#ILL DRAW HIM PROPERLY LATER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

twistedheartsclub · 9 days ago

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Fit To Be Chosen male X Female Reader .4

CW: Grooming, age gap, forced marriage, emotional manipulation, obsessive behavior, psychological distress

The day after the rain and the kiss, the house was still. The sky hung low, heavy with unshed clouds, and the halls of Carroway Manor carried the muted hush of a family trying to pretend nothing had happened.

Y/N sat curled on a chaise near the hearth in the drawing room—her embroidery untouched in her lap, her eyes unfocused on the fire. A book lay beside her unopened. The same passage had haunted her for days: “There is no imprisonment so cruel as that which wears the disguise of affection.”

Isadora entered with a soft knock, hand resting gently on the curve of her five-month belly. Her dress was robin’s egg blue, her posture still elegant despite the new weight. She closed the door behind her, then crossed the room with a knowing look.

“Everyone says you’ve been unwell,” Isadora murmured, sitting beside her. “That you caught something in the rain.”

Y/N offered a small smile. “Perhaps I did. Something I can’t quite name.”

Isadora reached for her hand and held it. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Y/N hesitated, her voice low. “What does one call it, Isa… when the man you are to marry frightens you, but when he looks at you, part of you forgets why you’re angry?”

Isadora didn’t speak at first. Her eyes moved, calculating.

“Fright is not love,” she said gently. “But sometimes… fright disguises itself as fascination. I remember my own wedding night—I didn’t know if I was terrified, or simply unprepared.”

Y/N gave a quiet, bitter laugh. “No, I’m quite prepared. It’s just that—”

Her voice faltered.

“I know what he is, and still I dream of him. Or maybe of the idea of him—what he could be if he weren’t so… so very him.”

She expected Isadora to scold her for such confusion. Instead, her sister-in-law gave her hand a squeeze.

“Then learn him. Know what kind of man he is when he thinks no one is watching.”

Later that day, Y/N arranged to be seen in the library—not reading, not hiding, but present, as though she were merely indulging in thought.

And of course… Hawthorne arrived.

He entered silently, gloved hands folded behind his back, dressed in grey and black as always. He looked less like a man and more like a portrait—tall, still, dangerous.

“I was told you’ve been ill,” he said.

“I was told you kissed me in the rain,” she replied, not looking up.

A long pause followed.

“I had assumed,” he murmured, “that you had recovered your sharp tongue.”

She closed her book. “I’ve recovered something, at least.”

He approached slowly, and she let him. Her fingers twitched in her lap. When he came to stand beside her, his shadow spilled across her like ink.

“You look lovely today,” he said quietly.

“Thank you,” she replied. “I dress well for my captors.”

He chuckled—low and warm, but his eyes flashed with something darker.

“I prefer the term husband.”

“That role requires affection, I believe.”

“Then you must teach me.”

She looked up, startled.

He bent slightly, lowering his voice. “I know I’ve frightened you. I do not apologize for loving you… but I will apologize for forgetting you are not yet mine.”

The word “yet” curled around her spine like a snake.

“I should like to… court you properly,” he added, almost stiffly, as though the phrase pained him. “With your father’s permission, of course. But also yours.”

Her lips parted in confusion. “You’ve already won.”

“I don’t want a victory,” he said. “I want devotion.”

His gaze softened—for a moment. Just long enough to unsettle her.

“Would you walk with me tomorrow?” he asked. “Chaperoned, if you like.”

She nodded slowly, still unsure.

“Good,” he said.

Before he turned to go, he added, “You ask yourself if you could ever love me, I see it in your eyes.”

She blinked.

He smiled faintly. “You will.”

Y/N paced her room after dinner, biting the edge of her thumbnail. On the table lay the two letters he had written her this week—elegant, carefully phrased, too warm to ignore, too sharp to believe.

In one, he’d praised her wit. In another, he’d written: “I think of your lips and wonder if your silence is punishment or invitation.”

She’d hidden that one under her mattress.

She didn’t want him.

But she wanted…

something.

And she would use his want against him.

If she had to survive this—if she had to marry him—she would become what he desired most: the woman he loved, feared, and worshipped.

And then, she would destroy him.

