#royal harry styles

[jarofstyles]

prince harry and common girl lover (best friends since childhood) + “we can’t keep hiding like this”

OH YES!!!! A bit of forbidden love.

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The wind billowed the edge of the blanket they laid on, hiding underneath the willow tree as the sun got a bit lower in the sky. Being wrapped in Harry's arms was the most safe she ever felt, despite the fact it was the most dangerous place to be. His heart thumped steadily against her cheek, fingers running over the opposite as she felt his eyes burning a hole into her.

"We can't keep hiding like this." His voice rasped, lips turned downward. "I can't handle it anymore, Petal. I've been trying to find ways to be alright with hiding how much of my heart that you own but I keep hitting a wall. I believe it's because something is telling me I shouldn't hide you." He gently ran his knuckle over the bridge of her nose. "I want to tell them. Everyone."

Y/N's eyes burned as she closed them, trying to control the shaky exhale she released. It didn't work. She knew he was an optimist, her beautiful sunshine prince, but he had too much to lose. She couldn't be selfish with him, not when the entire kingdom would rely on him one day. "You know we shouldn't, Harry. You've been promised to someone else since the day you were noticed in your mother's belly." It was hard to control her voice, the weakness of it giving it away to Harry that she was struggling.

Nudging her up, he cupped the side of her face and thumbed over the high round of her cheek. Eyes scanned her face, taking in her slightly wobbly bottom lip and the glaze over her eyes that wrecked him. It shouldn't be this difficult. He shouldn't have to hide the person he loved with his entire being, so much so that she consumed him. He knew his mother would understand, but his father would be resistant. He would tell him that a future king had to make decisions they didn't like, and he would need to abide by the arrangement.

"I want to marry you, Petal." He whispered, connecting their lips at the end of the word. It was a pained kiss, one he was trying to melt into softness. Take away the brittle edges and file them down smoothly, let her feel the way he did. His sweet girl was so afraid, so nervous of what would become of them but Harry couldn't fathom a world without her at his side. "I want you to lay next to me at night, I want your hand in mine, your lips to only ever feel the shape of my own. I crave you every single second you are away from me. Don't you understand? How I yearn for you, I ache. Not just to be inside of you, but to be with you. To listen to your breaths as you sleep, just knowing that you're there." He swallowed thickly, nudging his nose against her own and took another kiss. Harder this time, a harsh breath leaving his nose as he pulled her, moving her dress so she could straddle his lap.

"My love, my sweet, my Petal. Please... allow me to take the risk." He pleaded. "Allow me to tell them of us, let me take the punishments if need be. I will do anything for you." His words were whimpered as he pressed frantic kisses to her lips, her cheeks, her forehead. "I feel like I'm going insane. As the day of the engagement party grows closer, I feel the walls of the castle getting smaller. I feel suffocated. The only time I can breathe is with you." His hands clutched her close, almost as if to prevent her from slipping through his fingers.

"Oh, Harry." She whispered sadly, watching his eyes water. It was unlike him, her sunshine prince. He was so bright, so warm. To see the storm clouds settle over the sun was alarming and she hated the sight. It wasn't right. "Do you think I don't feel the same? That I'm not physically ill at the idea of you bedding someone other than me, even if it is only to provide an heir? Do you think I don't cry in my bed after I leave the sparkling stars and you, wishing I could crawl back to you? But I feel so selfish." She pecked his nose, letting their foreheads rest together. "So, so selfish. What if they strip your title? What if they banish you? What if it's forced regardless and there's a rift between you and your family? I cannot bear the idea of ruining your life. I can't take the sunshine away from you."

The world was quiet. The birds chirped and the branches moved, leaves rustling in the wind, but the only sound they could hear was each others breaths and their own heartbeats in their ears.

"I would let them." He whispered after a moment. "I would let them take it all away from me before I let them take you. I don't think you grasp how much you mean to me. You are my heart." His eyes burned as he looked at her. "I would run with you, I would find us somewhere and build a life with you. Nothing else matters more than you." He sniffled, pressing his lips back against her and laying repetitive kisses to her lips. It was hard to convey just how much he truly loved her. How she had his heart in her hands and his should wrapped around her finger.

"Harry..." She laughed through a tear, looking down at the hand holding her waist tight. "I hope you know I feel the same for you. You're what I need." Her fingers brushed the hair that had fallen into his face, the soft curls unfairly highlighted caramel in the sunlight that bled through the leaves. He was inhumanly handsome. "I'm afraid for you."

"I'm afraid for myself if I don't admit my love for you. I can't be trapped in a loveless marriage when I have a love. The greatest lover there is. I want children with you, I want you by my side. Whether I'm king or not, having you would be my biggest accomplishment." He meant every word. Every beat of his heart belonged to her. "I'm going to tell them. I'm going to make you my wife, regardless of the cost. All I'll ever need is you."

[eveningepiphany]

insatiable | H.S series, part I

eveningepiphany’s 1k special <3

summary: harry is a prince, natalia is a spy for his court. both of them can’t stand one another, but natalia having to take any direct information she learns about the attempt on his life directly to him seems to put the pair in an interesting dynamic.

SERIES warnings: darker topics, murder, death, cults, alcohol, smut, violence, royal au! harry, fem!oc, fantasy and swearing.

a/n: this is something I’ve wanted to write for a long time now. I love reading fantasy, and I think it would be fun to kind of test the waters in writing a proper series myself.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

A part of me wishes it was nothing like this.

That I didn’t live in a world where everyone was out to deceive you.

But that’s exactly what you get in Carthion. I’d say it’s all you ever get, but maybe that’s just my outlook on it.

Especially when you consider I’m no better than the rest of them.

You see, when you grow up with parents who did the worst things just to get by, you’re conditioned to it. The expectation that everyone is out to get you.

And of course, the things they did weren’t just steal some bread and fruit from the night market to get a feed, or maybe pickpocket a passerby or two bad. The kind of stuff that would have you killed if it was unearthed.

But how I grew up is realistically how I got here.

I’ve been a spy— which is really just a justified way of saying I’m a deceitful murderer— “professionally” for only three years now.

But I’d been really doing it since I was 13. Sounds young, I know. It was young.

The thing was, I was small, smaller than my dad. I could squeeze into little places, move faster, quieter.

And who would suspect a 13 year old to be the one who’d shot a gang leader in an alleyway.

Not a soul apparently.

My father accompanied me on these little “missions” for the first, maybe, forty times? Until little by little he stopped.

He’d just tell me quietly what I needed to do in the dark of our small kitchen. And I’d be off.

Previously, my mother did a similar business. But she broke her leg on an outing when I was around 9. It left her much less physically able then she used to be, leaving her to stay home with me and my elder brother, Theodore. Making small knit items and pottery to sell at the markets— while dad was out.

I’d often catch myself falling into a daydream of where I’d be if I didn’t have the upbringing that I did. If I’d be a married woman yet, or maybe a guard for one of the royal courts if I had the same amount of drive.

But all of that is rather a waste of time, i reason with myself often. I’m busy enough as it is. And it’s about to get a whole lot more hectic.

I’m not conditioned to walk in heeled shoes. Nor am I proper enough to be in the dress that’s currently hugging my frame.

But when business with Royals arises, it’s what I can only assume is a must.

The guard, who bought me in is a few steps infront of me— awful move if I was an intruder— seems to know exactly where he’s taking me.

The corridors are lined with the families crest, large cream pillars with golden accents.

A single brick from this place is probably worth more than my life.

We’d been twisting and turning through the corridors until suddenly I’m greeted with large double doors, ones that would tower above any regularly sized one..

Another 2 burly men are positioned outside of them, gesturing a quick nod to whoever led me here.

A curt knock and a few beats of silence pass. I feel a little sick, I can’t lie.

A posh feminine voice sounds on the other side of the doors, undoubtedly Queen Annabelle herself.

“Come in!”

The doors get swung open, and I’m surprised to see that at first glance, this room is only a business or lounge room. It’s large enough to be a dining hall.

My gaze snaps back over to her as she begins to greet me, something I probably should’ve done first instead of marvelling at the room were standing in.

“Natalia, dear, hello.” My eyes switch between her and her unexpected guest, who— if this room weren’t so large— is tall enough he would’ve been the first thing I seen upon entering.

I’m positive it’s her son. The Prince.

Im unsure what exactly to say even though I practiced this in my head a million times.

I drop into a quick curtesy, “Hello, Your highness.”

I falter momentarily, hesitating to greet the Prince as well.

A extend my greeting to him, after a quiet intake of breath, “and to you too, Prince Harry.”

He has a scowl on his face, hardly giving me a me nod of his head.

I’ve only ever worked with people of a medium prestige. And only ever to silently cover up their dirty work. But I’m hardly surprised to see his distaste towards me.

If I am a minor disgust to the higher class, to the royals like Prince Harry, I must be the equivalent of skum on freshly polished shoes.

“Please, come sit with us. We have much to discuss.” She strides across the room, flowing ivory dress complimenting the green rug that takes up a large chunk of the floor.

She takes to a chair at the head of the table, it’s like a mock-throne, green fabric and deep wooden accents around its frame and arms.

The Prince reluctantly seats in the chair first to her right.

Despite the fact I’ve been allowed in this room, I feel terribly out of place.

I carefully take the chair thats two down from the queen, folding my hands neatly atop the rich wooden table which has a map in the centre of it.

I almost let out a sigh of gratefulness as Queen Annabelle begins talking, and isn’t expecting me to begin.

“Alright. You know the parameters in which you are here in, yes?” She raises her sharp brows.

“I do, for the most part. From the letters I’d received. I’m aware of what business you want me for.”

The Prince scoffs at the word business, and the Queen shoots him a glare.

“There are obviously some details left out. We need to smooth those out, before you can make your pledges.”

I nod, but sense that she’s not done talking.

“You acknowledge that this is going ahead yes? All that is left to do is get it in motion.”

“I do. I have a few questions regarding this job, but they can be covered at a later time if you’d like.” I try to keep my tone steady, formal.

I’m satisfied in her reaction to my words. She wasn’t expecting me to be so put together.

I had worked hard when I was younger to achieve this. My intellect is a strong point— and it makes me appear less rough around the edges.

It’s also that of a weapon, one you can carry everywhere with you, undetected. And it’s just as dangerous as the blade of a dagger.

“Of course. As of now, I’d like to discuss the raw details.”

She gestures towards her son, “My son, here, is a key part of this job. I believe in your letters you were ran down on an attempted assassination within our family. Since it’s now certain you’ll be taking the job, and you’ll be working closely with the both of us, I figure you should know he was the target.”

He’s frowning still as a lock eyes with him. And I connected those dots the second I realised he was in the room.

I have never met him. But from the great vine I’d heard mixed opinions on his person.

“Aside from myself and our head of counsel, he will be whom you take any learned information to.”

She lets out a sigh, “I would like him to be excluded from this process, however, it was made clear it wouldn’t go ahead without his involvement.”

I ponder a moment on how he is allowed a choice in the matter, seeing she’s the Queen and all.

She looks to me for agreement, “Understood.”

“Perfect. Im aware we have little information on who has committed this crime. That is why you’re here. I fear that they will come back and finish what they started.” I steal a glance at the prince again, who looks relatively unbothered considering we’re discussing the details of his near death experience, “I expect you to prevent this from happening.”

High expectations come with exhausting hours of work. But I nod anyways.

“My head of counsel, Tyrone will also need to receive a pledge from you and then he will run you down on the smaller details I have no business in. But other than that, your work will begin after our pledges.”

A lot of damn pledges, too.

This was the worst part of working with people of such a title, the expectance of you to lay yourself down for them, to swear your life and loyalty to them. A pledge knows no time, and can only be withdrawn by the one it’s given too. So the more pledges, the more you’re shackled to. To outright break a pledge would send you straight to exile— so it’s rare to hear of it. It’s like a fucking cult out there, in the barren of the north where the exiles call home.

She prattles on over some more details, that I take as much mental note on as possible, before standing from her chair, “Harry, will you please leave the room while she makes her pledge to me.”

I thank the stars for the this shred of dignity shes allowing me, but i catch the shock on Prince Harry’s face at his removal.

“But—“ he begins and she silences him, “Out.”

He sighs outwardly, sending another glower my way as he walks out the door.

I awkwardly rise from my chair, nerves bubbling through me, trying to prepare myself on what to say.

Theres no script, its all dependent on the situation, so you must say the right things and leave no room for misconception in your words. Mistake and gaps can easily be used against you.

It’s dodgy absolutely, but a risk that must be taken for this business.

“Natalia, is this your first time making a pledge?” She asks from where she stands a few feet away from me.

“No.” It was my third, but she doesn’t need to know that.

It’s not many, especially since in what I do, some people rack them up like it’s a competition.

“Have you been let go of all your previous pledges?”

“Yes.” I nod, which was almost true, all but one.

A risky game I’m playing, lying already, but no risk no reward I suppose is what they say.

Answering no raises to many questions on her end that I hardly feel mentally prepared to answer.

I take initiative to kneel at her feet, ready for her go ahead.

“Very well.”

“Queen Annabelle the fifth, I kneel below you as I vow to uphold my loyalty to you, for as long as it may be needed. I am aware that your life must come before mine at all times, and that I’m never to withhold information that could be of detriment to you or your family.”

I draw in a breath, “All information that I learn in my time working under you will be taken to those of your request, and nothing will be kept to myself that could endanger anybody in your circle. Outside of those im working with, all that I find out is kept to myself. Gossip is for the lowly courts, and I do not wish to start it.”

I pray that ive covered the basis, and begin to close off the pledge, “My name is Natalia Atalanta Finley, and I pledge myself to you, Queen Annabelle the fifth.”

A shudder passes through me as my middle name breaches the tip of my tongue.

This is how the pledges are set in stone. Your second name is to be kept close to your heart; it can be easily used against you. Hence why business using them is unfavourable.

I had held her eye contact, and watched as she nodded. Her face was netrual, not showing whether she was pleased or not.

“Thank you. I will send Harry in for you now.” She sounded calm. Of course she was. Considering she wasn’t the one now down a point.

I only can nod.

Carefully standing, despite the fact I’m going to be kneeling again in a few moments, I brush my hands down the waist of my satin dress.

She heads out the doors, I strain to hear a few muffled whispers that are presumably exchanged between her and her son. Then the door is opening again.

I fight the urge to look away. I am not about to appear shy, or like I am now certainly below them. He strides in, and I finally get a good look at him in the full.

He’s in a black kind of overcoat, and a smooth white blouse-like shirt. The tattoos on his collarbones, which im not sure what they are yet, visible through the material.

I make note of his black trousers and my eyes make their way back to the hair on his head. Its mid length, unruly and curly is the best way to describe it.

He looks smug, yet somehow still inconvenienced by my presence, “kneel, wont you?”

These are the first words he’s said to me directly, and I already want to jam my elbow into his stomach. Terrific.

I take a few steps towards him, and slowly sink back down onto my knees, feet tucked under myself as I hold eye contact with him.

“Your highness,” I begin, but theres an unmistakable edge to my voice.

“Sound like you mean it at least.” He hums.

With a passive aggressive clear of my throat I start again, “Your highness,”

“This y’first time making a pledge?” He quirks a brow almost assuming.

“No.” You frown.

“No need to get your back up.” He laughs briefly, but it’s laced with an audacious tone, one lacking in kindness.

“Continue on, then.”

His gaze is back to burning into me as I pretty much recite what I said to his mother only minutes ago, sticking to the same promises as to not get any misconstrusions on their behalf.

The golden hour light is seeping through the cream coloured curtains that line the windows, it’s casting a glow on his sculpted face. I begin to close off my pledge to him, but he interrupts.

“Remind me again who is in charge of you?” He knows there’s hardly any need for this, considering im on my knees basically promising him my obedience, but he’s doing it to just get a rise out of me.

Which all though he doesn’t get it verbally, he can see the disdain on my face.

“You, Prince Harry.” I say, carefully.

“And you will not do anything without my go ahead first, correct?”

“Within reason, yes.” My job is too impulsive to say yes to that and it not backfire on me.

“Within reason? Elaborate, will you.”

“I must make impulsive decisions. I cannot promise you will always be debriefed on them when its an in-the-moment choice, or if you are possibly a few hundred miles away.”

His gaze narrows, “Within reason it shall be then.”

I close it off, earning a small raise of his eyebrows as he hears my full name.

“Good girl. You may rise.” He says it with a smirk, and with an air of power of me, which of course he now feels he has after my pledge.

“Do not call me that.” I state, pulling at any shred of dignity I have left as I stand up.

“What else would you prefer then?” It’s asked, however it’s clear to me he doesn’t care.

“My name.” I scoff.

“Alright then, Natalia.” He rolls his eyes.

He stares at me a moment, looking ready to leave,“I will see you, unfortunately, tomorrow then.”

I shoot him an unkind look, but keep my lips sealed.

“Anything else to say, sugar?” He teases, a cruel smirk on his face.

“Natalia.” I correct, “No, there is not.”

I decide to be the one to exit the room, uncaring if that is rude. I’ve already sworn him my life, and despite him acting like I’m of no use to him, I know I am— more then he’s leading on anyway.

I open the doors myself, and the guards are quick to check on the prince.

“Are you ok, Sir?” One of them tentatively asked, like as if I’ve hurt him.

“Just fine.” He brushes them off, eyes trailing me as I walk down the hallway despite no sense of where I’m going.

One of the guards hurries behind me,

“Ma’am, where are you going?”

He reaches my side and I glance to him, “Take me to the head of counsel, please.”

I figure I get the last pledge out of the way, and any other debriefing so I can just get out of here for tonight. Worry about it all later, in the earlier hours of tomorrow morning when I have to wake up.

The guard nods, and takes the lead while I try to memorise the twists and turns were making around the palace.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Tyrone is a fucking asshole.

If I had thought Prince Harry was rude or demeaning, I was in for a shock.

He hardly greeted me as I’d came into what I can only assume is his office. It was dark and unwelcoming, the wood was stained to the colour of black coffee, and nothing about it was homely.

He’d had me making this pledge for what felt like an hour. Running over detail upon detail.

Harshly demanding for more information, more promising.

By the time I’d closed it off— which at the rate we were going I thought was never going to happen— he made me stay for another hour going over what he wanted me to do, so I could start first thing tomorrow morning.

He basically gave me the caseload and then kicked me out.

I was mentally muddled as I left his office, and the halls were now completely dark aside from the warm casting of light from the candles, which sat in candelabras coming out of the walls.

I just wanted to go back to Mabel’s. Get this dress off and back into the confines of her cupboard and sleep.

However was almost caught off guard as someone was at the end of the hallway.

“Natalia.” I heard the deep voice regard me, walking up closer to me.

It surprised me in all honestly, I hadn’t seen them when I first walked out, “Yes?”

“I’m here to take you to your room.”

I was immediately confused.

“My room?”

“Yes. There’s a room made up for you in the western-wing of the palace.”

“I didn’t request a room.” I frown, and no one had told me I’d be staying here.

“All I know is Her Majesty had a room made up for you to stay in while you’re here. Allow me to lead you there.”

I nodded cautiously, but I knew what this was, it was to keep me under watch and control. It seems like a lovely customary gift in exchange for my work, but realistically it’s to stop me from interacting with anyone outside of the palace when I don’t need to.

