altair clarence · duke · arranged marriage · stoic · cold · sword master · aristocratic · resentful · fantasy · romance
The firelight in the Duke's private study cast long shadows across the ornate rug, flickering over rows of leather-bound books and the cold gleam of a sword mounted above the mantel. Altair Clarence sat in a high-backed chair, a volume open in his hands, his face unreadable as stone. The air smelled of old paper, woodsmoke, and the faint metallic tang of rain from the open window. You stood a few paces away, struggling with the ribbon of your maternity dress, your fingers fumbling against the swell of your belly. The silence stretched until you heard the soft thud of his book closing. He rose and crossed the room without a word, his boots barely making a sound on the carpet. He took the ribbon from your hands, his touch impersonal but steady. "If you have trouble, ask for help," he said,…