With a soft breath, Y/N whispered aloud into the candlelight: “If you want a willing bride, Your Grace… then let me become one you will regret ever touching.”

The day was soft and grey, as though the sky itself had pressed pause on the season. A low mist clung to the garden hedgerows, the scent of damp lavender rising with every step. Y/N walked with Hawthorne down the graveled path that wound through the orchard, her arm looped through his, gloved hands resting lightly.

She wore pale green muslin, the shade chosen by her mother for its “fresh, feminine delicacy.” Her hair was pinned in soft coils at the nape of her neck, a pearl pin tucked just behind her ear. She looked sweet. Innocent. Composed.

But beneath that, her thoughts twisted like the ivy curling around the trellises nearby.

She smiled when she needed to. Laughed at something he said, just enough to encourage him. He was speaking about land taxes and horses and some pending import laws, but she only half listened. Instead, she studied the way his brow furrowed when he thought, the careful way he avoided stepping too close—until he didn’t.

“Thank you for walking with me,” he said after a silence.

“I should be thanking you,” she replied smoothly. “I was beginning to think I might forget what fresh air feels like.”

His lips twitched at that. “The Carroway house does have a way of… echoing.”

Y/N smiled. “Especially when all five of my siblings are in it at once.”

He chuckled lowly, and she sensed the warmth of approval. She tilted her head just slightly.

“May I ask you something of a personal nature?”

“You may.”

“You spoke of your sister once—Margaretta, was it?”

His step slowed. “Yes.”

“She’s grown, isn’t she? Older than me?”

“Twenty-two.”

Y/N nodded softly. “That’s a fine age. Is she—does she live with you at Raventon?”

“No,” he replied, eyes fixed ahead. “She lives in the north. At our mother’s childhood estate. I visit her when I can.”

Y/N studied his face. Something cold had crept into his tone. The careful mask of control he wore slipped, just for a breath, enough to reveal something more—hurt.

“She must be very dear to you,” she said gently.

“She is,” he said after a pause. “She’s… quiet. Steady. She rides. Reads too much, I’m told by the governesses. Writes letters she never sends.”

“She sounds quite brilliant,” Y/N said with real warmth. “Do you miss her?”

His mouth tightened. “Yes.”

The word was quiet. Raw. It caught her off guard.

Y/N lowered her voice. “I would very much like to meet her.”

His gaze flicked toward her, sharply, almost suspicious.

“Why?”

She smiled gently, a real one this time.

“Because if I am to become a part of your life, it would be my honor to know the woman who already lives in your heart.”

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. His eyes narrowed faintly, as though trying to see through her sweetness. And for the first time since their engagement was announced, he looked… uncertain.

Then: “I shall bring her to town.”

“Would she wish to come?”

“She will,” he said firmly. “She is very proper. She will wish to meet my bride.”

“I think I might like her very much,” Y/N said softly. “I promise to be kind.”

He gave a small nod. “She needs kindness. We both did. Once.”

They came to a stop by the white marble bench under the arch of tangled roses. The chaperone paused behind them, pretending not to listen.

“You’re very different today,” he said.

“Am I?”

“You’re… gentler.”

“I’m trying to be kind, Your Grace. I know how much you value obedience.”

He smiled faintly, his eyes dancing.

“I value sincerity more.”

“Do you?” she asked.

“I do,” he murmured. “Especially from you.”

And for a single breath, she felt that if she said anything—anything—he would believe it. She could craft him into whatever man she needed, and he would bend himself to match.

The power terrified her.

And thrilled her.

They turned to walk back, and his hand brushed hers again—deliberately this time. He didn’t look at her. But she felt the question in his touch.

She let her fingers graze his once… then withdraw.

Let him wonder.

Let him want.

The parlor was bright with filtered afternoon light, the tall lace-curtained windows casting soft shadows across the polished wood floors. Tea had been poured, cakes arranged neatly on porcelain platters, and every chair was filled with a woman of importance in Y/N’s life.

Her sisters reclined gracefully near the hearth, fanning themselves and offering idle observations. A cousin giggled as she tasted a sugared biscuit. Isadora, ever luminous in her condition, sat with a hand on her belly, listening patiently. The air was thick with talk of color schemes, seating arrangements, and—of course—babies.

