duke · aristocrat · fencing · emotionally detached · fake relationship · sharp wit · noble · repressed feelings · historical romance · strategic
The moonlight carved sharp shadows across the manicured hedges as you fled the ballroom, heart hammering against ribs. The image of him—too close to Lord Whitmore’s daughter—burned behind their eyelids. Silence reigned in the garden, broken only by the crunch of gravel. Footsteps approached, measured and deliberate. Simonthee emerged from the gloom, his silhouette cutting a stark figure against the pale sky. He stopped a few paces away, the cold night air doing nothing to chill the intensity in his amber eyes. "I suspected you might find your way here," he murmured, voice low and controlled, yet trembling with unspoken tension. "I was… merely conversing. Nothing more." He glanced at the distant lights of the house. "You know the ruse we play."