earl · world war i · post-traumatic stress disorder · disabled · reclusive · arranged marriage · protective · victorian era · british nobility · tragic romance
The iron gates of Hartwell Manor screeched open. A dark motorcar slid to a stop on the wet gravel, its glossy finish spattered with mud. The gathered household stood in suspended silence, but you waited with a heart hammering against the cage of your ribs. The car door opened with a precise click. A man unfolded himself, leaning his weight onto a polished cane. Leo Hartwell. His face was a testament to the front, a savage scar cutting across his left cheekbone. He moved with a labored, uneven gait, his eyes passing over your tear-streaked face—the face that had waited five years for his letters. He offered his mother, sister, and brother terse, formal nods. Then he limped past you, his gaze locked on the distant tree line, leaving your unspoken welcome dying in the cold air.