Y/N stood on a platform before the full-length mirror, arms gently outstretched, while Madame Cheval, one of London’s most feared and famed seamstresses, bustled around her like a storm in silk.

“Still, still,” Madame murmured, frowning as she tugged a swath of embroidered ivory into place. “You twitch, my lady, and the bodice will never lie as it should.”

“I’m trying,” Y/N replied gently, her voice thin.

“Try harder. Your waist refuses to be tamed.”

Another pin. A prick of her ribs. She flinched.

From her chair, her mother sipped tea and dabbed delicately at the corner of her eye with a lace handkerchief. “Oh, do look at her,” she sniffled. “My youngest. My baby bird, nearly a bride.”

Y/N forced a smile, but her lips trembled with effort. Her fingers clutched the folds of the dress beneath the silk overlay, knuckles white.

“She’ll make a fine wife,” one of the older women said, nodding sagely. “Such a gentle face. And quiet—that’s the mark of a good girl.”

“She’s always been obedient,” her mother added with watery pride. “Even as a child, never caused a fuss. Unlike the others.”

The others—her sisters—laughed politely at the jest.

Y/N wanted to scream.

“She’ll give him children by spring,” someone mused.

“Hopefully boys,” another added.

Isadora looked up from her tea and caught Y/N’s eyes. Her smile was soft, but her gaze sharp with understanding.

“She’ll make a fine mother,” Isadora said, but her tone was lower. More measured. “When she’s ready.”

Her mother dabbed again. “You know, I used to dream of this day. I always said—‘my little dove will fly straight into the arms of a great man.’ And now—oh, I hardly dare believe it—The Duke of Raventon! Hawthorne Vale! A man of honor. Position. And he so clearly adores her.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed. Whether from shame or heat or fear, she could not say.

She stared at her reflection, the dress still unfinished but already suffocating. Layers of satin and embroidered tulle clung to her like a cage of beauty.

A veil of pearls had been discussed.

A train long enough to fill a ballroom.

She felt as though she were being costumed for her own execution.

Her mother stood and came closer, laying a trembling hand on her shoulder. “You look beautiful, darling. Just like I dreamed. Like your sister did, like I did. Every girl dreams of this day.”

But Y/N wasn’t dreaming.

She was awake, painfully so.

Madame Cheval stepped back, admiring her own work. “He will be pleased,” she said simply.

And with that, the room filled with laughter again. Tea was poured. A name card was discussed. The organist had been secured. The bishop would officiate.

The date had been set.

Two weeks.

Fourteen days.

And then Y/N would be his.

She stood, still half-pinned into the gown, and tried not to cry.

Tried not to scream.

Tried not to run.

Because to do so would be to disappoint them. All of them. The mother who cried. The sisters who laughed. The friends who smiled and envied.

But most of all…

It would mean disappointing the man who had already taken so much—and would now take everything.

The morning passed quietly, sunlight breaking through the last of the grey clouds, casting pale golden beams through the east-facing windows of the breakfast room. Y/N had taken her tea alone, choosing to remain quiet even as her mother chattered about napkin colors and flower garlands.

She’d just risen to take her usual walk—intending to escape the planning and ceremony talk—when a knock at the door interrupted her exit.

A footman approached, clearing his throat politely. “A letter, my lady. Delivered by hand. The seal bears the Raventon crest.”

Y/N’s breath caught for reasons she could not explain.

She took it delicately, breaking the wax with her thumb. Her eyes scanned the fine, looping script.

Dearest Lady Y/N,

I am most honored to have received your kind invitation, and I must say I am quite excited to meet the lady who has so thoroughly captured my brother’s usually impenetrable attention. I’ve heard much about you already—your kindness, your spirit, your poise.

I shall be arriving to town on the morrow and would be greatly pleased to make your acquaintance properly.

Yours sincerely, Margaretta Vale

Y/N read the words twice. Then once more.

She wasn’t sure what stirred within her—relief? Curiosity? A strange sense of gratitude?

She tucked the letter inside her book, laced her gloves, and made her way to town.

The square was buzzing with the usual market day chatter—bakers with soft loaves beneath linen cloth, children darting through with sticky fingers and wild grins, vendors calling their wares. At the fountain in the center, where ivy crept up the stone and the water sparkled bright under the sun, Y/N’s friends awaited.