I contemplate refusing to go, but figured that would just add unnecessary suspicion on my behalf.

I reluctantly followed the bulky man halfway across the palace, and everything started looking the same in the dark until we stopped outside a room. And i nodded a ‘thank you’ as I went through the again, abnormally tall doors.

The room itself was bigger than any whole house I’d ever lived in.

There was a large bed placed in the centre of it, perfectly made of course. And I noticed a closet on my left that took up majority of where the wall would’ve been.

There were a multitude of things hanging in there, ranging from gowns to things only someone like me would wear around here, like cargo pants and plain long sleeves.

The bedside antique lamps were on, casting an also warm glow to the space. The light to the bathroom was also turned on. And when I walked in there, the bath was run, with a set of silk pajamas folded on the large vanity.

It was too much. Wayyy too much for me.

Bribery at its finest.

Poor girl having to do the worst of the worst kind of business because it’s all she knows, suddenly spoiled with the kind of riches the royals had to offer.

I know just how far these kinds of people will go to earn your trust.

However, i still cave when it comes to the bath. I manage— with a slight struggle— to unzip the back of my dress and get fully undressed and into the bath.

It was perfectly warm, small petals floating atop the water.

I keep in the forefront of my mind just how well materialistic bribery like this work because god, it is nice. That’s the whole point.

I don’t know how long i stay in there, trying to soak off the grievances of the day.

But when I finally get out and slip the silky pyjamas on I’m too warm.

I pad out of the bathroom, and find myself at the balcony door.

The cooler air hits me as i step outside. I examine the surroundings. Part out of habit and other out of curiosity.

The ground is not that far away, a survivable jump at least. And if the railing would hold me up I definitely would be able to scale up onto the roof.

I’m mid-inspection when I hear another door open nearby, and my head whips to find the source of the noise.

I drop into a crouch keeping my eyes searching through the gaps in the wooden railing. My eyes fall on a room just across the small courtyard from me.

I spot the tall figure leaning against their own balcony and I realise with a sink of my heart that it was the Prince.

Why his quarters were so close to mine I could only guess. To keep tabs on me?

I stay deathly still as I watch his figure, it’s facing the direction of me, and from his angle he could probably only see the warm lamps and the light streaming out of the bathroom door.

A shake of his head, a spin of his heel and he’s returned into the confines of his own quarters.

I take a breath and am careful to keep my self low as I slip back into my room. Standing to my full height once inside and away from the window.

It is now that I need to fully accept he is going to be a terror to deal with.

I flick the bathroom and bedside lights off, and slide under the covers of the bed.

Head plagued with thoughts, I can’t help but wonder how the fuck I’ve gotten myself into this.

And how exactly it’s all going to pan out.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

thank you again for reading this. your support means the world to me. stay tuned for future parts, and feel free to reply or send me an ask saying you want to be added to my taglist if you do, since I’ve had a few people ask to be on them!

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[green-typewriterz]

Iron burns

King!Harry Styles x gn!reader

Summary: fantasy AU - you are a cook in the castle kitchens and are delivering food to your King, but the pan is slightly too hot.

Warnings: injury, burns, Harry is smitten

Prompt: “You don’t need to do this.” “I want to.”

word count: 1K

GIF BY ME

The food had to be perfect. Everything had to be perfect. You had been working in the castle kitchens since you were old enough to walk, having taken over from your mother and her mother before her. Your family were trusted within the castle walls, and you were the one to prepare the most excellent meals whenever King Harry had guests over. The food that you had to prepare tonight wasn’t particularly interesting, just a meat stew of some kind, but even then you felt as if you had an expectation to be perfect.

You lifted the large metal pot with both hands, making sure you had a firm grip on it as you made your way from the kitchens and up the large stone stairs. Your feet echoed as you walked, your eyes firmly on the food so none of it would spill. You reached the dining hall and the doors swung open, Harry’s eyes flitting over as you hurried toward the table. Just as you reached it, an untied lace on your boot trapped itself under your foot and you tripped forward, spilling some of the stew onto your hands. You quickly placed the pot down on the table to stop any further accidents before clutching your hands together.

Harry rushed over from the head of the table and took your hands gently. “Y/N” He began, his eyes begging you to meet his gaze. You kept your eyes on the floor and bowed lowly, biting your lip so you wouldn’t cry. “Are you alright?” He asked and you looked up at him, face flushed in embarrassment.

“I am greatly sorry M’lord, I will clean this mess and then I will excuse myself.” You spoke and Harry seemed almost shocked at the thought that you assumed he would remove you from the castle staff. He took a cold pitcher of water from the table and gently traced his fingers over your hand, making sure you wouldn’t leave his side as he did. Then, with a small, worried smile he poured the water over your hand, frowning as you winced in pain. He caught the water on a cloth under your hand, which he then wrung back into the pitcher, before repeating the process until the water ran out. He knew this wasn’t the cleanest way, but it would soothe the pain.

You felt so embarrassed that the king had to deal with this and whispered (almost silently), “You don’t need to do this.” Your hands shook as you spoke and you couldn’t bear to look at him, or even near him. There was an emotion you couldn’t describe that almost radiated from him, the way he watched and cared for your injuries.

“I want to.” He replied softly, care laced in his tone. You looked up at him. Neat brown curls fell gently over his eyes and the small scar under his chin that you could see when he looked up. He kept his hands near you at all times, assuring you that you would be okay with small whispers. Harry was a caring king, this was a fact known across the kingdom, but you had never seen him acting like this, not in your years of working for him. He pulled out a chair and guided you to it, helping you to sit as if it were your legs that were burnt and not your hands. He sat down next to you and signalled to a knight to get the doctor. Though you tried not to, the pain from the burns was too harsh and a few tears fell from your eyes.

He gently took your chin in his hand and wiped the tear from your cheek, beginning to hum a song you had never heard in an attempt to soothe you. Eventually, the doctor arrived and you were ushered out of the dining hall, away from Harry’s worried gaze.

;༊

Days later, you were walking through the corridor of the castle when Harry along with his advisor and a few people whom you assumed were friends passed you. You quickly went into a bow until they had passed by, but heard the echoing footsteps stop as Harry spoke, “Pauli, keep going, I’ll follow after in a moment.” You looked up to see  Harry still standing there, a gentle smile on his face.

“How are your hands?” He asked, taking them in his own. The long sleeves of his cloak brush gently against your fingertips as he looks at the residual markings from where you burnt yourself. Harry’s hands seemed like an impossible combination of soft and coarse, his hands worn from battles gone by but there was a softness to his fingertips, one that sent a shiver down your spine.

You smiled gratefully, “Much better Your Highness, there is no pain thanks to your kindness.” He smiled as you bowed again in thanks. He gently took your chin as he had all those days ago and lifted you back to meet his eyes. There was emotion and meaning behind every movement the king had and you felt as though every time his skin touched you there was some kind of electric shock travelling through your body.

“Please,” He began, holding one hand to his chest as if he was the one who should be thankful, “Call me Harry. Your family has been loyal for generations, it’s only fair I show the same neverending respect you show me.” Harry’s lips slowly curved into a smile and eventually, the brightness behind his eyes made you smile in return.

Neither of you spoke for a while, simply watching each other in silence, your hands still holding each other. There was a fire in his eyes, it shone in a glint that looked like stars. It almost felt as if he were moving closer to you, his gaze moving down to your lips for a split second.

“Harry!” a voice spoke and you both looked over to see one of the Lords the king was speaking to earlier. He backed away quickly, coughing as if that would knock him from his trance. He looked back at you for a moment before moving away and toward his friend.

Shivers spread through your body as he turned to look at you just before he turned the corner, his eyes shining with want. As much as you wished for it, you knew nothing more could ever happen. He was the king, you were nothing but a cook.

[bloomvine02]

Could you write a prince Harry Styles/ princess reader. It can be an idea of your choosing but ideas are 1. they get engaged without their knowledge (something basic) I‘m really not that good in improvising so I‘ll let you decide on what to write and I‘m sure I‘ll love it! Thank you!!!

thank you for this ask! you can find it here:

[jezebelblues]

forsaken | h.s

summary: florence 1583. a woman of fire, a man of fuel.

cw: smut18+ penetration (piv), oral fem!receiving, parent death, fem!reader, unedited. unrealistic happy ending if u seek tragedy 😔

world count: approx 17.2k

| omg will be writing more on these 2, renaissancerry is my heart <3 not rlly thinking a series, more like extras on them fosho. ps: am not a historian or time traveler–if u see something incorrect no u didn’t

masterlist

Florence, 1583

Harry Edward Styles was born to a mother, an older sister, and two fathers—one of blood, one of choice.

The man that bore his blood to the two Styles children preferred the sound of the way glasses of ale would clink in warm evenings, the twinkle of gold coins in the sunlight. Children were the continuation of a name, a bloodline—and that’s all he thought them to be. The only fathering a man was made to do was the ritual of burying their seed in a woman, her duty was to grow them.

So, after a son with his same eyes drew his first breath, he rose a dagger and marked his heel with one singular, vertical dash.

He had done the same when his sister was brought into this world, but he marked her with a horizontal dash.

Their mother, Anne, didn’t understand why—and hated it with every fiber in her being—watching her newborns cry for any other reason then being pulled from the comfort of their mother’s womb.

Once their father left after Harry’s first week on earth, she understood why, his words messily printed with ink on parchment.

Dearest Anne,

Thank you for bringing my own flesh and blood into this world. You are a woman I entrust most with them, having been chosen by God to bear such souls.

Which is why I must leave. A man has more to do with his time on this Earth than to nurture, I shall pour my being into others and bring forth more Brothers and Sisters for sweet Gemma and Harry.

My blood with course through this nation and find itself basking within the kingdom of heaven. I’ve marked my children to find them when God finally calls us forth.

Your womb is a gift from the angels above.

Until then,

– Desmond.

For a while, she mourned the loss of her lover and children’s father. But as time continued, as it always does, she realized that she had dodged the fatal strike of a sword.

She was unsure of the crimes committed by the hands of their father, but she remembers hearing the news of him being hung in the southernmost village of their country.

On Harry’s second birthday, she had fallen in love with a woodmaker, Robin. Shortly after, they moved to Wiltshire and Robin was always known as their papa.

Of course, Harry and Gemma had learnt their true parentage before the dawn of Gemma’s thirteenth birthday, but it was hard to mourn a man you had never known.

Anne would have never told them he was hung in a town’s square, but ascended to heaven of natural causes—the inevitable kiss of an angel.

The scent of turpentine and drying oils had long become as familiar to Harry as the earth beneath his feet. In the cool stillness of his studio, he paused, fingers stained with ochres and umbers, to stare at the remnants of his father’s brush—the one he had used all those years ago, before the fever came.

Harry’s father had been no renowned artist. He was a man of simple trades, a woodworker from the hills of Wiltshire, far from the splendor of Florence’s sunlit domes. But in the evenings, when the day’s labors were done, his father would sit by the window, painting quietly by candlelight. It was there, beside him, that Harry had first seen the magic of creation—colors flowing like rivers across rough wood and fraying canvas, ordinary scenes transformed by the wild, unspoken emotion in every stroke.

His father had painted not for fame, but for peace.

Harry had only been fourteen when his father’s hands, once steady and sure, began to tremble with sickness. His chest had grown tight, his breaths shallow, until finally they stopped altogether. He remembers the way the pads of his fingertips would prune from bringing a water soaked rag to his lips, how his father would drink from the drops of it.

For a while, he hated the color red and grey. His father’s lips would crack with peaks of crimson, leaving faint stains of red on the water rag in its wake. His skin greyed in a speed he didn’t think possible once his heart fell absent of a beat.

In the days that followed, the house had filled with the clamor of neighbors, mourners, and merchants, but Harry could only hear the quiet absence in the stillness.

In the flickering silence, he had picked up his father’s brush.

The years after his father’s death were a blur of movement, as though he had been running from some unseen ghost. He had wandered south, across valleys and mountains, always chasing the sun. By the time he arrived in Florence, he was a man of twenty three and had little more than the clothes on his back and a single paintbrush to his name.

Florence had embraced him like a reluctant lover. The city’s streets were gilded with Renaissance splendor, yet heavy with the weight of expectation. It was a place of grandeur and art, where even beauty was a form of currency—where the Medici and other noble families wore their wealth as a crown and commissioned artists to immortalize their names in frescoes and portraits.

Harry’s talent had bloomed in these streets, but it had come at a price. Every stroke of his brush, every commission, felt like an unspoken promise to a father who would never see what his son had become. The bright colors of his palette were often mixed with the shadow of his grief, and though his name was now whispered in the gilded halls of Florence’s elite, Harry felt as though he were forever painting in the twilight between joy and sorrow.

Sometimes his mind would wonder to the possibility of if he was an angel banished by God, his punishment being to bear the pain of not having lost one, but two fathers.

Three if he counted the absence of Jesus in his life. He felt fatherless, in all senses of the word.

Or maybe it was all well circulated fairytale, conjured in the thoughts of his father’s, the one he shared blood with, brain.

He had grown to resent the mark on his foot, and in the depths of his heart he would refer it as the the kiss of the devil, rather than the mark of God.

He would blame his struggle with faith on his fathers, the three men who sat behind the title.

Desmond, for abandoning his family.

Robin, who loved him like a son and died in front of his eyes.

And Jesus, who had ignored his prayers for his papa to stay and to take him instead.

But it was the pain, the deep and gnawing ache within him, that had given his art its soul. His patrons spoke in reverence of his ability to capture more than a face—how he painted the delicate tremor of a moment, a fleeting look, a breath before the breaking. His works were praised as vibrant, yes, but they also carried something deeper, something tragic. A hidden sadness, like the ghost of a love lost too soon.

In his heart, he knew: he painted because the world was filled with such unrelenting beauty, and that beauty was fleeting. To capture it was to hold on, however briefly, to something that could not last.

One afternoon, as golden light filtered through the shutters, a letter arrived. The wax seal bore the mark of a powerful house—the Candela family. A commission for their daughter’s portrait. A noble request, one that might cement his place among Florence’s greatest. But it was not the promise of riches or recognition that made Harry’s heart stir with something close to fear. It was the girl herself, the rebellious daughter who, rumor had it, could not be tamed by family or duty.

As Harry read the letter, his thoughts drifted back to the girl he had once seen in the Candela gardens. Her eyes had been bright, but wild. Free. In that moment, he knew what she was—a living echo of the spirit he had long tried to capture in his art: untamable, elusive, yet heartbreakingly beautiful.

It was a portrait that might change everything. Or destroy him.

He set the letter down and turned back to the canvas, but his hands trembled once more, just as his father’s had in those final days. A reminder of mortality. A reminder that every brushstroke was borrowed time.

But still, he would paint.

*

The heavy velvet curtains of the Candela palazzo had long felt like a prison to her. Born into one of Florence’s oldest and wealthiest families, Y/N had spent her life in the shadow of their legacy—one that was both gilded with fortune and bound by duty. From the moment she took her first breath, her future had been decided for her. Her days were filled with lessons in etiquette, music, embroidery, and diplomacy, while her nights were a symphony of forced pleasantries at banquets and balls, always under the watchful eyes of her mother and the judgment of the city’s elite.

But from a young age, Y/N knew she was not made for such a life. Beneath the layers of silks and jewels, beneath the carefully orchestrated smiles and curtsies, there was a fire burning in her—one that she had learned to hide from everyone around her, for fear it would consume her entirely.

Her earliest memories were not of the marble halls of the palazzo, but of the gardens beyond its walls, the wild olive groves that stretched out toward the hills. It was there, in the quiet spaces between her responsibilities, that she found her freedom. She had spent her childhood escaping into the fields, where the wind would tear through her hair and her laughter would echo through the trees, free from the rules that shackled her in the world of men.

Her father, the head of the family, was a cold and distant man, more concerned with his political alliances than with his children. He rarely spoke to her except to remind her of her place—her duty to the family, her obligation to marry into another powerful house and secure the Candela legacy. Y/N’s mother was no different, though her scoldings came wrapped in sweet, deceptive smiles. She had been raised to be an ornament, a living testament to her family’s wealth and power, and Y/N was expected to do the same.

But she refused to be molded by their expectations.

She had always been different from the other girls of her station. Where they dreamed of betrothals and courtly love, she dreamed of escape. She would slip out of the palazzo at night, dressed in the simple clothes of a servant, and wander the streets of Florence, blending into the crowd, invisible for the first time in her life. In the dim glow of lanterns, she would listen to the street musicians, watch the painters in the piazza, and breathe in the freedom that was denied to her by daylight.

By the time she reached womanhood, her spirit had only grown wilder. Her parents, exasperated by her refusal to marry the suitors they paraded before her, tightened their grip on her life. But the more they tried to contain her, the more fiercely she fought to break free. She began to push the boundaries of what was expected of a noblewoman—her wit was too sharp, her temper too bold, her opinions too dangerous. Whispers spread through the Florentine courts, branding her rebellious, unfit for the delicate role of a noble wife.

It was not that Y/N wanted to be unwed. She simply refused to give her life to a man who would cage her like a bird. She longed for something more than what Florence could offer her, more than a life of duty and appearance. There were moments—fleeting though they were—when she felt she could see the world as it truly was, raw and beautiful, and she wanted to live in that truth, not the carefully constructed illusion of noble society.

That was when her mother decided it was time to have her portrait painted, a desperate attempt to remind the world of her beauty, her value. It was, of course, more for show than for art—another piece in the game of noble alliances, another way to lure in potential suitors. But Y/N saw it for what it was: a final effort to tame her.

And that was when she had first heard his name—Harry, the painter from the north.

Her mother spoke of him with the same dismissive tone she used for all the artisans they employed, but there was something about this Harry that intrigued her. He was not born of noble blood, and yet his name carried weight in the circles that mattered. The Medici spoke of him with admiration, and even the Pope had once commissioned his work. His paintings, it was said, had a rare quality—they revealed not just the outward beauty of a subject, but the soul beneath.

Y/N had seen one of his works in the home of a distant cousin, a portrait of a young woman who had died tragically young. The face had been serene, the colors soft and gentle, but the eyes—the eyes had told a story of longing and loss that no courtly painter would dare to capture. It had haunted her ever since.

For days, she tried to convince herself it was just another scheme of her parents—another attempt to make her fit the mold she had spent her life breaking. Yet, she could not deny the flicker of curiosity that sparked within her. What would this man see in her? Would he, too, try to make her into something she was not? Or would he paint the fire she had spent her whole life hiding?

The day her mother informed her of the first sitting, Y/N had felt the familiar weight of resignation settle over her. She would sit for this portrait because she had no choice. She would smile, she would pose, and in the end, her mother would hang the portrait in some grand hall for every eligible bachelor to admire. It was all part of the game they had been playing for years.

But when the day came, and she finally entered the makeshift studio lended to Harry for the length of his time here, she felt a shift in the air, as though the fates had turned their gaze upon her.

Harry was not what she expected. He was younger, rougher around the edges than the other artists her family had employed. His dark curls were wild, and there was a certain sadness in his eyes, something she recognized all too well. He was no stranger to loss, that much was clear. His eyes were a vibrant green she had not seen before, unless she counted the gardens that sat in a rainy haze. Perhaps he was a painting himself. And he, too, seemed out of place in the glittering world of Florence’s elite. It was as though he was merely passing through, as though he belonged somewhere quieter, more distant.

