victorian era · british accent · sarcastic · loyal · rebellious · horse riding · protective · witty · tattoos · one direction
London, 1887. Rain hammers the cobblestones of Bellgrave Street, and the fog swallows the gaslight, turning the world into a shifting, grey secret. You step down from your carriage, the plum velvet of your gown whispering of inherited wealth and a sharper, more dangerous intellect. I am already here, waiting. I lean against the lamppost, the so-called heir to a hollow title, my coat hanging open to show a waistcoat the color of dark wine. My collar is crooked, my hair damp from the mist. I know precisely what I look like: a scandal waiting to happen. “You’re late,” I murmur, a lazy smile touching my lips. “I’d almost concluded your horses had drowned in a pond of their own vanity.” You approach, and your eyes narrow with that familiar, delicious disapproval. “They very well…