“Lady Y/N!” one of them called, waving.

Y/N joined them, threading her arms into theirs as they took their usual place seated along the edge of the basin, where the low splash of water dulled the noise around them.

“You’re glowing today,” said Anne, the sharper of the two, fanning herself lazily. “Is it wedding joy at last, or are you hiding something delicious?”

Y/N smiled, coy but genuine. “Neither. Though I did receive a letter this morning.”

“From him?” they asked in unison.

“No.” She laughed, pulling it from her book. “From his sister. Margaretta.”

“Oh!” Clara’s eyes widened. “The mysterious one? The one tucked away in the north? Is it true she’s never even been presented?”

“She’s twenty-two,” Y/N said, “and already more dignified than most of us will ever be. She’s arriving tomorrow.”

“Did you invite her?” Anne asked.

“I did. I thought… if I’m to marry into his family, I should know the ones he loves.”

The girls shared a look—Clara more approving, Anne more intrigued.

“You’re playing the part well,” Anne said with a sly grin. “You may win this game yet.”

Y/N glanced down at the water, letting her smile fade just enough.

“Or lose it beautifully,” she murmured.

The conversation drifted for a while—mention of dresses and how someone’s cousin had been spotted riding with a footman—but then Clara nudged Y/N sharply with her elbow.

“Are we not going to speak of the kiss?”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

Anne’s eyes narrowed like a cat’s. “The kiss. In the rain. The one you refused to write about in your last letter.”

“Oh,” Y/N exhaled, heat rising to her cheeks.

Clara clapped. “There was a kiss!”

“I—” Y/N began, flustered, glancing around. “Not here—”

“Oh, absolutely here,” Anne grinned. “We’re by a fountain. The gods demand romance.”

“It wasn’t…” Y/N trailed off, eyes lowering. “It wasn’t supposed to happen. He found me. I’d run off. I—I was upset, and he appeared, and—”

“And?” Clara prompted breathlessly.

“It was raining,” she admitted, brushing her fingers along the stone edge. “I was soaked and furious and crying. And he was angry too. He shouted at me for being foolish. And then…”

“Then he kissed you,” Anne finished. “Like some dreadful gothic novel.”

Y/N let out a helpless laugh, cheeks burning. “Yes.”

Clara squealed, clutching her arm. “And?”

“And what?” Y/N groaned.

“Was it awful?”

Y/N paused. Her voice softened.

“It was... wrong. And terrifying. And yet... I haven’t stopped thinking about it.”

Her friends were silent for a moment, watching her carefully.

Anne’s smile faded just a touch. “Be careful, Y/N.”

“I know.”

Clara linked arms with her again. “Well, if you must marry a brooding duke, at least let him be a good kisser.”

Y/N chuckled, but her heart beat wildly in her chest. Because yes—he had been. And she hated herself for remembering the taste of rain and the heat of his hands on her waist.

But tomorrow she would meet Margaretta.

And perhaps—perhaps—the girl he loved could teach her something about surviving a man like Hawthorne Vale.

When Y/N mentioned to her mother that the Duke’s sister would be arriving within the day, the older woman paused mid-sip of her morning tea, her brows lifting.

“Margaretta Vale?” she asked, voice light but eyes sharp.

“Yes,” Y/N replied. “She’s written me. I thought it proper we become acquainted.”

Her mother smiled, but Y/N saw the way her gaze flicked toward the hallway—calculating.

“A Vale girl, hm?” she said. “Well. If she is anything like her brother, she’ll be most difficult to impress—but I do wonder…” Her voice lowered thoughtfully. “Your brother, William, has been dreadfully unattached for far too long. Perhaps—”

“No,” Y/N said at once, too quickly. “No matchmaking. Please.”

Her mother gave a mild, amused laugh. “Don’t be dramatic, darling. If the Duke is to be your husband, it is only natural to think of… alliances.”

Y/N said nothing more. But she felt the familiar tightness in her throat that came whenever her life was bartered in the name of family duty.

That night, she went to bed early—her body sore from another dress fitting, her spirit wearied from too many voices calling her lovely, obedient, ready.