Draped in heavy silks, with eyes as sharp as a hawk and a posture that suggested defiance rather than decorum, the daughter of the noble Candela family was unlike any of his previous subjects. Her name was Y/N, and she exuded an air of mischief that the delicate ladies of Florence rarely allowed themselves to entertain.

He did not greet her with flowery pleasantries, as other painters had. Instead, he regarded her quietly for a moment, his eyes flickering over her face—not in judgment, but as if he were searching for something hidden beneath the surface.

“You’re the one they cannot tame.” He said at last, his voice low, almost amused. His accent confirmed he did not have deep roots in Italy, it sounded more of the English suitors her mother would introduce.

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. And somehow, in that moment, Y/N knew that he had already seen more of her than her family ever had.

She smirked, meeting his gaze without hesitation. “That depends on what you believe needs taming.”

Harry’s lips quirked into a half-smile, and for the first time in years, Y/N felt as though she could breathe just from the few seconds in his presence.

Her eyes gaze around the studio as she waltzes further in, her lips in a closed smile. Her skin held the glow of the sun beautifully, hair bouncing with the scent of lavender. Her fingers feather across a few empty canvasses he has on stilts, messes of paint and brushes scattered onto a table. “They say Hephaestus molded your flesh and bones before sending you to Earth.” She eased, a smile still on her reddened lips. Her steps clicked closer to where Harry stood, eyes still drawn out the windows surrounded by nature. “I heard Aphrodite herself kissed your wrist, frame still soft with clay.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle, though her tone soft, there was anything but sincere admiration laced in her words. “I assure you that there’s no markings of her kiss pressed unto me—m’just a man with a brush.”

She hummed, rounding the stilt between them and watching the sunlight glimmer in his eye as the sun would in the waves. There was no denying the shift in the air between them, an unspoken understanding that went beyond the typical dance of polite conversation. In this studio, amidst the scent of oils and pigment, they were stripped of the titles and roles society had thrust upon them.

“A man with a brush.” She repeated softly, almost to herself. She reached out, her fingers grazing the surface of one of the unfinished canvases. The texture of it was rough, still raw with potential, much like her own life—full of promise, but still undefined. “I wonder,” she continued, her voice barely above a whisper, “what you see when you look at me.”

Harry’s hands, stained with the colors of his art, stilled for a moment. He had painted many faces, each one a portrait of both beauty and sorrow, but this woman—this subject—was different. There was something about Y/N that made him hesitate. She was not like the others who sat for him with plastered smiles, eager to be frozen in time, their beauty immortalized for the world to see.

No, Y/N did not want to be captured in that way. She wanted something more, something truer. Her spirit was restless, untamed, and her gaze held a challenge, as though daring him to see beyond the layers of silks and expectations. To see the woman beneath.

Slowly, Harry moved closer to her, the distance between them shrinking. He studied her face, not with the detached gaze of an artist trying to perfect his subject’s likeness, but with a quiet intensity that sent a ripple through the stillness of the room. His voice, when it came, was low and deliberate.

“I see a woman who was never meant t’be caged.” He mumbled. “I see fire and wind—a calm in an eye of a storm that would bring no ruin; something wild, something the world doesn’t understand.”

Y/N’s breath hitched slightly at his words. It was as if, in a single moment, he had unraveled all the masks she had carefully worn her entire life. The world she had known, the roles she had played, felt fragile and false in the face of this raw truth.

“And yet,” Harry continued, his voice dipping lower, “they try to fit you into a frame, don’t they? As if y’could ever be captured.”

For the first time in what felt like years, Y/N let herself be vulnerable. She turned away from the canvases, facing him fully, the light catching the strands of her hair like molten gold. Her eyes met his, no longer guarded, no longer deflecting.

“I don’t belong in that frame.” She whispered, the words slipping past her lips like a confession. “But they’ve been trying to fit me into one for as long as I can remember.”

Harry nodded, his gaze never wavering from hers. “I know.” He said simply. “I’ve spent my life painting what people want to see. But you–”

He trailed off, as though the thought itself was too bold, too dangerous to speak aloud.

“Me?” she pressed, her heart beginning to race in her chest. She stepped closer, drawn to him in a way that felt both terrifying and inevitable.

“With you,” Harry continued, his voice a hushed murmur, “I want t’paint what the world can’t see.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The tension between them was palpable, charged with the weight of unspoken desires, and the world outside the studio seemed to fade away. In that small, sunlit room, there were no titles, no expectations, only two souls who had somehow found one another in a world that had tried to break them.

Y/N’s hand hovered near Harry’s arm, and then, slowly, as if testing the waters of some forbidden sea, she let her fingers brush against his. The contact was light, fleeting, but it sent a shockwave through both of them.

“I want that too,” she whispered, her voice trembling with the vulnerability of the admission.

Harry swallowed, the pulse of his heartbeat thrumming in his ears. He had never felt this way about a subject before, had never let himself blur the lines between artist and muse. But with Y/N, those lines had already been crossed the moment she had walked into his studio.

They stood there for a moment longer, hands barely touching, eyes locked in a silent conversation. And then, as if by unspoken agreement, they both pulled back—just enough to remind themselves of the roles they were meant to play, even as those roles were beginning to crumble.

Harry stepped away first, turning back to his easel, his voice steady as he spoke. “We’ll begin the portrait today. But I won’t paint what they expect.” He nodded toward her, “A caged dove to be set free.”

Y/N’s lips curved into a soft smile, her heart still pounding in her chest. She knew, in that moment, that whatever Harry painted, it would be the truest version of herself she had ever seen. And it would bind them together in ways neither of them could yet understand.

“This will displease them.” She smiled, pausing her words. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Her voice carried the weight of a promise, though she wasn’t sure who it was meant for—him, or herself.

Without another word, he jutted his chin toward the chair in the center of the room. “Sit.” He instructed, his tone soft but firm.

She followed his gesture, looking toward the seat and ambling toward it silently. She sat, keeping her spine stiff—something that was embedded into her through her training over the years. His eyes narrowed onto her face, cataloging each curve, line, and hint of emotion that sat in her eyes.

Their sittings became a ritual over the last month—an escape from the suffocating demands of her family, from the world that sought to control her. Each time she stepped into his studio, it was as though she left the weight of her name behind, shedding it like a heavy cloak. Here, she was not the Candela daughter, not the rebellious heiress trapped by duty. She was simply Y/N, a woman with dreams and desires that no one had ever cared to ask about.

Harry painted in near silence, his brush moving with a precision that bordered on reverence. But as the days passed, the silences grew warmer, more comfortable, and slowly, they began to talk. He spoke of his father, of the quiet life in England he had left behind, and of how he had found himself in Florence, painting for men who would never understand the depth of what he was trying to capture.

And she, for the first time, spoke of her own longing. Not for marriage or jewels, but for freedom. For the wildness of the world outside the palazzo gates. She told him of the nights she wandered the streets alone, the moments when she felt most alive, when the weight of her name fell away and she became just another face in the crowd.

With every word, with every glance, they both knew they were crossing a line—one that could never be uncrossed. Their relationship was not one of artist and subject. It was something deeper, more dangerous. And Florence, with all its grandeur, was not kind to those who broke its rules.

As Harry’s brush moved over the canvas, he realized he was no longer painting just a portrait. He was capturing the essence of a woman who had lived her entire life behind a mask, forced into roles she never wanted to play. With each stroke, he revealed her fire, her vulnerability, her defiance.

And Y/N, who had spent her life being told what she should be, saw herself reflected in his eyes—not as the noble daughter, not as the prize her family sought to offer to the highest bidder, but as she truly was.

In those stolen moments, as the sunlight filtered through the shutters and the world outside seemed to fall away, they became something Florence would never understand. They were freedom itself—dangerous, fleeting, and unbearably beautiful.

Y/N’s portrait only neared its finish as time continued to pass. They would always meet three times a week for about an hour or two. She would never say it out loud, but it began to become a favorite part of her weeks—meeting Harry. His soul was anything unlike she’s ever known, and all she wanted to do was linger.

They sat outside the cobblestone studio, lying upon a blanket adorned with fresh vegetables, cheeses and meats. Her mother and Father had been out for the day, and she thought it’d be a perfect opportunity to see Harry as he is, rather than the painter.

He spoke of his travels as he would eagerly show her he could catch the bites of cheese he would throw into his mouth—and he would order her to rank each catch one through ten.

Harry lied back, weight on his elbow as his curls tousled perfectly in the warm breeze. Y/N lied on her belly, kicking her feet in the air behind her as she lie her head on her folded arms.

The afternoon sun peaked from the trees above them, catching the light in her eyes perfectly. Harry always found her to be beautiful, but at this moment she looked ethereal.

He tossed another piece of cheese into the air, leaning his head back and catching it deftly with his mouth, smiling proudly as he chewed. “Well?” He asked, his voice teasing. “What say you? Surely that was a ten.”

Y/N laughed, the sound as bright as the sun and as sweet as the strawberry he head earlier. “A six, perhaps.” She grinned, voice lilting with playful challenge. “Surely you could do better.”

His smirk widened, and he threw another piece of cheese, catching it again with exaggerated flourish. “A six indeed.” He mumbled, feigning offense. “I think you’re quite mistaken, my lady.”

She bit her lip to suppress another laugh, shaking her head against her forearms. “Perhaps your talents lie elsewhere.” She mused, her voice dripping to a soft, flirtatious murmur as she gazed at him through her lashes. “Catching cheese seems beneath you.”

His eyes sparkled with mischief, but there was something else in them too—something she hadn’t seem from him yet, something that sent a shiver down her spine. "And what talents might you suggest, then?" he asked, his voice low and teasing, though the undertone was laden with meaning.

Y/N's breath caught for a moment, her heart fluttering in her chest as the playful banter between them took on a new edge. Her gaze lingered on his lips before she tore it away, focusing on the light streaming through the leaves above them. "I think you know the answer to that.” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, the world seemed to still around them. The laughter and lightness faded, replaced by the palpable tension that had been simmering between them for weeks. It hung in the air now, thick and undeniable. Harry shifted beside her, his playful grin fading into something more serious as he watched her carefully, as though waiting for her to give him permission to step closer to that edge.

He wanted to toss away the platter that lay between them, to grab her waist and flip her onto her back and show her the talents he possessed. It made his heart go into a sputtered mess, to cloud his gaze with need. He wondered if she knew how beautiful she was in that moment.

“Did you hear me?”

Harry blinked, shaking his head before letting a sheepish smile spread across his lips. “No. I suppose not.”

“Have you ever thought of leaving Florence, H? Of leaving all of this behind?"

Harry narrowed his eyes, the question pulling him from whatever unspoken thought had been lingering on his lips. He exhaled softly, rolling onto his back and staring up at the sky. "I've thought of it," he admitted after a moment, his voice quieter now, thoughtful. "But Florence has become something of a home. Even if it binds me, l've learned t’live within those bounds."

Y/N frowned, her heart tightening at his words.

"But don't you wish for more? Don't you long for freedom?"

He turned his head to look at her, and in his eyes, she saw a reflection of her own yearning, the quiet desperation that they had both been trying to ignore. "Of course I do," he murmured. "But freedom is not something easily won. Especially not for people like us."

She swallowed, the weight of his words settling over her like a shroud. She had always believed that Harry, in some way, was freer than she could ever be—an artist, a man without title or the crushing expectations of nobility. But now, she saw the truth. He was as trapped as she was, bound by the invisible chains of his station, his livelihood tied to the whims of men like her father, men who would never derstand the depths of what he truly wanted create.

"And you?" he asked, his voice soft but filled with quiet intensity. "If you could go anywhere, if you could leave all this behind, where would you go?"

She hesitated, the question stirring something deep within her, a longing she had never dared to voice. "Anywhere," she whispered, her gaze distant. "Anywhere but here. I want to see the world, to lose myself in it. I want to go where no one knows my name, where I can be just Y/N—not the daughter of Candela, not someone's prize to be won."

Harry's gaze softened, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke. The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the garden, but the air between them crackled with an intensity that neither of them could ignore.

"And if l asked you to go with me?" she said suddenly, her voice trembling with the weight of the question. "Would you?"

Harry's breath hitched, and for a moment, he didn't answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost pained. "If you asked me, I would follow you anywhere."

Y/N's heart pounded in her chest, the enormity of his words settling over her like a heavy cloak. The desire to reach out, to cross the boundary they had been skirting for weeks, pulsed through her veins. But fear-fear of the consequences, of what they would beer if they gave in to this—held her back. Harry could feel the weight of her thoughts, the far away look in his eye. He sighed gently, propping himself back onto his elbow as he took a cheese from the platter, lightly throwing it toward Y/N.

It pulled her from her thoughts with a smile as it bounced from her shoulder onto the blanket spread beneath him. He laughed, leaning across the space between them and stealing the cheese for himself. “That’s a zero, I’m afraid.”

*

Before meeting Harry around the same time she had been, she brought forth a bowl of fruits from the kitchen—both a snack and a small gift. The heat was unforgiving today, adorned with the same silk gown she was supposed to wear during these sessions, but her feet were bare. The ground was cold beneath her, blades of grass leaving kisses from the dew left behind.

The temporary studio Harry resided in was across the courtyard, a small, cobblestone building hidden between trees and a small pond.

As she reached the studio, the door slightly ajar, she paused, listening. Inside, she could hear the faint sound of Harry moving, his footsteps light as he adjusted the easel or mixed colors on his palette. Her heart quickened, not out of nervousness, but out of anticipation. Each day spent with him had become an escape, a release from the weight of her family’s expectations.

Pushing the door open with her hip, Y/N entered the room, the bowl of fruit balanced in her hands. Harry was bent over his canvas, his shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing the sinew of his forearms, streaked with paint. His dark curls were unruly, as though he had been running his fingers through them absentmindedly. When he looked up and saw her, a smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“You’re early today, my dove.” He grinned, his voice warm, the familiar hint of amusement dancing in his eyes.

“I brought something.”Y/N murmured, holding up the bowl of fruit. “A peace offering, perhaps.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, setting his brush down and wiping his hands on a nearby rag. He stepped toward her, his eyes flicking from the bowl of fruit to her face, as though trying to discern the real reason for her gift. But there was no pretense between them here, only the quiet truth of what they had started to build—a fragile, unspoken connection that neither of them dared to name.

“I did not understand us to be at war.” Harry teased gently, his voice dropping to that low, familiar murmur that always seemed to make Y/N’s pulse quicken.

She smiled, setting the bowl down on a nearby table. “In these walls, we are always at war.” Her tone was soft, the weight of her words lingering in the air. Her gaze shifted to the canvas behind him, where her likeness had slowly begun to take shape. He was capturing her in a way no one had before—not as the carefully polished daughter of Florence’s elite, but as the restless, untamed spirit she had always been. She stepped closer to the easel, studying the way he had painted her eyes, the intensity of her gaze, the subtle fire that simmered beneath the surface.

“You paint me as though you know me.” She paused, her voice barely above a whisper.

Harry’s eyes softened, his expression unreadable as he stood beside her. “I am beginning to.”

Her heart skipped a beat at the quiet intimacy of his words. She felt exposed, vulnerable in a way she had never allowed herself to be before. For so long, she had worn her defiance as armor, a shield against the world that sought to control her. But here, with Harry, she didn’t need that armor. She could be raw, unguarded, free.

Y/N turned to face him fully, her bare feet making no sound on the cold stone floor. She had spent her life being afraid—afraid of disappointing her family, afraid of not living up to their expectations, afraid of being trapped in a life that wasn’t her own. But standing here, inches away from Harry, she realized that the only thing she was truly afraid of was losing this—this feeling, this connection, this fleeting glimpse of what life could be like outside the constraints of duty and decorum. “I am no artist, but your own beauty belongs on canvas.”

For a moment, Harry’s hand hovered near hers, as though he was about to reach out, to close the distance between them. But instead, he stepped back, turning to the easel once more, a breathy chuckle escaping him. “Okay, Shakespeare. Let us thank our lucky stars that you are not.”

She laughs with him, placing the bowl of fruit on the table beside the paint. She shook her head, popping a grape into her mouth. “Here I thought you to whisper me something poetic—we all have an art about us, we are art ourselves.” She mocked in his accent, rolling her eyes.

“Well that would be simply untrue.” He grinned, adjusting the canvas before him. “I am much too talented for you to compare your hand to my own.”

She scoffed, though it was humorous. Through her feigned offense, his lips only spread wider. “Show me to be wrong.”

“Show you wrong?” She raised her eyebrow, parting her lips. “You want me to paint you?”

He nodded, glancing at the blank canvases behind him. She only rolled her eyes as she gently grabbed his wrist, pulling him to the chair into the center of the room. He sat expectantly, his dimple cratering his cheeks as she retreated back toward the bowl of fruit, fishing out a deep red cherry, skipping back toward him. He knit his brows in confusion, but Y/N’s lips parted to speak before him. “You are to be my canvas.” She smiled, bring the cherry to his lips like a challenge. His expression was amused, though he couldn’t deny the way she made his chest tighten with tension. His eyes flickered between both her eyes and the fruit as he gently bit into the fruit, his lips brushing against her fingertips.

It was slow, deliberately intimate. Their eyes still burrowed into each others, she watched as the bead of crimson juice dribble down his chin. She thumbed it away, her touch light and fleeting before she feathers the fruit across the apples of his cheeks, adding to the already flushed pigment. Hesitantly, she pressed her fingers into the glistening flesh, patting it in and leaving his cheeks and lips painted red.

She steps back ever so slightly, putting the rest of the cherry into her mouth and letting a quiet laugh escape her lips. “Consider yourself to be painted.”

He shook his head, his cherry red lips widening into a smile as he stood. “Somehow, I don’t think that’s how it works.” Harry leaned in close, his breath a whisper against her cheek, but he made no move to wipe the remnants of cherry from his skin. His eyes, still dancing with amusement, searched hers, lingering with a quiet intensity. “I’ll grant you this.” He murmured, his voice low, carrying the hint of a jest. “Your methods are..most unconventional.”

She smirked, refusing to be daunted by his nearness. “Unconventional?” she quipped, her chin rising with a flicker of defiance. “I would call it a work of art. Would you not?”

Harry raised a brow, feigning deep thought as he smeared the red juice across his chin with a casual flick of his finger. “A work of art, you say? If by that you mean I appear as though I’ve just stumbled from a duel with a fruit cart, then aye, I’ll concede to your genius.”

Her laughter rang through the studio, a sharp contrast to the quiet that had hung heavy in the room moments before. It echoed off the stone walls, a sound so free that it banished all thoughts of duty, of propriety. The half-finished portrait on the easel, the weight of her family’s name—all of it melted away. In that moment, it was just them. Two souls bound in a fleeting absurdity, lost in shared laughter.

“Delicate sensibilities,” she teased, her brow arching as she wiped the last of the cherry’s stain from her hand. “I never thought to find such in a man.”

Harry’s lips curled into a slow, wicked grin. “Delicate, am I?” He drawled, his voice thick with mischief. In a single swift motion, he swiped his thumb across her cheek, leaving a streak of red in its wake. “There. Now we are even.”

She gasped in mock indignation, taking a step back as her fingers flew to the sticky mark on her face. “You’ll rue this day, Harry Styles.”

