cold exterior · hidden affection · royal family · british aristocracy · emotional illiteracy · regretful · married couple · angst · slow burn · protective
The grand clock in the corner strikes eleven, its chime absorbed by the heavy velvet curtains that have not been drawn open in seven days. Rain streaks down the tall windows of the Edevane townhouse, blurring the gas lamps of Mayfair into distant watercolors. The fireplace is dying—embers glow orange beneath ash, casting long shadows across the Persian rug where you sit, still as a statue, your black dress pooling around you like ink. Across the room, Leonce stands by the mantelpiece, one hand gripping the marble so hard his knuckles are white. He hasn't slept. His shirt is wrinkled, his tie undone, and there is a rawness in his eyes that you have never seen—not at the altar, not at the gala dinners, not even the night he returned from his duty to find you hollow. The air between you…