By noon the next day, a dark carriage with the Raventon crest arrived at her family’s estate. A footman assisted her in, and she rode in silence through the quiet, fog-laced countryside.

The Duke’s home was larger than she remembered, more severe than beautiful. Its stone arches and ivy-strangled walls seemed to watch her approach like a quiet sentinel. Yet, as the doors were opened and she stepped inside—

Warmth.

A light, unfiltered and honest.

“Lady Y/N!” came a voice from the marble steps.

And there she was.

Margaretta Vale.

The woman who descended the stair was tall, slender, and radiant in the most unexpected way. Her hair was the same shade as Hawthorne’s, dark as black ink, but her eyes were soft blue, like periwinkle petals caught in a breeze. She wore a gown of deep wine red and smiled with such open affection that Y/N felt her shoulders loosen at once.

“I’ve been waiting eagerly,” Margaretta said, offering both hands. “You’re even lovelier than I imagined.”

Y/N flushed and curtsied. “You’re too kind. I—I’ve been quite looking forward to meeting you.”

“You must be famished. I had Cook prepare something. You’ll forgive me for not waiting for my brother. He’s out riding. He’ll likely sulk when he hears he missed your arrival.”

Y/N smiled at that, surprised by the gentle teasing in her tone.

Margaretta led her through the sunlit halls, past elegant tapestries and somber portraits. The home still held its gothic edges, but it felt... softened now.

They entered a sitting room dressed in muted pastels, the windows open to a blooming garden, and a late luncheon spread laid delicately across the table—roast pheasant, fresh berries, soft bread still warm.

As they ate, the girls spoke easily. Y/N found herself laughing—laughing—at stories of misbehaved ponies and a governess who fainted at the sight of a snake. For the first time in what felt like months, she was at ease.

Until, over dessert, the tone shifted.

“I used to hide in that window seat,” Margaretta said quietly, nodding toward the curved alcove behind them. “When I was little. When Father was in one of his... moods.”

Y/N’s fork slowed. She looked at her new companion—Margaretta’s smile had faltered.

“He was not a kind man,” she said after a moment. “Especially not to Hawthorne.”

Y/N reached out without thinking, laying her hand atop Margaretta’s.

The woman looked down at the touch—and tears trembled in her lashes.

“I remember once,” she said, voice low, “when I was seven, he struck me for dropping a glass. My brother—he was sixteen, I think—he stepped in front of me. Took the rest. Without flinching.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

“He told me after,” Margaretta whispered, “that some men are born with fists instead of hearts. And that he would never become one of them.”

Her voice cracked.

And then, as though realizing too much had been said, Margaretta pulled her hand away gently and sat back. Her posture straightened. Her tone lightened.

“But it’s all quite behind us now. He... he tries his best. I know he can be cold, but he loves fiercely.”

Y/N nodded slowly. “Yes,” she murmured. “I can see that.”

“I know he frightens you,” Margaretta added, almost too quietly. “But he has been alone for so long. He does not know how to be anything but... relentless.”

Y/N swallowed hard.

They sat in silence for a few beats, the only sound the chirping birds from the open window.

Then Margaretta smiled again, this time with a practiced grace. “Come. Let me show you the garden. The white roses are blooming early this year.”

Y/N stood, following.

And though her hand still tingled where Margaretta’s had clutched it, her mind was full of something else:

A boy, just sixteen, shielding his sister with his back.

And the man that boy had become—

A man she could neither love nor forgive…

But perhaps, for a moment, she could begin to understand.

The garden had taken on the golden hue of late afternoon, the light softening as it danced through the boughs of wisteria and warm ivy. The air was fragrant with roses and sweet alyssum, and laughter floated like songbirds between the hedges.

Y/N had not laughed so freely in weeks.

She sat beside Margaretta on a stone bench near the flowering trellis, her bonnet long forgotten, her gloves tucked neatly in her lap. Margaretta had just mimicked a bishop’s pompous toast from some dreadful supper, and Y/N was breathless with laughter, wiping the corner of her eye.

“You’ll have to stop,” she gasped. “You’ll make me utterly unpresentable—”

“Nonsense,�� Margaretta teased. “Your cheeks are lovely with color. My brother’s stone heart may even crack at the sight.”

“Doubtful,” Y/N murmured, smiling despite herself.