“Will I?” he challenged, his tone now deep and laden with mischief of its own.

Y/N moved closer, closing the space between them with a deliberate slowness. Her heart raced, but not with the trepidation that had gripped her so often in this room. No, this was something far more exhilarating. The world outside this studio—the rules, the expectations, the rigid walls of her life—it all felt distant, unimportant.

“I’ve never claimed to be a master of painting,” she whispered, her voice dropping like the edge of a velvet curtain. She took a few steps backward, reaching into the bowl and pulling out a plum. She looks at it expectantly in the gleam of sunlight, trotting back toward the painter. “Yet I do believe the best art thrives with a hint of chaos.”

Before he could form a reply, she bit the dark fruit pressed it hard against his chest. The plum burst, sending dark juice cascading down his tunic, staining it deep purple.

Harry blinked in astonishment, his expression hanging in the space between disbelief and amusement. But the moment of shock passed swiftly, and his laughter came, full and bright. “Your peace offering was a coup!” he declared, lunging forward with a handful of cherries.

Y/N shrieked and darted away, her laughter filling the air as she dodged him. They circled the room, the once-serene studio descending into joyful chaos. Fruit flew, staining the floors, the easel, their clothes—a riot of color and recklessness.

By the grace of God the portrait remained untouched through the ordeal.

It was madness. Glorious, reckless madness. And for the first time in her life, Y/N felt utterly, completely free. Free from the chains of decorum, free from the burden of her family’s name. In that riot of fruit and laughter, she was simply alive.

When at last they collapsed onto the floor, breathless and sticky, the room a ruin of color and laughter, neither of them could stop smiling.

Harry lay beside her, still chuckling as he tugged at the ruined tunic. “If my patrons could see me now, they’d see me cast out of Florence faster than y’could say ‘masterpiece.’”

Y/N propped herself up on her elbow, a grin dancing across her lips. “Then we shall flee to the hills. I’ll hide you amongst the olive groves. We’ll live like rogues, artists and outlaws.”

“Artists and outlaws,” Harry echoed, his smile softening, his eyes lingering on hers with a look that carried something far deeper than the playfulness of a moment before. “I think I could grow fond of such a life.”

And in that quiet, as their laughter ebbed into the late afternoon light, Y/N felt the air shift between them. What had started as a game, as flirtation, had become something real. Something undeniable.

And try as they might, neither could outrun it.

As they lay there amidst the chaos, the moment stretched on, teetering on the edge of something neither could fully name. Y/N’s pulse thrummed in her ears, her heart racing not from the frivolity of their earlier play, but from the weight of his gaze on her. The air between them had thickened, laden with an unspoken tension that neither laughter nor fruit could break.

Just as her lips parted to speak—to say something, anything to diffuse the intensity—a sound, sharp and echoing, pierced the air.

The door to the studio had swung open, and there, silhouetted by the fading light of the late afternoon, stood Y/N’s mother, Lady Candela, her presence a sudden, jarring intrusion into their world of fleeting freedom.

Her eyes, dark and sharp as the blade of a dagger, took in the scene before her: the floor littered with the remnants of their childish game, the streaks of fruit staining both their clothes and skin, the disheveled state of her daughter and the painter. And in an instant, the mask of propriety that Y/N had so desperately sought to tear away snapped back into place.

“Y/N.” Her mother’s voice was cold, clipped, a tone that could freeze the blood in one’s veins. “What, in God’s name, is the meaning of this?”

Y/N scrambled to her feet, her breath catching in her throat, but her defiance flickered in her eyes. She had been caught, but she would not cower. “Mother,” she began, her voice steady despite the racing of her heart, “it was nothing—just—”

“Nothing?” Lady Candela stepped forward, her posture rigid, her lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval. “This disgrace is nothing? You, a daughter of the Candela family, covered in filth like a common servant? Is this how you choose to honor your name?”

Harry, who had risen to his feet beside Y/N, cleared his throat, stepping forward as if to shield her from the wrath of her mother. “My Lady, it was my doing,” he lied smoothly, his voice respectful but firm. “I allowed myself to get carried away during our session. The fault is mine.”

Lady Candela’s eyes flickered to him, her disdain barely concealed. “And you—an artist—think you can speak on matters of decorum in this house? You are here to paint, not to play the fool.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing more. He could feel Y/N tense beside him, her fists clenched at her sides. The silence that followed was thick with tension, the weight of Lady Candela’s expectations pressing down on them both like a vice.

But Y/N, ever the rebel, would not be silenced.

“I am not a child, Mother,” she said quietly, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. “I will not be tamed.”

Lady Candela’s gaze snapped to her daughter, her eyes narrowing. “You will be what this family needs you to be, YN. This behavior—this foolishness—ends now. You are to be married, and your actions today have only made that more urgent.”

Y/N’s heart sank, the reality of her mother’s words hitting her like a blow. Marriage. The cage she had spent her entire life trying to escape was closing in around her, tighter and tighter.

She glanced at Harry, her chest tightening. The fleeting freedom they had found in one another was slipping away, vanishing like a mirage in the desert. And yet, she knew she could not let it end like this.

“Perhaps I wished for something more than just another hollow painting to hang on the walls of your prison,” Y/N said, her voice stronger than she felt inside. She could see Harry stiffen at her side, his gaze flickering between her and Lady Candela, but he stayed silent, letting her words hang in the air.

Her mother’s mouth tightened into a thin line. She took a deliberate step forward, her eyes narrowing as they bore into Y/N. “A prison?” she hissed, her voice dropping dangerously low. “You speak of this house as if it were a cage, when all we have done—all I have done—is ensure you live in luxury, surrounded by the finest of Florence. Yet here you are, acting the fool with a common painter.” She spat the word like venom, her eyes flicking toward Harry before returning to her daughter. “Do you want to ruin yourself? To become nothing but a scandal whispered about in the courts?”

Y/N’s fists clenched at her sides, her nails digging into her palms, but she kept her voice level. “What you call ruin, I call freedom.”

Her mother’s eyes blazed, her nostrils flaring, but before she could retort, Harry stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. “My Lady, if I may—”

“You may not,” Lady Candela snapped, cutting him off with a sharp glare. “You are here to paint. Nothing more. Your thoughts and opinions are of no concern to me.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, but he bowed his head, stepping back in silent acquiescence.

The silence that followed was thick with tension, each breath Y/N took feeling heavier than the last. Her mother’s gaze never wavered, cold and unyielding, but Y/N refused to back down. Not this time.

“Mother,” Y/N began again, her voice softer now, though no less resolute. “I do not wish to ruin the family’s name. But I also do not wish to be something I am not. I have given you my obedience for years, attended every ball, entertained every suitor you’ve paraded before me. But I cannot—will not—live a life that is not my own.”

For a brief moment, something flickered in Lady Candela’s eyes—something that looked almost like uncertainty, or perhaps a recognition of her daughter’s growing resolve. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by that same cold, unyielding stare.

“You have a duty, Y/N,” her mother said, her voice flat, as though the very word—duty—was the end of any argument. “To this family. To this city. And if you cannot understand that, then you are more lost than I thought.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, the weight of her mother’s words pressing down on her like a heavy cloak. But before she could speak, her mother turned sharply on her heel, heading toward the door.

“You will be expected at dinner,” Lady Candela called over her shoulder, her tone dismissive. “We will discuss your upcoming engagement. I suggest you clean yourself up and remember who you are.”

With that, she swept from the room, leaving Y/N and Harry standing in the wreckage of what had once been a moment of shared joy, the heavy door closing behind her with a finality that echoed through the studio.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Y/N could still feel the burn of her mother’s words, each one a reminder of the gilded cage she had been trying to escape her entire life. She swallowed hard, turning toward Harry, who was watching her with a mixture of concern and something else she couldn’t quite place.

“I’m sorry,” Y/N murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “You shouldn’t have been involved in that.”

Harry shook his head, his eyes softening as he stepped closer. “You don’t have to apologize, Y/N. I knew what I was stepping into when I took this commission.”

Y/N let out a soft, bitter laugh. “Did you? Did you know you’d be caught in the middle of a battle between duty and freedom?”

Harry smiled, but it was a sad, knowing smile. “In a way, yes. I’ve seen it before. This city—this life—demands so much from those born into its upper echelons. But I think you are stronger than you know.”

Y/N met his gaze, her heart twisting painfully in her chest. She wanted to believe him, to believe that she could somehow break free from the chains that bound her. But the reality of her situation felt suffocating, as if the walls of the studio were closing in around her.

“I don’t know what to do,” she admitted, her voice cracking slightly. “I don’t want to be trapped in a marriage I never wanted. But I don’t see a way out.”

Harry reached out, his hand gently brushing her arm, a small gesture of comfort. “There’s always a way out,” he said quietly. “But it’s not always easy.”

Y/N looked up at him, her eyes searching his face for some kind of answer, some hint of hope. But all she saw was the same uncertainty that gnawed at her heart.

“I don’t know if I’m brave enough,” she whispered.

Harry’s grip on her arm tightened, just slightly, and when he spoke, his voice was soft, but full of quiet conviction. “You are. You’ve already proven that.”

For a moment, they stood there in the quiet, the weight of the world pressing down on them, but together, they felt just a little lighter. The path ahead was uncertain, and Y/N knew the battle was far from over. But for now, in this small, sunlit room, with Harry by her side, she felt just a little bit stronger.

And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough.

The heavy, golden hour light had faded, replaced by the muted grays of twilight, casting long shadows across the stone walls of the palazzo. Y/N stood before the mirror in her chambers, her reflection staring back at her, cold and distant. She had shed the stained silk gown and washed the remnants of the fruit from her skin, but no amount of scrubbing could remove the weight of her mother’s words or the tension coiled tight in her chest.

Dinner. The final act of the day’s charade, where her mother’s sharp gaze and her father’s stony silence would frame yet another conversation about her future—a future she had no say in. The idea of sitting through another meal where her fate was decided without her input made her stomach twist with dread.

A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts, and her maid, Lucrezia, entered the room, her face a mask of quiet concern. “My lady,” she said softly, “your mother has requested your presence in the dining hall.”

Y/N let out a slow breath, her hands gripping the edge of the vanity as she steadied herself. “Of course she has,” she muttered, her voice thick with resignation.

Lucrezia stepped forward, her hands moving to adjust Y/N’s gown—another silk creation, pristine and flawless, as if nothing untoward had happened earlier. “Shall I tell her you are not feeling well?” the maid asked gently, her fingers lingering on the delicate fabric.

Y/N smiled weakly, shaking her head. “No, Lucrezia. I must face it. I always must.”

The maid nodded, though her eyes were filled with sympathy. She knew the weight that rested on Y/N’s shoulders, the burdens placed upon her by a family that demanded perfection at all times. But even Lucrezia, with her quiet understanding, could not offer a solution to the problem that had no easy answer.

With a final glance in the mirror, Y/N straightened her posture and lifted her chin. She would face this evening the way she had faced every other trial in her life—head on, even if it tore her apart inside.

The walk to the dining hall felt longer than usual, each step echoing in the vast, empty corridors. The palazzo, so grand and full of splendor, felt like a prison tonight, its marble floors cold beneath her feet, its towering walls closing in on her with every breath.

When she reached the dining hall, she paused just outside the door, gathering her courage. She could hear the faint clinking of silverware and the low murmur of voices—her mother’s sharp, clear tones and her father’s deep, measured replies. It was the sound of a family accustomed to routine, to the rigid structures of their world.

Taking one last breath, Y/N pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The dining room was grand, as always, with high ceilings adorned with intricate frescoes and a long, gleaming table set with the finest china and crystal. Her father, Lord Candela, sat at the head of the table, his expression unreadable as he idly cut into his meat. Her mother sat opposite him, her posture perfect, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her eyes sharp as they flicked up to meet Y/N’s.

“You’re late,” Lady Candela remarked, her tone light but edged with reproach.

Y/N forced a tight smile, lowering herself into the seat that had been prepared for her. “I apologize, Mother. I lost track of time.”

Her mother’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she said nothing more, her gaze lingering on Y/N for a moment before turning back to her plate. The silence that followed was thick and uncomfortable, broken only by the clinking of silverware and the occasional murmur of servants as they moved in and out of the room.

For a few minutes, Y/N focused on her meal, her appetite nonexistent but her movements precise, each cut of the knife and placement of the fork a carefully rehearsed act of decorum. It was a routine she had perfected over the years, a mask she wore to survive these dinners, to navigate the unspoken landmines of her family’s expectations.

But tonight, the weight of that mask felt heavier than ever.

It wasn’t long before her mother broke the silence, her voice smooth but laden with intent. “Y/N, your father and I have spoken, and we believe it is time to move forward with your betrothal.”

Y/N’s fork froze halfway to her mouth, her pulse quickening as she set it down with deliberate care. She had known this conversation was coming—she had felt it looming over her for weeks, like a storm gathering on the horizon. But now that it was here, the reality of it hit her like a blow to the chest.

“Engagement?” she echoed, her voice steady but her heart racing.

Lady Candela nodded, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction as though she had just solved some great puzzle. “Yes. We have received an offer from the Montellini family. Lord Montellini is a man of considerable influence, and his son, Leonardo, is a fine match for you.”

Y/N swallowed hard, her hands gripping the edge of the table as she fought to keep her composure. Leonardo Montellini. She had met him once, at a banquet—a young man with slicked-back hair and an air of arrogance that made her skin crawl. He had looked at her the way one might look at a prized horse at auction, and the thought of spending her life chained to him made her stomach churn.

“Mother, I—” Y/N began, her voice faltering for a moment as she searched for the right words, something that would convey the storm of emotions rising within her without sparking her mother’s ire. “I do not wish to marry Leonardo Montellini.”

Lady Candela’s fork paused, her eyes narrowing slightly as she regarded her daughter. “What you wish is irrelevant, Y/N. This is a matter of duty. Of ensuring the future of our family. You cannot afford to be selfish in this.”

Her father, who had been silent until now, cleared his throat, his deep voice rumbling through the room. “Your mother is right, Y/N. This marriage is important. The Montellini family’s wealth and influence will secure our place in Florence for generations to come.”

Y/N’s heart pounded in her chest, her mind racing as she tried to find a way out, a way to make them understand. But how could she make them see that she couldn’t—wouldn’t—live her life in a cage, bound to a man she didn’t love, trapped in a world that suffocated her?

“I understand the importance of family, Father.” Y/N said carefully, her voice measured, though her hands trembled slightly in her lap. “But I cannot marry a man I do not love. I cannot live my life as something I am not.”

Her mother’s gaze hardened, her lips curling into a faint sneer. “Love,” she scoffed, the word dripping with disdain. “What nonsense. Love is a fleeting thing, Y/N, a frivolous notion for those who have the luxury to indulge in it. We are not those people.”

Y/N’s chest tightened, her breath shallow as she fought to hold back the rising tide of panic. She could feel the walls closing in on her, the future her parents were trying to force upon her looming like a prison, cold and suffocating.

“But I am not you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, but full of quiet defiance.

The silence that followed was thick, the tension between mother and daughter palpable as they stared at one another across the table. Lady Candela’s expression remained cold, unyielding, but Y/N could see the flicker of frustration in her eyes.

“You will marry Leonardo Montellini,” her mother said at last, her voice like steel. “And you will do so without further complaint. That is the end of this discussion.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, her heart sinking as the weight of her mother’s words settled over her like a heavy shroud. She felt trapped, suffocated by the life they were trying to force her into, and for the first time, she wasn’t sure if she was strong enough to fight it.

As the servants moved quietly around the table, clearing the plates and refilling the wine, Y/N stared down at her hands, her mind racing. She knew she couldn’t do this. She couldn’t marry Leonardo. But how could she escape a future that had already been decided for her?

Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Harry—to the quiet strength in his eyes, to the way he had seen her, truly seen her, in a way no one else ever had. There was something in him, something that stirred in her a desire for more—for freedom, for choice, for a life lived on her own terms.

But that life felt impossibly far away, separated by the vast chasm of her family’s expectations and the iron grip of tradition.

And as the dinner dragged on, Y/N sat in silence, her heart heavy with the knowledge that, for now, she was still very much trapped. The clinking of silverware and the quiet hum of conversation felt distant to Y/N, as if she were trapped in a cage of sound, separate from everything around her. Her mother, satisfied that her edict had been given, spoke no more of the engagement. Instead, she shifted her attention to her father, discussing household matters and social engagements as if Y/N’s entire future hadn’t just been decided without her consent.

Y/N’s mind, however, was far from the table. It kept circling back to Harry, to the moments in his studio where, for the first time in her life, she had felt something close to freedom. His presence had stirred something within her—a quiet rebellion, a fire that had been smoldering beneath the surface for so long it had almost gone unnoticed. Until now.

As her mother droned on about the upcoming ball and the importance of making a good impression, Y/N’s fingers tightened around the stem of her wine glass. The thought of standing beside Leonardo Montellini, paraded like a prized possession for Florence’s elite to admire, made her stomach turn. She had seen his eyes on her before—hungry, possessive, as though she were nothing more than a means to an end for him. The Montellinis wanted to solidify their power, and she was the key to that door.

She could feel the bile rising in her throat, the suffocating weight of her family’s expectations pressing down on her like a vice. How many more dinners like this would she endure? How many more nights would she be forced to smile, nod, and pretend that her life was something she could control?

No. She wouldn’t accept this.

“Y/N,” her mother’s voice cut through her thoughts like a blade, sharp and sudden. Y/N blinked, realizing she had been staring down at her untouched plate for far too long. Her mother’s gaze was fixed on her, cool and assessing. “What fare you? You have been rather quiet.”

Y/N looked up, her heart racing as she met her mother’s eyes. For a brief moment, she considered telling her the truth—telling her that she wasn’t well, that she couldn’t bear the thought of marrying Leonardo, that the life they had planned for her was suffocating her.

But the words died in her throat. Her mother would never understand. To Lady Candela, duty was everything, and love was nothing more than a foolish indulgence.

Y/N straightened her spine, steeling herself against the rising tide of emotions that threatened to betray her in front of her family. Her voice, when it finally came, was measured and cool. “I am well, Mother. Merely tired.”

Her mother’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she did not press further, turning her attention back to the meal with a dismissive wave of her hand. Y/N, however, could feel the weight of her father’s gaze lingering on her for just a moment longer. He was quieter than her mother, but no less powerful in his expectations.

The remainder of the dinner passed in a blur, with Y/N’s mind distant from the conversation at the table. As soon as the final course was cleared and her parents rose from their seats, she made her excuses and slipped away, retreating to the sanctuary of her chambers.

Once inside, Y/N locked the door behind her and pressed her back against it, her heart pounding in her chest. The events of the evening, the threat of her future being sealed with a man like Leonardo, weighed heavily on her. She crossed the room to the window, her hands trembling as she gripped the edge of the sill and stared out into the night.

The city of Florence lay before her, bathed in the soft glow of lanterns and moonlight. From her window, it looked peaceful, almost serene, but Y/N knew better. The world outside her family’s palazzo was teeming with life, with freedom that she could only dream of.

And in that world, somewhere amidst the winding streets and narrow alleyways, was Harry.

