray, hear me, Y/N,” he says, his face drawn close to yours, unsettling your thoughts and leaving you badly distracted.

“Do not waste your breath on me, Guy,” you remark softly, meeting his gaze with marked severity. “You allowed yourself liberties with me while your heart was fixed upon another.” You press a finger to his chest in open accusation. “And beyond that, you stood by while your best friend came near to marrying the woman for whom you so plainly bear some feeling. There is nothing you can say that shall make your conduct appear justifiable.”

“I have committed an error. I became attached to a young lady who was, later, engaged to my best friend, yes, but I would never have disrespected him or you. What you saw between Nan and me was a mistake,” Guy answers, placing his hands about your face and drawing you nearer to him. “Look me in the eyes and tell me whether I seem to be in love with anyone besides you,” he murmurs.

“I do not know how to read eyes, Guy,” you reply, pushing him back with your hands. “But I do know how to read actions, and seeing you with Nan made me realize that whatever there was between us no longer exists.” Your voice is steady, though your heart hammers so violently in your chest that it feels fit to burst from your throat.

You begin to step away.

“Then let it be known that I shall be here,” Guy calls after you, his voice rising with urgency, “waiting for the day you understand that what I feel for you is far more than any mistake I have ever made.”