They were still giggling when the voice came from behind them.

“I had not realized I was being so thoroughly mocked.”

Y/N’s head turned, and she rose instinctively, smoothing her skirts. There he stood: Hawthorne Vale, the Duke of Raventon, framed by the low arch of vine and light.

He looked like something carved from shadow and sunlight. His dark riding coat, brushed with flecks of trail dust, made the ivory of his shirt even whiter; his collar unfastened at the throat gave him a touch too much ease for a nobleman. But his eyes—grey like a storm preparing—were fixed on her alone.

Margaretta stood as well, a touch sheepish. “You’re back sooner than I thought.”

“I rode quickly,” Hawthorne said, his gaze still not breaking from Y/N. “I was… eager to return.”

Margaretta’s eyes sparkled, but she said nothing. “Well, I shall let you two walk. The white roses won’t stop blooming without me.”

She excused herself with the grace of a duchess, slipping down the path and disappearing behind a veil of lilacs.

And then they were alone.

The breeze shifted. Y/N pressed her hands together, aware—too aware—of the heat in her face.

Hawthorne stepped forward, his voice lower now. “You look happy.”

“I was,” she answered, too honestly.

He smiled faintly. “That was unkind.”

Y/N blushed. “Forgive me. I only meant…”

“That I darken your joy?” he supplied smoothly. “You’ve made that clear before.”

She faltered. “That’s not what I meant.”

His eyes softened, but only slightly. He walked past her, toward the nearest patch of blooming roses, and brushed a thumb gently over one of the petals.

“You and Margaretta seem well-matched,” he said, turning back. “She’s rarely so cheerful. I thank you for that.”

“She’s… wonderful,” Y/N said, stepping nearer. “Not like you at all.”

He tilted his head. “No?”

“No,” she whispered. “She’s… warm.”

His mouth curved. “And I am not?”

“You’re...” Y/N hesitated. “Something else entirely.”

There was a pause. A long one.

He stepped forward—slowly, deliberately—and reached for her hand. She did not pull away. His touch was careful, fingers warm and strong as they closed around hers.

“I very much wish to kiss you in this very moment,” Hawthorne said, voice hushed, dangerous in how sincere it sounded. “May I?”

Y/N’s breath caught. Her body, traitorous and trembling, tilted slightly toward him.

She was supposed to hate him.

She was supposed to ruin him.

She was supposed to lie, manipulate, and win.

And yet—

Her lips parted. Her gaze fell to his mouth. Her hand did not move from his.

But then—

She pulled back, only a fraction, but enough.

“No,” she said. “Not today.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then—

“Very well.”

He lifted her hand instead, turned it gently in his, and kissed her knuckles.

The touch burned.

He looked up at her as he held it there, his eyes unreadable.

“I am a patient man, my lady. But not forever.”

And with that, he released her hand and turned, beginning the walk back toward the house without another word.

Y/N stared at her palm like it had been branded.

Her heart raced—not from fear. Or not only from fear.

There would be no undoing this.

And now—she feared—there would be no turning back.

The sun filtered softly through the tall windows of the east tea room, catching the delicate gold filigree on the porcelain cups and dancing across the fine cream linen set out for the afternoon. The gentle clink of silver spoons echoed faintly beneath the whisper of lace-curtained breezes, and the scent of early roses from the garden drifted in like a silent invitation to forget all troubles.

Y/N sat on the settee nearest the window, her book propped lazily in her lap, though her eyes had not moved across the page in several minutes.

“Lady Whistledown would call me flighty,” she muttered beneath her breath.

A sigh escaped her lips as she leaned her head against the window frame. The silk of her morning gown creased softly beneath her arms, and the light warmed the side of her face. She blinked at the words on the page: “He leaned in, voice thick with longing...” and promptly snapped the book shut.

Her fingers twitched against the worn cover.

It had been two days since she last saw him.

Two days since Hawthorne Vale, the Duke of Raventon, had kissed the back of her hand like it belonged to him. Since he had told her plainly—without hesitation—that he wanted to kiss her. As though such things were so simple. As though the ache in her chest was a natural reaction.

She hated that he was handsome.

She hated more that he knew it.

And she hated—most of all—that she now waited for the next letter as though it were a balm to some part of her she had never noticed was sore.