Her thoughts drifted to him once again, to the way his eyes had softened when he spoke to her, the quiet understanding that passed between them without words. In his studio, she had felt something she had never known before—something raw and unburdened by the chains of her family’s name. It wasn’t just attraction, though she couldn’t deny the pull she felt toward him. It was more than that. It was the promise of escape, of possibility. With him, she could breathe.

Y/N closed her eyes, letting the cool night air wash over her as she made a decision.

She could not stay in this gilded prison any longer. She could not marry Leonardo. She would not be used as a pawn in her family’s games. And if there was anyone who could help her find a way out, it was Harry.

Her heart raced at the thought, a mixture of fear and excitement coursing through her veins. It was reckless, perhaps even dangerous, but she had no other choice. She had to act before it was too late, before her fate was sealed by forces beyond her control.

Without another moment’s hesitation, Y/N slipped into a simple cloak, pulling the hood over her head to shield her face. She moved quickly and quietly, slipping through the darkened corridors of the palazzo until she reached a small, hidden door that led to the courtyard.

As she stepped outside, the cool night air wrapped around her like a cloak of freedom. She paused for a moment, glancing back at the towering walls of her family’s home, the place that had held her captive for so long. And then, with a determined breath, she turned and disappeared into the shadows of the city, her feet carrying her toward Harry’s studio.

The narrow streets of Florence were quiet at this hour, save for the occasional flicker of lamplight or the soft murmur of voices carried on the breeze. Y/N kept her hood low, her steps quick and purposeful as she moved through the labyrinth of alleyways. She had walked these streets before—many times in the dark of night—but tonight felt different. Tonight, the weight of her decision pressed down on her like the stone arches above.

As she neared Harry’s studio, her heart raced with a mixture of anticipation and uncertainty. What was she even doing? She had no plan, no real escape beyond the hope that Harry would understand, that he might offer her a path out of this life she couldn’t bear. A reckless hope, she knew, but it was the only thing she had left.

The studio was tucked away behind a row of trees, secluded from the main roads. The small building, though unremarkable to most, had become a haven for her—one of the few places where she could let go of the expectations that had weighed her down for so long. And Harry, with his quiet strength and sad, knowing eyes, had become the embodiment of the freedom she craved.

As Y/N reached the door, her breath hitched in her chest. She hesitated for a moment, her hand hovering over the handle. What if she had misread everything? What if Harry did not want to be a part of her rebellion, her escape?

Yet she stood at his door anyway.

She pushed the door open, the familiar creak breaking the stillness of the night. Inside, the soft glow of a few candles lit the room, casting long shadows over the walls. The scent of drying oils and turpentine filled the air, mingling with the earthy smell of wet canvas. Harry was at his easel, his back to the door, lost in the rhythm of his work.

For a moment, Y/N stood there, watching him in the golden light. His dark curls fell over his brow, and his hand moved with a kind of precision that made her chest tighten. He was absorbed, unaware of her presence, and the sight of him in his element, so quietly powerful, made her heart ache with something she couldn’t name.

“Harry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible in the stillness.

He froze for a moment, his brush poised in mid-air. Slowly, he turned to face her, his eyes widening in surprise as he took in the sight of her standing there, cloaked in shadow. “Dove?” His voice was soft, but there was an edge of concern in it. “What are you doing here?”

She stepped further into the room, her hands trembling beneath the folds of her cloak. “I had to see you.”

His brow furrowed, and he set his brush down, wiping his hands on a rag before crossing the room toward her. “It’s late. If anyone sees you—”

“I bear no sentiment to it,” she interrupted, her voice sharper than she intended. Her breath came quickly, the weight of everything catching up with her all at once. “I cannot stay there any longer, Harry. I can’t marry Leonardo Montellini. I cannot live that life.”

He studied her for a moment, his green eyes searching hers, and she saw the conflict in his gaze—the pull between wanting to help her and knowing the dangers of what she was asking. “What are you saying, Y/N?” he asked quietly, though there was a heaviness in his tone.

“I’m saying I need to leave. I need to escape before they lock me into a life I never wanted.” Her voice trembled with the intensity of the confession, and she took a step closer to him. “I don’t know where to go or how to do it, but I cannot stay here.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, he said nothing. His eyes flickered with something—worry, perhaps, or fear for what this might mean for both of them. He glanced at the door, then back to her, the weight of her words sinking in.”

“Do you know what you’re asking?” he said, his voice low. “If you leave, there’s no going back. Your family—Florence—”

“I know,” Y/N whispered, her eyes pleading with him to understand. “But what is the alternative? To be sold off to a man who does not care about me? To live my life in a cage, pretending to be something I am not? I cannot bear it, Harry. I won’t.”

He took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair as he tried to process what she was saying. She could see the battle in his eyes, the part of him that wanted to protect her warring with the part that understood the gravity of the situation. “And what do you desire from me?” he asked softly, though she could hear the strain in his voice.

Y/N stepped closer, her heart pounding in her chest as she met his gaze. “I want you to come with me.”

The words hung in the air between them, charged with a kind of desperate hope. She knew it was asking too much, knew that she had no right to pull him into her escape, but in that moment, Harry was the only person she trusted. The only person who understood her enough to help her break free.

Harry’s eyes softened, and for a moment, he looked as though he might say yes. His hand reached out, brushing against hers in a gesture so small, so intimate, it made her chest tighten.

But then he pulled away, shaking his head. “Y/N, I—”

“I know it’s reckless,” she cut him off, her voice filled with a kind of raw vulnerability she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in years. “But I can’t do this alone. I need you.”

Harry’s expression was torn, his hand still hovering near hers as if he wanted to take it, to pull her into his arms and promise her everything. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

“Y/N,” he whispered, his voice heavy with regret. “If we run, they will come after us. Your family will not let you go so easily. You know this.”

Tears stung at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them back, refusing to let the weight of his words crush her hope. “Then we’ll be careful. We’ll go somewhere they can’t find us. Please, Harry.” Her voice broke, and she reached out, gripping his arm as though she could will him to say yes. “I know not of heaven nor hell. I know not of Lucifer or God, I know only what I see before me, and If i were to draw my last breath tomorrow, I would perish with all this regret—my soul bound to my grave for eternity.”

For a long moment, Harry didn’t move. He stood there, staring down at her with an expression so conflicted it made her heart ache. And then, finally, he sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly in defeat.

“We’ll need to leave before first light,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Pack only what y’can carry.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, a mixture of relief and disbelief washing over her as his words sank in. “You’ll come with me?”

Harry met her gaze, and though his eyes were filled with uncertainty, there was a quiet determination in them as well. “Wherever.” He murmured. “But we must be careful.”

A flood of emotions rushed through Y/N all at once—relief, fear, gratitude, and something else she couldn’t quite name. She threw her arms around him, burying her face in his chest as tears of both joy and fear slipped down her cheeks.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice muffled against him. “Thank you, Harry.”

He held her for a moment, his hand resting on the back of her head as if trying to steady them both in the face of what they were about to do. “We shall figure it out,” he said quietly, though she could hear the weight of the uncertainty in his voice.

But for the first time in what felt like forever, Y/N believed him.

As they stood there in the quiet of the studio, the world outside slowly fading into darkness, Y/N felt a small spark of hope flicker to life within her. She didn’t know what the future would hold, but for now, she wasn’t alone.

*

The night air outside the palazzo was thick with the scent of jasmine and damp stone, but to Y/N, it felt more like freedom than anything else. The distant sounds of Florence, the murmur of distant conversations and the soft rush of water from the Arno, filled the silence as she made her way through the narrow streets, her bag slung over her shoulder. Her heart raced, but her steps were sure now. This was her choice, her rebellion.

The moon hung high in the sky, casting its pale light over the winding alleys and quiet courtyards as Y/N hurried back to Harry’s studio. Her thoughts were a whirlwind—but she couldn’t think of it now. The only thing that mattered was what lay ahead. She had to believe that there was a life waiting for her beyond the walls of Florence, beyond the expectations that had shackled her for so long. And with Harry by her side, perhaps—just perhaps—she could find it.

As she reached the secluded courtyard where Harry’s studio stood, Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. The small building was bathed in moonlight, its wooden door slightly ajar, as if waiting for her. She paused for a moment, her hand resting on the doorframe, listening to the soft rustle of the wind in the olive trees.

Inside, the studio was quiet, save for the gentle flicker of the remaining candle on the windowsill. Harry stood at the far end of the room, packing his own bag—his movements careful and deliberate. When he heard her enter, he turned, his eyes immediately meeting hers. There was no need for words; he could see the decision in her gaze, the finality of it. She was here, and there was no going back.

“You are prepared?” His voice was soft, but there was an edge of tension there, a quiet understanding of what they were about to do.

Y/N nodded, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. “I am.”

Harry’s eyes softened as he crossed the room toward her, his hand reaching out to brush against her arm in a gesture of comfort. “We shall be leaving soon. I’ve made arrangements to head south, toward Siena. s’not far, but far enough. We will be out of reach, at least for now.”

Siena. The name sounded distant and unfamiliar to Y/N, but it didn’t matter. Anywhere was better than here, better than the fate that awaited her if she stayed. She met Harry’s gaze, a flicker of gratitude in her eyes as she nodded.

“I trust you,” she whispered, the weight of her words hanging in the air between them.

Harry held her gaze for a moment longer, his green eyes full of that quiet, steady strength that had always made her feel safe. “Then we’ll make it through this,” he said softly. “Together.”

He moved to the door, pulling it fully open and stepping outside into the cool night air. Y/N followed close behind, her heart pounding in her chest as the reality of what they were about to do sank in. They were running. Not just from Florence, but from the lives they had known, from the expectations and the rules that had governed them for so long.

The streets of Florence stretched out before them, dark and silent, like a sleeping beast. They would have to move quickly, before the city woke, before her family realized she was gone. Harry led the way, his pace measured but urgent as they slipped through the narrow alleyways, avoiding the more well-lit streets where guards might patrol.

Y/N kept her hood pulled low over her face, her heart racing with every step they took. She glanced over her shoulder more than once, half-expecting to see her father or Leonardo rounding the corner, chasing her down. But the streets were empty, save for the occasional whisper of the wind.

They moved in silence, the weight of their decision hanging heavy between them, but there was no hesitation now. They had crossed the line, and there was no turning back.

It wasn’t long before they reached the outskirts of the city, where the walls of Florence loomed high above them, casting long shadows over the ground. The gates were closed, but Harry had anticipated this. He led Y/N to a small passageway, hidden between the stones and covered with vines. It was narrow, barely wide enough for one person at a time, but it led out of the city—an old smuggler’s route, known only to a few.

“This way.” Harry whispered, glancing over his shoulder to make sure they hadn’t been followed.

Y/N nodded, following him through the narrow gap in the wall, her heart pounding in her chest as they squeezed through the passage. The air was cooler on the other side, the scent of the open countryside replacing the dense smell of the city. When they finally emerged, they found themselves on a small, winding road that led away from Florence, disappearing into the hills beyond.

Y/N paused for a moment, turning back to look at the city she was leaving behind. The towering domes and spires of Florence rose into the night sky, bathed in moonlight. It was beautiful—so beautiful it made her chest ache. But it was also a prison, a place that had tried to shape her into something she could never be.

She turned back to Harry, her breath catching as she realized the full weight of what they had done. They were free. But freedom came with a price—a price they had only just begun to pay.

Harry met her gaze, his expression soft but serious. “There’s no going back now,” he said quietly, as if reading the thoughts running through her mind.

Y/N nodded, her hand instinctively reaching for his, their fingers brushing in the cool night air. “I know,” she whispered. “And I am ready.”

Together, they turned and started down the road, leaving Florence behind them—its walls, its expectations, its suffocating weight—everything. The future was uncertain, full of dangers and unknowns. But for the first time in her life, Y/N felt a spark of hope flicker within her. She was free. And with Harry by her side, perhaps—just perhaps—she could build a life that was truly her own.

As they walked through the quiet countryside, the stars above them shining like tiny, distant beacons, Y/N knew that they were only at the beginning of their journey. There would be challenges ahead, and dangers they couldn’t yet foresee. But for now, she allowed herself to breathe in the cool night air, to feel the weight of the past slowly lift from her shoulders.

She glanced at Harry, his face illuminated by the soft glow of the moon, and felt a sense of calm wash over her. Whatever lay ahead, they would face it together. And that, she thought, was more than enough.

It had been two days since they left Florence behind, and the journey had been long, filled with the quiet tension of fear that someone might catch up to them, might discover their flight. The sun had dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the rolling hills as Y/N and Harry approached a small inn nestled at the edge of a sleepy village. The inn was humble, tucked between groves of olive trees and fields dotted with grazing sheep. It wasn’t much—just a small stone building with weathered shutters and a modest stable for travelers’ horses—but it was enough. For the first time since leaving the city, they could breathe.

Inside, the inn was warm, the smell of bread baking in the hearth mingling with the faint scent of wood smoke. The innkeeper, a woman with kind eyes and silver streaks in her hair, greeted them with little more than a nod, motioning them toward the narrow staircase that led to their room.

As they climbed the stairs, the weight of the past two days seemed to settle over Y/N like a heavy cloak. The adrenaline that had carried her through the journey was fading, replaced by the quiet realization of what they had done. They had left everything behind—their lives, their families, their very identities—and now, here they were, standing on the precipice of a future they had yet to define.

Their room was small, with a single window that overlooked the fields beyond the village. A modest bed stood against one wall, and a small wooden table with two chairs sat near the hearth. The fire had already been lit, the flames flickering softly in the dim light of the evening.

Harry set their bags down by the door, glancing around the room before turning to Y/N. His expression was calm, but there was a tension in his eyes—a quiet awareness that they had crossed a line they could never uncross.

Y/N crossed the room to the window, her fingers brushing against the cool glass as she looked out at the fading light. The sky was a deep, dusky blue, and the first stars were beginning to appear, faint and far away. For a moment, she said nothing, her thoughts swirling like leaves caught in the wind.

Y/N finally broke the silence, her voice soft and uncertain. "Do you think we made the right choice?"

Harry turned from the window, his gaze settling on her. His green eyes, illuminated by the firelight, were filled with something unreadable-fear, perhaps, but also a quiet determination. He stepped closer, the floorboards creaking beneath his boots as he walked toward her.

"There was no other choice, Y/N.” He said gently, kneeling beside her. His hand reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against hers, grounding her in the reality of their shared decision. "Not for you, not for me. Remaining in Florence..it would have destroyed you.”

She looked up at him, her heart aching with the weight of his words. "But what have we done, Harry?" she whispered “I–” her voice trembling. "I have abandoned my family, my name. What if they find us? What if–" Her words trailed off, the enormity of their flight catching up with her. Her thoughts tangled in Fear. Fear of what might come, fear of the unknown future they now faced together.

Harry's gaze softened, and he took her hand fully in his, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in a soothing motion. "I do not know what will come," he admitted, his voice low and steady. "But I know that staying in Florence vould have been a life you could not live. You would have been chained, Y/N, to a life of duty, of expectations that would have suffocated you. What we have now, it may be uncertain, but it is ours."

She blinked, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "And you, Harry? What have you given up for me?"

Harry smiled faintly, shaking his head as if the question was unnecessary. "Florence never belonged to me.” He murmured. "| painted for men who looked down on me, for families who never saw what I could truly do. l've left behind nothing of importance." He paused, his gaze deepening as he looked into her eyes. "But y–you are the first thing that's ever felt real to me."

Y/N's breath caught at his words, her heart thudding in her chest. She had never expected this-never imagined that leaving Florence would mean finding something, someone, who saw her not as the Candela daughter but as herself, YN, in all her flawed and wild glory. "And what do we do now?" she asked quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "We are not nobility here, Harry. We bear no titles, no claims to protect us."

Harry stood then, his hand still holding hers as he pulled her gently to her feet. His expression softened, though there was a hint of something deeper in his eyes, something that made her pulse quicken. "We live Y/N.” he said simply, his voice low and intimate. “For the first time, we live as we choose. I have land in Siena, now—it isn’t much, but it’s a roof and four walls.”

He drew her closer, their bodies inches apart, the warmth from the fire mingling with the heat of his presence. Y/N could feel her heart pounding in her chest, her breath hitching as his gaze settled on her lips for a brief, tantalizing moment. “You are free now.” Harry murmured, his voice a whisper in the quiet of the room. "Whatever comes next, we face it together."

Y/N swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling deep within her. She could feel the walls between them crumbling, the barriers they had built around themselves dissolving in the heat of the fire. And as she looked up at him, her heart in her throat, she knew that whatever lay ahead, she wanted him beside her—no matter the cost.

Slowly, tentatively, she reached up, her fingers brushing against his jaw, feeling the roughness of his stubble beneath her touch. Harry inhaled sharply, his hand sliding to her waist, pulling her closer still. The air between them seemed to crackle, the unspoken tension that had simmered for so long finally rising to the surface. "Y/N," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. "Are you sure?"

She nodded, drawing her lips closer to his. Their kiss is slow, appreciative—full of months that had gone without it. He cupped her cheek as he parted briefly, holding her eyes into her own before he smiled. Harry's lips crashed against hers in a fierce, desperate kiss, his hands tangling in her hair as he pulled her closer still. Y/N gasped against his mouth, her fingers gripping his tunic as the heat of the fire surrounded them, enveloping them in warmth. The kiss deepened, becoming something raw, something that spoke of all the things they had left unsaid —their fear, their hope, their unspoken love.

They stumbled back toward the hearth, their bodies pressed together as Harry's hands roamed over her, pulling at the ties of her gown, freeing her from the constraints of fabric. Y/N's breath hitched as the cool air touched her bare skin, but Harry's warmth, his touch, was all she needed. He held her close, his lips tracing a path down her neck, sending shivers of pleasure through her body.

The heat between them became unbearable, a fire that consumed all reason. Harry's hands moved with purpose, deftly undoing the ties of Y/ N's gown, his fingertips brushing against her skin with a tenderness that belied the hunger in his gaze. Her breath came in shallow gasps as the fabric fell away, baring her to him. His eyes, darkened with desire, roamed over her with reverence, as though he was seeing her not as a woman of noble birth, but as someone entirely his, a secret kept only for him.

Her pulse quickened under the weight of his gaze, and her hands, trembling slightly, moved to the front of his tunic. She tugged at the laces, fumbling as her fingers brushed the hard planes of his chest beneath the linen. Harry let out a low groan, his own need palpable in the way his breath hitched, the way his body responded to her touch. He shrugged out of his tunic, tossing it aside, revealing the lean, muscled form that had been hidden beneath.

For a moment, they simply stood there, the space between them charged with a tension that was nearly unbearable. The firelight flickered across their skin, casting shadows that danced along the stone walls of the inn, but all Y/N could focus on was Harry—the way his chest rose and fell with each labored breath, the way his eyes darkened as they traced the curves of her body. Her heart pounded in her chest as she reached for him, her hands sliup his arms, feeling the strength in his muscles. Their breaths mingled, and as Harry leaned in to kiss her, the tension between them reached a breaking point. His lips were soft but insistent, claiming hers with a need that mirrored her own.

Y/N's hands found his hair, pulling him closer, desperate to feel him against her, to erase the distance that had always lingered between them until now.