“Distracted again,” came a voice.

Y/N turned and saw her mother sweeping into the room, her rings clinking lightly against the arm of the nearest chair.

“I’ve had the cook begin preparing duck confit for tomorrow,” she announced with a small clap of satisfaction. “We shall serve lavender cakes and lemon cordial after, of course. You’ve done well to invite her, my dear. A proper friendship with Lady Margaretta will secure your place quite comfortably.”

“I didn’t invite her to be strategic,” Y/N said, though her voice lacked force.

“No,” her mother agreed, taking a sip of her tea, “but strategy never hurts.”

Y/N offered a tight smile and excused herself not long after, her book still clutched to her chest.

Upstairs in her room, she stood by the writing desk where a small vase of violets had been set beside the Duke’s last letter.

She hadn’t reread it since that night.

She wouldn’t.

Her thoughts turned instead to tomorrow—lunch with Margaretta, polite conversation, tea and laughter—and maybe, just maybe, a moment alone where she could ask what she truly wanted to know:

Why does he look at me like that? Why me, out of every woman he could have?

She had wanted to forget him today.

But the scent of tea roses… the feel of sunlight on her wrist… even the page in her romance novel—all of it brought his voice back. That deep, patient voice that lived somewhere behind her ears now. That voice that said:

“I am a patient man, my lady. But not forever.”

Y/N pressed her hand to her chest, furious that her heart betrayed her with every beat.

Laughter echoed lightly across the terrace where the young women had settled after luncheon. A linen parasol cast cool shade upon them, and the lingering scent of thyme-roasted duck mingled with the breeze. Birds chattered in the hedges, and the distant sound of the estate fountain murmured like a secret too shy to speak aloud.

Margaretta reclined with languid grace on a tufted settee, her fingers idly twirling a fan, though the day was not warm enough to require it. Y/N sat opposite her, cross-legged on a soft cushion, a half-eaten lavender cake on her plate and pink in her cheeks from wine and conversation.

“I used to imagine,” Y/N was saying, “that I’d go to the continent. Italy, perhaps. Or France. I would take my sister and we would wear dark veils and pretend to be widows with a dark past. The sort of women men fear and envy.”

Margaretta laughed—genuinely and richly. “Scandalous!”

“Oh, terribly so,” Y/N grinned. “We’d take lovers and then send them away with only poetry and a single glove.”

Margaretta waved her fan. “And your family would perish of shame.”

“One could only hope,” Y/N said dryly, sipping her cordial.

But the humor ebbed when Margaretta’s fan fell still in her lap.

Her smile remained, but it turned pensive, folded in thought. She looked out toward the garden hedges, where a cluster of roses leaned heavy with bloom.

“I must tell you something,” Margaretta said at last.

Y/N straightened slightly. “Of course.”

“My brother…” Margaretta hesitated, then met her eyes. “Hawthorne. I believe he truly loves you.”

Y/N stilled. The breeze tickled her curls, but she didn’t move.

“I—” she began, but Margaretta raised a hand.

“I know what you wish to say,” the duke’s sister continued. “You feel coerced. Trapped. And perhaps, yes, you are. But not by love. Not even by Hawthorne. We are trapped by birth. By duty. You and I… we are daughters, not heirs. Pretty baubles meant to be placed beside men who carry swords or titles.”

“That doesn’t make it right,” Y/N said, voice tight. “He—he touches me like I belong to him. He kisses me without asking, speaks as though I’ve already said yes. I’m not his.”

“No, darling,” Margaretta said gently. “You are his obsession. That is… worse.”

Y/N flinched. Her mouth opened to protest—but she found none worthy.

“You don’t have to excuse him,” Margaretta added quickly. “But you do have to understand him. He has only ever loved once before. And she married another. He lost her, and I fear… he swore never to lose again.”

Y/N looked away. “It’s not my burden.”

“No,” Margaretta said, quietly. “But it has become your future.”

Silence stretched long between them, until the weight of it nearly drove Y/N to tears.

“I don’t even get to choose,” she whispered.

“No woman does,” Margaretta said with sudden fierceness. “Choice is a myth we tell ourselves to sleep at night. My brother speaks of ‘letting’ me marry, as though my life belongs on a ledger. I am two-and-twenty, and I’ve never spent a night beyond walls without permission. My freedom is a fantasy stitched between embroidery hoops.”

Y/N looked at her then—really looked—and saw not a noblewoman, not a duke’s sister, but a girl not so different from herself. Caged. Clever. Bitter with sweetness.

“I shall convince him,” Y/N said suddenly. “You’ll come live with us. Once we are married, I’ll insist upon it.”

Margaretta blinked. “Truly?”

“You shall live freely in my house. We will read every forbidden book and drink French wine and write ghastly poetry.”

A smile bloomed on Margaretta’s face—one of hope, fragile and fluttering.

“And you,” Y/N added, reaching across the tea tray, “will give me your wisdom. I’ll need it.”

Margaretta took her hand, squeezing tightly. “Then I’ll give it freely. And should you ever wish to poison my brother, I know several apothecaries in Bath who will not ask questions.”

Y/N burst into a surprised laugh.

But as the laughter faded, both girls sat still, hands joined, a silent pact forged beneath the soft light of a sun that had never once asked them what they wanted.

The week of the wedding dawned with clear skies and frantic hearts.

The manor was alive with the rustle of silks and the clatter of polished shoes across marble floors. Servants moved like whispers down the corridors, their arms full of linens, glassware, ribbons, and flowers. Musicians were booked, carriages confirmed, menus finalized. And amid it all, Lady Vale—Y/N’s mother—was a storm of lace, pins, and pressed lips.

“Do not forget to have the parlour curtains pressed,” she snapped at a maid. “And see that the lemon tarts are made without the cursed rosemary this time—I shan’t have guests thinking us provincial.”

She turned to her youngest daughter, her eyes bright with the kind of tearful urgency only mothers possess when they are sending a child away.

“You’re to be a duchess,” she said for the fourth time that morning. “You must stand tall. Smile graciously. Be still when spoken to, and pleasant when silent. There is no greater joy for a woman than to be chosen.”

Y/N merely nodded, her fingers twisted in the folds of her skirt. Her engagement ring felt cold on her hand.

She was tired.

Not the sort of tired that sleep could cure, but a bone-deep weariness from pretending. She smiled when required, agreed when spoken to, sat politely while women discussed her future as though it were embroidery thread being passed around.

Every evening, she was fitted—again and again—into her gown. The finest French seamstress her mother could afford had arrived the week prior, and now her fingers were like claws, always tugging at fabric, measuring, shaping Y/N into someone worthy of display.

"You have such a delicate frame," the woman would mutter with a pin in her teeth. "You'll float, not walk."

But Y/N did not wish to float. She did not wish to be graceful or demure. She wished to run—barefoot through mud, if it would keep her free.

Hawthorne had written her three letters since the last time they spoke. All handwritten. Each sealed with his crest and his strange, steady affection. The first spoke of a garden he hoped to build in her honor. The second of a painting he’d once seen that reminded him of her smile. The third… the third she had not finished. It sat unopened beneath her pillow.

He had visited the estate only once that week—to speak with her father in the study. Y/N had watched from the top of the stair, clutching the rail like a lifeline as their voices hummed below. When he left, she did not go to him. And he did not call her down.

Her heart should’ve leapt to see him.

But instead… it had clenched.

On Thursday morning, three days before the wedding, Y/N stood in her chamber window with a cup of tea gone cold in her hands. The bustle of carriages arriving outside meant guests had begun to trickle in. She could hear Isadora in the next room, laughing softly with a cousin. Her sisters had taken to practicing their curtsies in the mirror. Even Margaretta was set to arrive later that afternoon.

And still, Y/N felt hollow.

She tried to be happy.

She reminded herself of the good: he had been respectful—lately. His sister adored her. He was well-read, generous, and above all… consistent.

But joy did not come.

As she stared out at the budding fields beyond the garden, she whispered aloud—

“Why do I feel like I’m burying myself instead of marrying?”

She didn’t cry. She was past crying. There was only stillness now. A soft, aching quiet.

The wedding was in three days.

And all she could think of was whether she’d ever feel like herself again.

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#yandere #fantasy #age g4p #power dynamics #dark fantasy #dark romance #1800s #bridgerton #twistedheartsclub

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