He guided her down onto the fur-lined rug before the fire, his hands caressing her with a tenderness that made her breath catch. The warmth of the flames flickered around them, casting their shadows on the walls, but in this moment, there was only the heat between them, the way their bodies fit together as if they had been made for this. They had stripped away the layers of propriety, both figuratively and literally, leaving only the raw desire that now pulsed between them. Y/N's heart raced as Harry’s body hovered over hers, his eyes dark with a hunger she had never seen before. Her skin flushed under his gaze, the anticipation swirling in her belly like a storm.

He kissed her softly, his lips moving against hers with a tenderness that made her melt into him, but there was something else in his touch—something deeper, something more primal. As his hands roamed her body, tracing every curve and dip, Y/N felt a strange mix of excitement and nerves coiling inside her. She had never known this kind of intimacy before, never been touched in such a way.

Harry pulled back slightly, his breath warm against her neck as he pressed a trail of soft, lingering kisses down her throat, over her collarbone, and lower still, to the curve of her breasts. His hands slid down her sides, gently parting her legs as he kissed his way lower, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. Y/N's breath hitched, her body trembling beneath his touch, and she instinctively pressed her thighs together.

Harry paused, his lips hovering just above her skin, his hands still resting on her hips as he looked up at her with a soft, knowing smile. "Do you trust me?" he asked, his voice low, rough with desire but tender, too.

Y/N nodded, her breath trembling as she met his gaze, the flickering firelight casting shadows across his face. “I do, H." She whispered.

Harry's smile deepened, and he pressed a soft kiss to her inner thigh, his hands gently coaxing her legs apart once more. "I got you, dove. Promise.” He murmured, his voice a quiet, confident assurance that sent a shiver of anticipation through her.

Y/N's pulse quickened as Harry kissed his way higher, his lips brushing her skin in a way that made her body ache with a need she had never known before. Her hands gripped the fur beneath her as his mouth hovered just above her most intimate place, and when his lips finally made contact, a gasp escaped her, her body tensing with the unfamiliar sensation. It was unlike anything she had ever felt—a warmth, a softness, and then the slow, deliberate flick of his tongue against her bud, sending a jolt of pleasure through her core.

Y/N's head fell back, her breath catching in her throat as Harry continued, his mouth working with skill and precision. He moved with confidence, as though he knew exactly what she needed, exactly how to coax the pleasure from her body.

Harry's hands slid up her thighs, his fingers pressing gently into her skin, grounding her in the moment. His tongue moved in slow, teasing strokes, building a rhythm that made Y/N's body tremble with each touch. Her hips moved instinctively toward him, a soft moan escaping her lips as the pleasure began to build, layer upon layer, each stroke of his tongue pushing her closer to a place she had never been.

"Harry," she gasped, her voice breathless, her fingers tangling in his hair as she arched her back, the heat between her legs overwhelming. She had never imagined this kind of pleasure, had never known it was even possible.

Harry hummed softly against her, the vibrations sending another wave of pleasure through her as his tongue moved faster, more insistently. His hands gripped her hips, pulling her closer to his mouth, and Y/N's entire body shuddered with the intensity of it, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The world around her blurred, the crackle of the fire fading into the background as she became lost in the sensation of his mouth, his tongue, his touch.

The tension in her belly coiled tighter and tighter, the pleasure building with every movement of his lips, every flick of his tongue. Y/N had never felt anything like it before—this burning, all-consuming need that made her body tremble, her breath catch, her heart race. She was on the edge, teetering between control and surrender, and with one final, skilled movement of his tongue, she fell.

A cry tore from her lips as the pleasure crested, washing over her in waves that left her breathless, her body trembling beneath him. Her fingers tightened in his hair, her hips lifting off the rug as the pleasure pulsed through her, intense and overwhelming. Harry didn't stop, his mouth working her through the height of her release, his hands holding her steady as she writhed beneath him, lost in the sensation.

When the waves of pleasure finally began to ebb, Y/N collapsed back onto the rug, her body spent, her chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. Her limbs felt heavy, her skin flushed and sensitive, and as Harry pressed a final, soft kiss to her inner thigh, she shivered, her body still tingling from the intensity of it all.

Slowly, Harry rose, his hands sliding up her body as he kissed his way back up to her lips, his breath warm and soft against her skin. He settled beside her, pulling her into his arms, his lips brushing her forehead as she nestled against his chest, her heart still pounding from the intensity of her release. “Told you I had you, hm?” He cooed, combing his fingers through her disheveled hair.

She nodded, the sound of her heart thumping in her ears as she cupped his cheek, pulling him into another kiss. His hands roamed from her hips to her breasts, rolling back on top of her with a smirk. His hands roamed her body, caressing, exploring, a though trying to commit every inch of her to memory.

Y/N arched beneath him, her body responding to his touch with a need that had been building for weeks, months even. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, desperate for the connection she had longed for, and Harry groaned, his body trembling with the weight of his desire. Slowly, reverently, he guided himself into her, his movements gentle, careful, as though afraid to break the fragile spell between them. She gasped at the sensation, her fingers gripping his shoulders as he filled her, their bodies finally coming together in a way that felt inevitable, as if they had been meant for this moment all along.

For a heartbeat, they stayed like that, perfectly still, their breaths mingling, their hearts pounding in unison. He was entranced by the feeling of her walls fluttering around his cock, the way she stretched around him.

Then, slowly, Harry began to move, his hips rocking against hers in a rhythm that sent waves of pleasure coursing through her body. Y/N’s head fell back further into the rug, a moan escaping her lips as she gave herself over to the sensation, to the connection that seemed to bind them together more deeply than any words ever could.

Harry's movements were slow at first, deliberate, each thrust sending a jolt of pleasure through her body, but soon the restraint he had tried to maintain began to slip. His pace quickened, his body moving against hers with a raw, desperate need that matched her own. The sound of their breathing, of their bodies moving together, filled the room, mingling with the crackle of the fire and the whisper of the wind outside.

Y/N's fingers dug into his back, her nails leaving faint marks on his skin as her body arched beneath him, her breath coming in gasps. Every touch, every kiss, every thrust was a promise, a declaration that neither of them could speak but both understood.

"Harry," she whispered, her voice trembling with the intensity of her need, with the overwhelming sensation building inside her. "I–” But she couldn't finish the sentence. Words seemed inadequate to describe what she felt, the way her body and soul seemed to be unraveling in his arms.

Harry's lips found hers again, silencing her with a kiss that was all-consuming, his body moving against hers with an urgency that mirrored her own. He groaned against her mouth, his breath ragged, his hands gripping her hips as though afraid to let her go. “Y’like that, huh?” He grunted, bottoming out with each thrust. “Sound so pretty, the way you sing f’me.”

She nodded, eyes glossed over in pleasure as she wraps her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder with whimpers of praises. And then, with one final, desperate thrust, Y/N felt herself fall over the edge, her body trembling with release as the pleasure crashed over her like a wave. She cried out, her fingers tangled in his curls, her heart pounding in her chest as the world seemed to fall away around her.

In that moment, Harry pulled away, his breath hot against her neck as he pressed his forehead against her shoulder, his body shuddering with restraint. His hands tightened on her hips as he pulled back, separating them just before the inevitable.

A moan fell from his lips, and Y/N swore it was the prettiest melody she’s ever heard.

He fisted his cock, coaxing his hand back and forth before he lets out a low whimper, spilling himself right onto her abdomen—decorating her in opaque that marked her as his.

His sigh was heavy as he fell back beside her, placing a kiss to her temple as she lie there breathlessly. For a moment, they lay there in the quiet, their bodies still trembling from the intensity of it all, the only sound in the room the soft crackling of the fire. Y/N's chest rose and fell with the aftershocks of pleasure, her heart still racing, but she felt safe. “S’warm.” She giggled, his release glistening in the flames of the fire.

He couldn’t help but smile as he maneuvered his arm beneath her neck, turning to his side as he rested his chin atop her head. “Promise I’ll clean y’up.” He chuckled, draping his other arm across her chest, to which she reaches up and holds his bicep with a smile.

He presses a kiss into her hair, breathing her in. “Ad vitam aeternam.” He murmured, listening to the fire crackle and her even breaths.

Her eyebrows furrowed, recognizing some of the words but she figured the meanings are different, because what she interpreted made no sense at all. He tilted her head back, looking at the man expectantly as he shifted his own head ever so slightly to place a soft kiss against her lips. “To eternal life.”

Her cheeks flushed as she stared into him, the color almost as red as the cherries from the other day. She runs her fingers through his curls, a small smile spreading across her lips.

His own eyes searches hers, the tips of their nose almost touching. His hands cup her face, thumbing gentle strokes onto her cheek. “What?”

She lied her hand atop the one on her face, dipping the tips of her fingers to hold onto his grasp. “I’m falling in love with you.”

He exhales through his nose, a chuckle laced with content emitting from his mouth. He nudges his nose with hers, brushing their lips together softly before pressing it into a kiss. He smiles, pulling back after a beat. “I already have.”

[sushirrrry]

majesty - part one.

| masterlist | wattpad word count: 16881 summary: in 1803 England, Josephine Dowding escapes a troubled past by accepting a position as governess to the daughters of the Duke and Duchess of Northumberland. thrilled at the opportunity for stability, she devotes herself to her work, hoping her secrets remain buried in the ground and unspoken. however, her resolve is tested when she meets the Duke’s rakish eldest son, Lord Styles, upon his return from war. known for his charm and scandalous reputation, his piercing stares unsettle Josephine during family suppers, leaving her questioning her composure and safety in his presence. as she navigates life in the castle, Josephine struggles to discern whether the creaking noises outside her door are mere whispers of the old manor or the harbinger of something far more personal.

now let's head back to 1803. enjoy.

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The sound of the carriage wheels rattled over the frozen gravel, each jolt jarring Josephine’s fragile composure as she held her cloak closely against herself. A gasp escaped her occasionally, as she found the ride a bit unnerving, her alertness at her forefront when she would go to grab at the seat.

She felt that her old life had been forgotten with every inch that she moved towards a new one.

As the towering spires of Northumberland Manor came into view from the small window, silhouetted against the pale gray of a winter sky, she tightened her grip on the fraying edges of her cloak. This place was meant to be her sanctuary, far removed from the bruises of her past and the whispers of a life she longed to forget back in Surrey.

It had not been long since she had left her previous life, so the memories had been fresh in the back of her mind. The struggle that had come upon her had forever changed her outlook on how life should be lived. She had fled to Ashbourne from Surrey; looking for any sign of a newly advanced life to forget where she had come from. Now, she had found a resilience to move forward—leading her to Northumberland, for a new role.

It was a fear she hadn’t wished upon her worst enemy; the fear of instability, worthlessness—leaving was in her best interest, she knew that now. But it had been a feat to bring herself to this conclusion.

Every sharp sound reminded her of the night that she left. She had been told to stay; she had been instructed to. But something inside of her rushed her cloak over her body, and in an instant, she had fled. She had stayed in the shadows in Ashbourne, hoping for an opportunity such as this to arise. She wondered if he had been looking for her as her mind had continued to encourage.

Ages went by without a lead to a new life.

And then, almost as if all hope had been given up, she found herself on her way to Northumberland Castle with instruction from the Duke and Duchess.

The year was marked as 1803; Northumberland Castle loomed before Josephine Dowding like a somber, snow-dusted fortress in the winter season. This was to be her chance—a position as governess to the Duke and Duchess of Northumberland's daughters, a role that promised purpose, stability, and, most importantly, respectability by those above her in society. When she had gotten the letter of acceptance of the position, she had felt like the wind was knocked out of her.

It was an opportunity for redemption—it was her opportunity to leave when she felt that she had no voice.

Josephine’s hands trembled as they sat in her lap, merely a distraction from all the thoughts that lingered between her ears. It was not the cold that made her shiver but the memory of whispered threats and the bruises that had yet to fade completely.

Northumberland Castle was not just a new beginning—it was to now be her refuge. She would bring her lessons, her capability and poise to the manor now.

Once the carriage had come to a halt, her breathing had started to quicken.

"Miss Dowding, we’ve arrived," the coachman called, snapping her from her reverie.

When the door of the carriage opened, she felt the direct cold air sharp on her skin. Her hand had found its way to the coachman as he simply helped her down to the ground. The gravel beneath her feet crunched before she was able to look upwards at the statute of the manor itself.

Without a word of her own, her eyes traveled to the voice of the woman standing and waiting for an arrival—hers, perhaps. Josephine hadn’t thought of herself to be as important as needing a greeting from the Duchess of Northumberland, Margaretta Styles, herself, so her confidence drifted to a higher place instantly.

The outside of the palace was as grey as the sky, matching the tone of the sad, empty winter scenery. The front had columns that held the structure into place, curvature of arches and green shrubbery that Josephine could only imagine was bustling with fresh flowers in the warmer months.

She took in the sight, wondering how on earth someone was fortunate enough to come from such privilege. But she felt grateful to be able to be a part of it, somehow. As her attention drew away from the palace back to the woman in front of her, she gave her best and most professional smile.

“Miss Dowding, I presume,” The duchess began, her tone measured but not unkind, “welcome to Northumberland—I hope your journey was well traveled. We are pleased to have you join us as governess to our daughters.”

The word of the woman was held with pride and curiosity; Josephine held her shoulders back to offer her best, but she found it hard to tell her own smile this, as the nerves seemed to uphold her.

“Y-Yes—I,” She fumbled over her words, letting her feet move to curtsey, “I am. It’s a privilege to be in your presence and to serve your family, your grace.”

The duchess stepped closer, her gown whispering against the fine gravel. She was an elegant woman, with dark hair coiled neatly at her nape and eyes that missed no detail; Josephine had watched them travel along her corset and cloak that were certainly her best, but by no means the best. For a moment, she studied Josephine in silence, as though assessing her worth with a single glance. A blush had crept onto Josephine’s cheeks as she watched the woman smile, almost fondly.

“You come highly recommended, you know,” the duchess continued, a faint smile gracing her lips. “I trust you are aware of the discipline and refinement required for a position such as this.”

“Yes, your grace,” Josephine replied, lifting her head just enough to meet the duchess’ gaze. “I assure you, and your family, that I am both capable and committed to this opportunity.”

The duchess nodded, her expression softening. “Good. My children can be... very spirited at times, particularly Beatrice. I expect you will handle them with patience and resolve.”

“I shall, your grace,” Josephine said, a flicker of confidence finding its way into her voice. If there was one thing that she was confident on, it had been her ability to speak with children.

“Excellent.” The duchess gestured back towards the house; another woman, older than them both, had made her way out to the courtyard to greet them.

“Come, you’ve had a long journey, and I wish to hear more about you. After all, if you are to guide my children, it is only fitting that I know the woman entrusted with such a task. Miss Ellory here will assist with your bags, and we will allow you to freshen before we sit for a tea.”

The duchess recognized that another person had been standing there, her eyes flickering towards the carriage for Ellory to retrieve Josephine’s bags.

Josephine hesitated, startled by the invitation, but quickly curtsied again. “Of course, your grace. Thank you.”

As the grand oak doors swung open to reveal flickering candlelight and shadows that seemed to stretch endlessly, a knot formed in her stomach that hadn’t been there previously. For all its promise of safety, something about the manor—which she now realized was quite the castle—had given her a reminder of the task that she had assigned to herself.

The grand foyer was a marvel. Walls adorned with ancestral portraits loomed over her, their subjects’ eyes seeming to follow her as she walked through the hallways towards the sitting room that was anything but subtle. A massive chandelier hung above, its crystals glittering in the flickering firelight. Josephine’s lips parted in awe, though she quickly suppressed the expression, wary of seeming too impressed.

"This way, Miss Dowding," said the stern-faced housekeeper, Ellory, who led her through a labyrinth of hallways. Her small room, tucked in the east wing, was modest—plain furniture, a narrow bed, and a single frosted window—but it was hers.

"It will do just fine," Josephine murmured softly, setting her trunk down. She had given Ellory a smile of encouragement, hoping to not signify anything differently than her complete and utter approval.

“Tea will be in the main hall momentarily. Take a moment to freshen up for the duchess,” Ellory’s words were curt, but they were met with a small up-turn of her lips when Josephine stared at her with a doe-eyed look of fear. “Just as a small favor, make sure to tell her how much you adore the new timepiece on the mantel. It is a gift from her son—she will think very highly of your compliment, I am sure.”

The tidbit of information made Josephine’s head tilt just a bit, almost as if the hint was a dutiful favor from one act of service to another.

Josephine took in a breath, taking the information in before she nodded a few times. “Very well, I appreciate the gesture,” She smiled at the woman, “Thank you.”

Once she had been left alone, the wooden door shut with a clank. The room wasn’t very well lit, hardly able to see her hands in front of her once she had been closed into the tight space.

This was not just an adjustment, but a change far greater than Josephine could have ever dreamed of. She was far more grateful to this opportunity than she could ever say with any verbal discussion, but she hoped that her work would translate her gratitude to the duke and duchess.

As Josephine moved to sit, she felt a glimmer of hope that she hadn’t felt previously; almost as if everything that she had dealt with prior had led to this moment. She took a heavy breath, pushing all the air out of her lungs in relief. The duchess’s tone carried authority, but there was warmth beneath it, she could tell—a sign that perhaps this new chapter in her life would not be as daunting as she had feared. Or so she hoped.

---

Josephine smoothed her skirts yet again, feeling the weight of the moment as she descended the grand staircase of Northumberland Hall, down towards the main affair where she knew that the duchess would be waiting. Her nerves had gotten the best of her, wondering if she had left the Lady waiting for too long.

Each step echoed faintly against the stone walls, a reminder of the vastness of her new world. She hadn’t seen a residence such as this before, which led her mind to take a wander on what could possibly be behind each door. The late afternoon sunlight, which had now been gracefully pushing through the dark clouds, filtered through the towering stained-glass windows, casting dappled hues of crimson and gold onto the polished wooden banister.

She reached the foot of the staircase, pausing to take in the opulence of the main hall. Marble columns stretched to a high, vaulted ceiling adorned with intricate plasterwork. Above the massive stone hearth, a portrait of the late duke loomed, his stern gaze following her as if appraising the new governess. The fire beneath crackled warmly, casting flickering shadows across the room.

At the center of this stately scene sat the Duchess of Northumberland, poised with regal elegance in an intricately carved high-backed chair. She wore a gown of deep emerald green, the fabric shimmering faintly in the firelight, and a delicate string of pearls adorned her neck. Her sharp eyes fixed on Josephine with an assessing gaze that made her feel simultaneously welcome and on trial, both giving her lungs a moment of cease.

"Miss Josephine," the duchess greeted, her voice a harmonious blend of authority and civility. "Do join me, won’t you? We have much to discuss, and I am sure you are famished.”

Josephine curtsied deeply, her palms damp against her skirts. "Your grace, thank you for your hospitality."

“Please,” The duchess shook her wrist at the curtsey, “No need for pleasantries any longer. You are welcome here and are to be a part of our family. For I am not of royal blood, but just matrimony.” She laughed softly, her fingertips tracing the pearls around her neck.

Josephine let out a sigh of relief, “As you wish, thank you.”

The duchess gestured with a graceful hand to the tea service laid out on a low table of polished mahogany. Fine China cups, rimmed with gold, gleamed under the light of the chandelier overhead. A silver teapot steamed gently, its scent a comforting mix of bergamot and lavender. Josephine took a few small crackers that had been laid on the plates in front of them. She took it upon herself to take a few bites, shutting her eyes as she was thankful for the snack.

"Please," the duchess said, pouring tea with measured precision in each of their cups. "Sit. Make yourself feel at home here.”

Josephine had taken time to make her way to the opposite seat across from the Duchess. “Your home is one of dreams, your grace, truly.”

The duchess stared up at her with what Josephine could only identify as a sheepish grin, her hand moving to take ahold of the teacup that she held in front of her lips now. “It is a privilege to live within these walls,” She shook her head with wonder, “The history and folklore that these walls preside is nothing that I take for granted. I remember the day that the duke and I found our residence here—the day after we wed,” Josephine saw the awe on her face at the remembrance of that day, “It had to be the most gracious day of my life.”

Josephine took a sip of her own tea, letting her hands fall into her lap with the small cup. “I imagine it has always been quite beautiful, especially raising a family here. I love the countryside.”

The duchess tilted her head slightly, studying Josephine as if weighing her response. "Tell me, Miss Josephine, where is it you come from? Your accent has a softness that suggests you are not of the North."

Josephine straightened in her chair, her hands lightly gripping her teacup. "No, your grace, you are correct. I am from Surrey, originally—however, I am coming this morning from a small village in Ashbourne. It is by the sea.”

She hoped that the duchess didn’t inquire anything further regarding Ashbourne, as it had been her refuge, not her homestead.

The duchess raised an eyebrow, curiosity flickering across her otherwise impassive features. "And your family?"

A sigh of relief seemed to coat Josephine’s lungs for a moment before she found her voice again.

"My parents are tenants on an estate," Josephine explained, her voice steady but reserved. "My father is the steward of the land and stables, and my mother oversees the household for the squire."

"An industrious upbringing," the duchess observed. "And your siblings? I presume you have them?"

Josephine hesitated for a moment before answering. "I have an elder brother, William. He manages the estate with my father. And I had a younger sister,” She paused, her voice softening as she thought of Florence fondly. "She passed away when she was very young. They believe that it had been fever."

The duchess’ expression shifted slightly, her sharp gaze softening at the edges. "My deepest condolences regarding your sister. It isn’t lost on me how difficult that is," She licked her lips softly, “My eldest sister had died of plague when I was only seven—it devastated my mother to bits, I don’t believe she was ever the same.”

"Thank you, your grace. I am sorry to hear of your sister, as well.” Josephine replied, bowing her head slightly.

After a sad beat, the duchess took another sip of her tea and found herself questioning Josephine yet again.

“How did you come to this profession?" The duchess inquired, leaning back in her chair, her hands folded neatly over her lap, the tea having a coat of steam beaming upwards on the table across from her.

"My mother encouraged me to pursue an education beyond what was typical for our privilege," Josephine said. "She believed it was the surest path to independence. I was fortunate to study under a governess as a girl, and I later took positions with other families in the region to help solidify my understandings of literature and arithmetic. I am quite fond of literature, if I am to be biased."

The duchess nodded; her expression unreadable, but Josephine felt that it had an air of relief along with it. "A sensible decision. You seem well-suited for the role, especially with your presence here today, with me,” She took in a breath as she shook her head with a taught smile, “You will have to take a glance at our library if you are so interested in literature. It is quite an impressive spread, if I do say so myself. From the travels of my son, it is imperative that you take advantage of his collection.”

A soft rustle caught her attention, then. Two young girls, peeking from behind the heavy brocade curtains at the far end of the hall, giggled before stepping hesitantly into view.

"My goodness, girls," The duchess announced with a laugh, her tone softening as her gaze fell upon them. "Miss Josephine, I am quite sorry for their abrupt appearance—they can be so mischievous,” She turned to the young girls again, “Eleanor and Beatrice, please come introduce yourselves at once.”

Lady Eleanor, the elder at about twelve, stood with a poised stillness that seemed to mirror her mother. Her auburn hair was swept into an elegant braid, and her blue-gray eyes regarded Josephine with quiet curiosity. Lady Beatrice, no more than eight, radiated a perpetrating energy. Her dark curls framed a round, impish face, and she shifted from foot to foot, her hands clasped behind her back as if hiding some mischief. Both carried the same facial freckles that left Josephine in awe of their natural beauty.

The duchess waved a hand towards the young girls as they made their entrance, standing in front with their eyes on Josephine.

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Josephine offered, taking a stand. “I am Josephine, and I am quite ecstatic to fulfill my role in helping you learn.”

"It will be your charge to oversee their education and development. Eleanor is excelling in literature but requires additional focus in mathematics and French. Beatrice..." The duchess paused, casting a knowing look at her youngest. "Beatrice will need someone to channel her... enthusiasm into more productive endeavors."

Beatrice giggled openly, her laugh as bright as her mother’s pearls, while Eleanor cast her a sidelong glance of gentle reproach.

"I shall do my utmost, your grace," Josephine replied, folding her hands neatly in her lap. "It is an honor to be entrusted with their care."

"You may establish your own routine as you wish," The duchess said, her tone firm but not unkind. "However, discipline and decorum are paramount. They must be prepared for their roles in society, and this household will tolerate nothing less."

"Of course, your grace.” Josephine said with a nod.

Eleanor spoke at last, her voice soft but clear. "Will you be teaching us history, too? I’d like to learn more about the Wars of the Roses."

Josephine’s smile widened at her gesture towards learning. "I’d be delighted, Lady Eleanor. Perhaps we can even study historical figures through their letters and journals. I hear that there is quite an impressive library here; I would love to explore that with you."

Beatrice leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she took ahold of Josephine’s wrist for a moment "Do you know riddles? Miss Carden didn’t, and she always made me write lines instead."

Josephine chuckled at the childish question, watching the duchess’ knowing eyebrow quirk at the measure. "I do know a few. Maybe we can trade riddles once your lessons are complete. Or perhaps, after supper this evening."

Beatrice clapped her hands in delight, while Eleanor’s lips curved in a faint, approving smile.

The duchess observed the exchange in silence, her expression unreadable. Finally, she nodded. "You may begin tomorrow. Take this afternoon to familiarize yourself with the girls and the household,” The duchess stared at the girls for a moment, “Eleanor and Beatrice, please go finish freshening up. We will be seating for dinner soon, and I know that it can take you quite some time, hm?”

The teasing look of the mother made the girls giggle with knowingness as they adhered to their mother’s direction, making their way towards the stairwell to take them to their rooms.

The duchess poured another cup of tea, the faint chime of the porcelain echoing in the vastness of the hall. The fire crackled warmly, and Josephine watched the flames dance for a moment, the weight of her new role settling on her shoulders.

Josephine let her eyes drift to the mantel that sat the timepiece that Ellory had made a mention of when she had been freshening up in her quarters. “They seem delightful, your grace. I look forward to working with them.” A pause for a moment before she licked over her lip softly, “I cannot help but notice the beauty of that timepiece there. It is quite magnificent.”

The duchess took in a breath before she seemed taken by Josephine’s compliment, nodding as she finished the rest of the tea in her cup. “Thank you,” She seemed to remember a fondness, “My eldest brought that back from France as a gift. Isn’t it lovely?”

It had taken a moment for Josephine to think about the implications of the comment; taking some time to make sure that she had been thorough enough with her questioning of her role and duties. “Will I be overseeing their education as well?”

The duchess laughed lightly; a sound as soft as silk as she shook her head. “No, Miss Josephine. Lord Styles is well beyond needing a governess. He’s recently returned from London—he is the one I stated had the collection of literature in our library. He spends most of his time... elsewhere.” Her eyes sparkled as she took another sip of tea. “Though I imagine he will find his way here for dinner this evening, and I would be delighted to introduce you.”

Josephine hesitated, sensing something unspoken in the duchess’ tone, but she didn’t question it; instead, succumbing and nodding. “I see. I look forward to meeting him, your grace.”

The duchess set her teacup down with deliberate care, her smirk settling into a satisfied smile. “Oh, I have no doubt you will, Miss Josephine. No doubt at all.” A knowing look made Josephine smile, “He is quite something.”

Josephine felt a strange warmth rise to her cheeks, though she couldn’t quite place why. The duchess returned her attention to the fire, her thoughts her own, as if she already knew what the evening might bring.

---

The soft glow of the evening lamps illuminated the grand corridors of Northumberland Hall as Josephine made her way down the stairs, once again, and towards the dining hall as instructed. She was able to get a few moments of rest after tea with the duchess, letting her eyes shut briefly. Before she knew it, the sky had fallen into a darkness quickly as she knew it quickly did in the winter months.

Once on the main level of the palace, she had noticed that quite a few more individuals were filling the space of the large manor. Much more than before, she thought.

The faint hum of activity filled the air—servants bustling about, arranging flowers, polishing silver, and ensuring every detail was immaculate for supper. Though new to the household, Josephine couldn’t ignore the lively energy that seemed to ripple through the palace tonight. While she knew to expect the duchess, Eleanor, and Beatrice to attend dinner, she still hadn’t made contact with the duke yet—or new information to her, the Marquess who had been discussed earlier.

The eldest child, son of the duke and duchess, she had learned.

Approaching the dining wing, she slowed her pace once she was able to hear some faint voices ahead of her. While she had been raised not to pry, it had been a saving grace for her in the past—knowing what was to come. Her ears caught snippets of a conversation between two footmen stationed near the service door, as if awaiting the arrival. They spoke in hushed tones, their voices low but tinged with excitement. It intrigued her greater, so her pace slowed.

“Lord Styles arrived this morning,” one whispered. “Straight from London. Brought his valet and half his wardrobe, I’d wager. Who knows how long his reign will be here.”

“London? He barely stayed a month, then. I wasn’t aware he had been back to mainland at all.” The other replied. “Always restless, that one. The war changed him, they say, but his charm hasn’t dulled a bit.”

Josephine held herself against the wall as she tried to lean her neck forward just a few more lengths.

“Charming or not,” the first murmured, “he’s still a hero. The stories you hear—the things he’s seen—makes you wonder how anyone comes back the same. He’s haunted, they say, though he hides it well enough. Still… his reputation precedes him, doesn’t it? Even the ladies in London can’t seem to resist him. Maybe he will be staying for social season. Maybe he will be settling.”

Josephine paused in the shadow of the corridor, her brow furrowing.

A hero. Restless. Haunted. Their words painted an image of someone far more complex than the heir to a dukedom she’d imagined. Her thoughts on the matter hadn’t been that pressed, but she certainly wasn’t aware that she was about to dine with a hero, at that.

She resumed her steps, her curiosity growing with each passing moment. Protocol for a governess was rarely complicated, as she understood it, but Lord Styles seemed to command a certain gravity of a situation that she was merely unfamiliar. If she was to dine in his presence, she needed to be prepared.

As she wandered down the hall, she spotted Miss Ellory in the side hall directing maids to their posts, Josephine approached her with quiet purpose, then. The older woman, always sharp-eyed, noticed her immediately.

“Miss Josephine,” Miss Ellory greeted with a brisk nod. “What can I do for you? I do not expect that we will be sitting down for supper for just a while yet.”

Josephine hesitated for a moment before speaking. “I appreciate your timeliness, Ellory,” She nodded, “But I have more of a question regarding placement here, that you could possibly answer for me. I-I, well,” She paused for a moment before Ellory egged her on.

“Go on, dear.” She suggested softly.

“I understand Lord Styles will be joining supper this evening. I thought it prudent to inquire about any expectations regarding his presence—I have heard stories about him that seem far serious, and I wish to ensure I observe the proper decorum and not be naïve.”

Miss Ellory paused at Josephine’s question, watching with a flicker of understanding crossing her face then. “Ah, yes. Lord Styles.” She motioned for a maid to step aside, then turned her full attention to Josephine. “His arrival always stirs the household. You needn’t worry about decorum—he’s no tyrant—but it’s wise to understand the man, certainly. I know him quite well, as I watched him become a man in these halls.”

Josephine nodded, waiting as the housekeeper seemed to consider her words carefully.

“Lord Styles is the eldest son, the Duke and Duchess’s pride and heir,” Miss Ellory explained. “He returned from the wars a hero in the eyes of the world—truly, Northumberland salute him as far above his lordship, it seems. His bravery on the battlefield earned him renown, though he rarely speaks of it himself.” She paused, her voice softening to try and make it quiet, just between the two of them as they stood off and away from the others. “The war left its scars. Haunted, perhaps would be a better term for it. He conceals it with charm, but those who’ve known him longer can see the shadows beneath. I believe that he is merely covering up what he’s seen.”

Josephine’s fingers tightened slightly around the edge of her shawl as she drew it around herself, “And what of his reputation?”

Miss Ellory’s lips curved faintly, though her tone remained measured. “I see you may have heard some notorious gossip around the premise.” The teasing nature of the words left Josephine with a hare of blush on her cheek—Ellory scrunched her nose at the viewing.

“Before the war, Lord Styles was known as a rake, a man of society who could charm his way through any salon in London—believe me, I had a fair share of ensuring that princesses were sent to their carriages quickly and fervently in the night, without a sight here at the manor. So, God only knows what he has been up to in London. It’s completely improper, I know, but I know that the Lord’s heart is full and wonderous. He’s still the same in some ways—his wit is sharp, and women are drawn to him—but his time on the battlefield changed him. There’s a depth to him now, though I suspect even he struggles to reconcile who he was with who he is.”

Josephine felt a pang of something she couldn’t quite name—sympathy, curiosity, or perhaps a touch of apprehension. “I see. Thank you, Miss Ellory.”

The housekeeper nodded, her expression softening. “You’ll do well enough, Miss Josephine. Just be yourself. He’s had enough of insincerity in London, I imagine,” She reached to hold onto Josephine’s upper arm, giving her a squeeze, “I suspect that he’ll find you quite charming; possibly the sincerity he’ll need to return back here.”

With a soft nod, a hearty glance, Josephine felt a warmth in the touch. She gave a nod to Ellory with a thanks. “I appreciate you warning me. I don’t want to miss a thing.”

Ellory shook her head, letting the smile on her face show. “I don’t think you will miss a thing, Miss Josephine. You’ve got an inkling for observation, and I think that will do you a great service here. It’s best to stay informed.”

Josephine murmured her another short thanks before continuing down the corridor.

As she passed through the arched doorway into the drawing room, the low hum of activity faded with the space put between it. When she stepped into the room, she had noticed that Eleanor sat curled on the sofa, her auburn hair falling in neat waves over her shoulders as she pored over a leather-bound book. Beatrice was sprawled on the carpet nearby, absently playing with a wooden horse as the fire roared on the other side of her.

Josephine took a seat beside Eleanor, her curiosity now redirected. “What are you reading, Lady Eleanor?”

Eleanor glanced up, her expression momentarily brightening when she recognized Josephine taking a seat beside her “A book about ancient Rome. Did you know they had aqueducts that carried water to entire cities?”

Josephine smiled at the child’s curiosity, seeing a glimmer of herself in the hunger for knowledge and learning. “Indeed, I did. The ingenuity of their engineering is remarkable, isn’t it? Have you reached the part about Julius Caesar yet?”

Eleanor nodded enthusiastically, launching into an animated description of the chapter she’d just finished— the part of the story when civil war in Italy had been impeding with Caesar’s leadership. Josephine listened intently, occasionally glancing at Beatrice, who was now attempting to balance her toy horse on one of her slippers. When the horse fell, she rolled her eyes with impatience; leading Josephine to smile momentarily.

“I see that you have excellent memory and observation, Lady Eleanor,” Josephine praised, watching as the young girl flipped through the pages in significant intrigue and excitement, “I shall hope to find things that will continue to interest you—I’m sure there are many things that we can study around Caesar. His letters are brilliant, his writing is exquisite.”

The young girl’s head whipped around in delight, “I would love that!”

While the sounds from the manor had ceased by her entrance of the room, it had begun to grow louder again. Josephine had turned her head to the sound of approaching footsteps; it had interrupted the quiet rhythm of their conversation regarding the read that Eleanor held in her hands. The voices carried through the hall, warm and welcoming, followed by a deeper tone—unmistakably masculine and faintly amused.

Josephine looked up just as Eleanor and Beatrice bolted from their spots, their skirts swishing as they raced toward the doorway when some individuals had entered the arched doorway.

“Harry!” Beatrice squealed, her voice echoing in the high-ceilinged room, in a childish manner that felt so pure and wholesome.

Lord Styles, his tall frame silhouetted against the lamplight of the hall. His dark hair was slightly unruly, his features sharp and striking as the dancing silhouette of the oil lamp. He was dressed impeccably; sharp golds glistened against the dark black of the coat tailored to his shoulders and waist. Though his posture carried a casual ease, it was suggested that he hadn’t been comfortable with formality.

He crouched slightly as Beatrice threw herself into his arms, laughing as he spun her in a brief circle. Eleanor followed more decorously from her space next to Josephine, though her smile was no less eager.

“My sweet girls, hello,” he said warmly, his voice rich and smooth as he held Beatrice on his hip, with a spectacular ease, and Eleanor held her arms around his waist.

The duchess followed close behind, her expression softening as she watched her children reunite. She caught Josephine’s eye for the briefest moment, her gaze flickering with that same knowing glint Josephine had seen earlier in the day.

Josephine sat frozen on the sofa, her hands resting lightly on her lap. She could feel the faint hum of energy that seemed to follow Lord Styles into the room, his presence commanding without effort. While she was glad that she had talked with Ellory prior to this, she wasn’t sure the proper protocol to introduce herself. High society worried her—she knew how to curtsey, how to say hello, how to introduce herself, but that felt almost insecure at that moment.

She suddenly understood why the staff had spoken of him with such reverence—and why the duchess had smirked when she mentioned him earlier. It was not lost on her that his presence would have made the enemy cower; he was tall, broody, a sense of confidence that lingered from the undeniable cut of his jawline to the way he stood so effortlessly.

As Lord Styles straightened, his gaze briefly swept the room, pausing when it landed on Josephine. His eyes held hers for a moment—curious, assessing, and faintly amused that she hadn’t made her way to introduce herself—before he turned his attention back to his family.

Josephine let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She remained seated on the sofa, her hands folded neatly in her lap as she watched the reunion unfold. Beatrice clung to Lord Styles, Eleanor stood beside him, quieter but no less eager, her hands clasped behind his back. “It is so good to have you home, Harry,” she said softly, her words carrying a depth of sincerity that made her older brother’s expression soften. “We’ve missed you greatly.”

“And it’s good to see you again, Ellie. I am glad to be back home.” He replied, brushing a strand of auburn hair from her face.

The duchess watched her children with an almost imperceptible smile, but her gaze flicked briefly to Josephine, who remained still and composed, unsure if she should join the conversation or wait to be addressed. Another man, who had just then entered the room, stood near the fireplace, his stern features softened by the glow of the flames as he observed the scene with quiet pride.

At last, the duchess broke the moment. “Benedict, Harry—I would like to introduce you to our guest this evening. Well, she’s going to be our guest most evenings, as Miss Josephine has arrived. She is to be our new houseguest—she has arrived this morning, as well.” The duchess turns towards her husband, “Miss Dowding, it is my highest honor to introduce you to my husband, the Duke of Northumberland, Benedict Styles,” She turned towards the marquess, “And to my eldest, Marquess of Havenbrook, Lord Harry Styles.”

Josephine’s heart skipped a beat as all eyes turned toward her. She rose gracefully—she had hoped—from the sofa, smoothing her skirts as she stepped forward and towards the family reunion of sorts.

Josephine curtsied, keeping her voice steady despite the weight of his attention from both the Duke and Lord themselves. “Miss Josephine Dowding, your graces. I’ve recently joined the household as governess to Lady Eleanor and Lady Beatrice. I hope to exceed all expectations.”

The duke bowed his head at the woman to acknowledge her grace, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Dowding. You shall make a great impact on our children, I hope.”

Lord Styles’ lips curved into a faint, amused smile as he interrupted his father, “A governess? I will see that my sisters are in excellent hands.”

Eleanor tugged at his arm, beaming. “Oh, she’s wonderful, Harry! She says she knows riddles and stories and even said we could study Julius Caesar’s letters!”

“Julius Caesar, you say? That is far more than just literature and arithmetic,” Lord Styles arched an eyebrow, his smile widening. “I can see you’re already raising their expectations, Miss Dowding. I’ll have to keep up with the lessons myself.”

Josephine felt a blush rise to her cheeks but managed a polite smile. “I am sure that you would be able to keep up just fine, my lord.”

His eyes lingered on hers for a moment longer than necessary, she is positive, his expression unreadable in that precise moment. Then, with a faint tilt of his head, he turned back to his sisters.

“Well then,” the duchess said, clapping her hands lightly to draw everyone’s attention. “Now that introductions have been made, shall we proceed to supper in the dining hall?”

The family began moving toward the dining room, the duke offering his arm to the duchess as the girls followed in a flurry of chatter, not allowing any space between themselves and the marquess. Josephine trailed behind, her thoughts spinning as she tried to process the interaction.

Lord Styles had an undeniable presence—charming, yes, but also enigmatic. She had seen the way his eyes had darkened, just for a moment, when Eleanor spoke of his absence, and she couldn’t shake the sense that there was far more to him than the confident man who had stridden into the room with ease.

As they entered the dining room, Josephine was struck again by the grandeur of Northumberland Hall. The table was set with gleaming silver and crystal, the centerpiece a lavish arrangement of winter blooms that were covered in reds and greens to bring in the holiday season, approaching quickly. She took her assigned seat at the far end of the table, aware that her role at the table would require a balance of invisibility and attentiveness.

Lord Styles was seated to the right of her, at the head of the table, his mother on the opposite side of him. Eleanor sat on the opposite side of Josephine, Beatrice across from her—the duke at the other end of the table. Though he spoke animatedly with Eleanor and Beatrice, Josephine noticed moments where his gaze would drift, his expression distant, as though his thoughts were miles away. She hadn’t meant to stare, but she felt almost drawn to the way his facial construction had met expectations that were heavenly sent.

At one point, his eyes flicked to Josephine again, and she quickly dropped her gaze, pretending to adjust her napkin on her lap meaningfully. A faint smile played at the corner of his lips, as though he had caught her observation and found it quite amusing.

“I believe that a toast will be in order,” The duchess stated, holding her glass before looking over at the duke, “My dear, if you would please make a toast to honor Miss Dowding and Harry’s arrival.”

“Certainly,” The duke stood in his spot at the end of the table, raising his glass. “I would like to invite us to toast—Miss Dowding, your arrival has been awaiting us, especially since the sad departure of Miss Carden. We welcome you to our residence, and hope you find it to be comforting, warm, and a beautiful place to stay.”

Josephine smiled at the gesture, nodding in her appreciation as she watched the man turn to his own.

“Son, it’s marvelous to have you back at this manor, in the safety of our home. We relish everything that you have fought for and cannot wait to hear every detail of your travels during your stay back here. Your bravery for our country has exceed all our expectations, and we cannot welcome you back enough,” The duke holds his glass, “To this lovely supper, and to all of our prosperities.”

The warmth of the meal—the roast lamb with stewed vegetables had unfolded with ease, filled with laughter and light conversation between the six of them at the relatively small table. Yet, beneath the surface, Josephine felt the undercurrents of something unspoken—a tension or perhaps a weight that hung over Lord Styles like a shadow. His eyes remained fixed in some respects, watching as he held the knife with a bit of a shake to his fingers.

It was enough to make her stare, which led to her being a bit spooked by his directness towards her, his voice penetrating her studying.

"Miss Dowding," he said, his tone unreadable as Josephine watched his trained green eyes inhabit the way that she used her own knife, eyes blazing at her before she felt the redness cross her cheeks. "I trust you’re finding your position… satisfying so far?"

Josephine stiffened as Harry turned his gaze back to her.

"Very much so, my lord," she replied, her voice steady despite the way her heart raced just at the directness of his questioning.

He didn’t look away. "And are my sisters proving to be apt pupils?"

"As I’ve just arrived, I cannot give my truest thoughts, but from the time I have spent with them thus far, they are bright and eager to learn," Josephine said carefully, feeling the weight of every word under his scrutiny. "It will be a privilege to guide them to be their best, I can assure you."

The corner of his mouth quirked; a ghost of a smile that felt more mocking than kind, if she was being honest. "A governess who finds privilege in duty. How… rare." A dry laugh left him; his eyes moving to his mother as she quirked an eyebrow at his humor.

The duchess shook her head at his observation. “I think you would find that Miss Dowding is quite determined.”

“I shall see for myself, then.” Harry solidified, “I would like to sit in on a lesson—make sure that this is to be up to our standards. I would hate for Eleanor and Beatrice to get the wrong impressions on literary complex, hm?”

Josephine let her chewing of the cooked carrot take her mind off his own determination to possibly undermine her teachings.

“I would absolutely encourage that,” Josephine nodded in agreement with the lord’s comment. “You will be welcome to sit in on a lesson at any time.”

The conversation moved on, but Josephine felt his eyes on her throughout the meal. She dared not meet his gaze, but the heat of it lingered, making her pulse quicken and her appetite vanish just by the way she felt overwhelmed with judgement.

The fire crackled gently in the hearth that sat behind the duke, adding warmth to the air, but Josephine couldn’t shake the chill settling in her chest at the way she felt singled; intimidated by the wonder and curiosity of the man beside her. She sat near the end of the long table, her position a reminder of her role in the household—present, but on the periphery.

The duke and duchess were engaged in polite conversation about estate matters, while Eleanor and Beatrice giggled at some private joke shared between them, across from one another. Lord Styles had been quiet for most of the meal, save for the occasional charming quip or comment directed at his sisters.

Finally, during a lull in conversation, Lord Styles leaned back in his chair and directed his attention toward Josephine. “Miss Dowding,” he began, his tone more pleasant than previously, but edged with curiosity. “I apologize for not inquiring sooner—but where are you from?”

Josephine swallowed, knowing where this conversation was leading, but settling for a moment.

“Ashbourne, my lord.”

Harry looks up from his plate for a moment, eyes squinting at the answer, “It’s not often one hears of a governess arriving from a place like Ashbourne. How did you find your way to Northumberland?”

Josephine froze for a fraction of a second, her hand tightening imperceptibly on her fork. She had expected questions eventually, but not so soon—and not so directly with the tone that he had used. She forced a calm smile, willing her voice to remain steady.

“I was fortunate to hear of the position through a family acquaintance,” she replied. “They spoke highly of the household and its reputation. I was quite interested in the premise of teaching young minds.”

“Indeed?” Harry’s eyebrows rose, his expression unreadable. “It’s a rather quiet place for one so capable and evidently well-educated. Ah—and certainly you know the Wilton’s, then?”

The question hung in the air, and Josephine felt the weight of all eyes on her. She could see Eleanor and Beatrice glance between her and their brother, their innocent curiosity mirroring his sharper inquiry. The duchess’s expression remained composed, but there was a flicker of interest in her gaze. Even the duke paused his cutting of his lamb to listen.

“I wanted a change of scenery,” Josephine said carefully. “Ashbourne seemed like the perfect place for respite and reflection after… personal difficulties.” She swallowed, feeling the way that her blood sped through her veins beat after beat, “A-And I’m quite afraid I am not familiar with the Wilton’s, no.”

“Difficulties?” Harry pressed, his voice light but with an undercurrent of something keener. “How intriguing. One rarely hears of governesses with mysterious pasts.”

Josephine’s breath caught; the feeling of her corset was almost more unbearable than usual. She knew this game; it was the type played by men who were too clever for their own good. She straightened slightly, meeting his gaze with as much calm as she could muster.

“Everyone has their struggles, my lord” she said evenly. “Ashbourne offered a quiet place to begin anew.”

Harry studied her, his eyes narrowing just slightly. “Anew?”

She realized her mistake as soon as the word left her lips. Harry caught it too.

“Surrey,” she answered swiftly, too swiftly. “Surrey is where I originate. My—my family, they reign from Surrey. I apologize for the confusion.”

“Surrey?” he repeated, tilting his head. “Not Ashbourne, then? How curious that someone who speaks of a quiet life would have left Surrey, only to begin again in Ashbourne. They are quite far apart, you know,” He laughed dryly, “Of course you would know that.”

Josephine’s pulse quickened. She could feel the attention of the entire table sharpening, though the children remained blissfully unaware of the tension building. She hesitated, knowing that anything she said now could deepen his suspicion. As if he had a reason to be digging at all—she knew her truth on why she had fled Surrey for Ashbourne, but her past wouldn’t have been brought to discussion. Not here, anyways.

“There are times when circumstances necessitate leaving one place for another,” she said, forcing herself to maintain a serene expression. “I hope that satisfies your curiosity, my lord.”

Harry smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “For now, Miss Dowding.”

The duchess cleared her throat delicately, her gaze flicking between the two of them. “Harry, perhaps you might allow Miss Dowding to enjoy her meal in peace. It isn’t polite to interrogate our guests.”

“Of course, mother,” Harry replied smoothly, raising his glass in a gesture of apology. “My apologies, Miss Dowding. My curiosity often gets the better of me, I’m sure you’ll learn.”

Josephine inclined her head, though her heart still raced. “No apology will be necessary, my lord.” Her nods were kept short, “You have every reason to question guests in your home.”

The rest of the meal passed in strained silence, at least for Josephine. Eleanor and Beatrice continued to chatter happily, oblivious to the undercurrent of tension. The duke and duchess returned to their conversation regarding the social season that had been fast approaching which would involve multiple strenuous affairs to and from London, though Josephine noticed the occasional glance the duchess sent her way.

It was quite meaningful to her—to see that the duchess seemed to send her glances.

As dessert was served, Beatrice leaned across the table, her voice conspiratorial. “And Harry, are you staying for Christmas this year?”

Harry hesitated, his fork pausing midair. He glanced at the duchess, whose expression remained composed but watchful as she seemed to let the marquess take the lead on the question.

“We shall see, little one.” he said at last, his tone gentle but noncommittal—it was to be expected. Beatrice frowned but didn’t press the matter. “A bit far off, but I do intend to try.”

Josephine, observing the exchange, felt a pang of sympathy. She wondered what kept him so unfocused and able to stay in a place long enough to feel committed, unable to remain. Perhaps Miss Ellory’s words about the scars of war were truer than she had realized; she was glad to have the insight amongst them, but she knew that letting in this bias may have been leading her to have unkind thoughts of the marquess.

As supper had ended, dessert had been moved away. The candles that sat in the middle of the table had started to flicker when the duke stood from his seat, “I suggest we move our conversation into the sitting room, what do we think?”

“I believe that’s a fine idea,” Harry nodded, taking the napkin that had been held in his lap and placing it next to his plate. The men stood first, allowing the women to follow in their lead.

“Josephine, dear, you must be exhausted with your travels.” The duchess asked, taking the girl’s arm to wrap around her own as they made their way towards the sitting area.

A swift nod and a deep breath seemed to settle Josephine as she agreed with the duchess, “Very,” She shook her head, “But I am having a lovely time learning and speaking with yourself and your family. I am very eager to start working with the girls. And the duke and you could not be more welcoming to me.”

 The duchess held onto her hand as they found themselves in the darkened room, lit for the evening affair of after supper. “It’s our pleasure. We want the best for our girls, and you continue to prove why you have been chosen for this. We are highly impressed with your professionalism.”

“Impressed indeed.” The duke added in; he had poured himself and the lord a scotch, both holding the small glasses. “Would either of you like an after-dinner tea? We can put some in the kettle at once.”  

Josephine shook her head, “I would hate to reject your offer; however, I do believe that I am alright now. I would love to enjoy the fire a bit—it is such a beautiful addition this time of year.”

Harry had been standing next to the fire, leaning against the mantel before he turned to see Josephine make her way towards him—making his heart beat in a way that sent him taking a few steps backwards.

The room was warm and inviting, with a fire crackling in the hearth and walls lined with shelves of well-worn books. Plush chairs and sofas were arranged in conversational clusters, and a tea tray had already been placed on the low table in the center of the room. The duke and duchess settled into the armchairs nearest the fire, engaging in quiet conversation, while Eleanor and Beatrice gravitated toward Josephine, who had taken a seat on the ground next to the fire.

"Miss Josephine," Beatrice called brightly, tugging on her hand as she took a seat next to her. "You promised me a riddle, remember?" Eleanor chimed in, holding her book of Roman history which she hadn’t yet to set down except when at the table. "And perhaps we can discuss Caesar again? I was reading about his triumphs, and I had some questions."

Josephine chuckled, allowing herself to relax slightly under their enthusiasm. She glanced over at the duke and duchess, who both gave her approving smiles. Lord Styles, however, stood near the hearth, his hand resting casually in his pocket, observing the scene with quiet curiosity as he took a sip of the poured scotch.

"All right," Josephine said, smiling at Beatrice. "Here’s a riddle for you both: What has to be broken before you can use it?"

Beatrice furrowed her brow at the inquiry, biting her lip in concentration. Eleanor crossed her arms, her expression thoughtful.

"Oh, I know! An egg!" Beatrice exclaimed after a moment, her face lighting up with triumph.

"Very good, you’re quite a thoughtful one, aren’t you?" Josephine said, clapping lightly. "Now, Eleanor, what was your question about Caesar?"

Eleanor settled in front of her, opening her book to a marked page. "I read about the triumphal processions he held when he returned to Rome, but weren’t they seen as boastful? Didn’t some of the senators dislike him for it?"

"Indeed, they did," Josephine replied, her voice taking on the calm, measured tone she used during lessons. "The senators had feared Caesar’s growing influence around, especially among the common people. He was quite charming in a way—he really had a way with getting what he wanted. The triumphs were a way for him to display his power, but they also heightened the tension between him and the Senate."

Eleanor nodded in understanding; her expression serious. "So, it wasn’t just about celebration. It was politics, too."

"Exactly, Lady Eleanor," Josephine said. "This is a lesson worth remembering: what seems like celebration on the surface often has deeper motives underneath."

Lord Styles, who had been leaning casually against the mantel, straightened slightly. "Wise words, Miss Dowding," he said, his tone light but with an undertone of something deeper. "It seems you’ve made quite the impression on my sisters."

Miss Dowding turned toward him, startled by his sudden interjection. She maintained her composure, offering a polite smile. "Lady Eleanor and Lady Beatrice are both eager learners, my lord. It’s a pleasure to guide them."

Beatrice grinned up at her. "Miss Dowding knows everything, Harry. Even riddles! Do you want to hear another?"

Harry chuckled, moving to sit in the chair opposite them. "Why not? Impress me, Beatrice."

Beatrice glanced at Miss Dowding, who leaned over towards Beatrice before making sure to whisper the riddle in her ear to repeat to her brother. "Okay, Harry. What has hands but can’t clap?"

Harry tilted his head, his lips curling into a smirk as he knew the answer immediately. "A clock."

Beatrice pouted at his quick judgement, a whine leaving her lips, "That was too easy."

"You’ll have to try harder if you want to stump me," he teased, leaning back in his chair. Josephine watched as his hand—particularly his thumb print moved the condensation of the glass. His gaze shifted briefly to Miss Dowding as he recognized her stare; his expression unreadable, but she would have sworn that she saw a twinkle in his eye.

Josephine looked away quite quickly.

Eleanor, oblivious to the tension in the room, tapped Miss Dowding’s arm. "Miss Dowding, can we read more about Caesar tomorrow? I want to understand why people followed him, even when it seemed dangerous."

"Of course, Lady Eleanor," Miss Dowding said gently to the young girl, "We’ll explore his leadership and how he inspired loyalty. Anything that you’d like."

The duke cleared his throat from his chair near the fire, drawing the room’s attention. "It is clear Miss Dowding has a firm hand with her charges," he said approvingly. "We’re fortunate to have her."

The duchess nodded in agreement, though her eyes flicked to her son. "Indeed. It takes great skill to balance discipline with encouragement."

Lord Styles didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he studied Miss Dowding for a long moment before speaking. "It would seem, Miss Dowding, that you’ve brought a sense of calm and purpose to this household. It’s not a simple task; I can assure you."

Josephine felt the weight of his words, though she kept her expression neutral. "Thank you, my Lord. I do my best to fulfill my duties as instructed and not stray away from what I’m told."

For a moment, their gazes held, and Josephine felt an uneasy prickle along her spine. His praise felt genuine, but there was something in his tone—something that hinted at suspicion, as though he were still trying to piece together who she truly was.

Beatrice, oblivious to the undercurrents, climbed onto Miss Dowding’s lap and declared, "Miss Dowding, you should tell Harry a riddle he can’t solve!"

"Perhaps tomorrow," the duchess interjected with a smile, rising gracefully from her chair. "It’s been a long day for all of us. Girls, why don’t you show Miss Dowding how you get ready for sleep, hm? Perhaps she would be interested in our routine.”

Josephine took a breath as she stood from her seated position on the wooden floor, using her hands to wipe down at her skirt before holding the waist of her dress, adjusting accordingly before letting the girl’s take her hand to lead towards their room.

“I shall also retire to my room,” Josephine nodded a few times at the nobles, “It’s been a pleasure already. Thank you for dinner, your graces,” She turned towards Harry then, his eyes fixated on her as she bowed her head at him, “My lord.”

As Josephine guided the girls back to the nursery, she couldn’t help but glance over her shoulder. Lord Styles still sat by the fireplace, his gaze fixed on her, his expression thoughtful as he tried his best to place his mind on how to get more from her.

Josephine quickened her pace as she felt the tug of the girls’ hands, leading her up the stairs and towards another challenge all together.

---

Once the girls had been tucked away into their bed, Josephine had wished them a great sleep. She had taken it upon herself to put the girls to bed, before making it out into the hall where she would have to make her way down to her own quarters.

The corridors of Northumberland Hall were quiet, save for the occasional creak of ancient wood or the distant whisper of the wind against the stone walls which had started to pick up outside. She noticed the way that the walls start to feel eerie with frigidness. Josephine carried the lamp as she walked back toward her quarters after ensuring the girls were settled for the night. The soft glow illuminated her path, but the stillness of the late hour made every sound seem amplified.

It hadn’t occurred to her that there was still a conversation happening below her. As she neared the grand staircase of which they had walked up only an hour prior, faint voices carried upward from the hall below. She paused, recognizing the deep timbre of the duke’s voice, measured but firm, and another voice—Lord Styles’—sharp with irritation. Both tones of their voices she had yet to hear.

“I’ve just returned from fighting for this country,” Harry’s voice echoed, rising above his father’s steadier tone. “And you would have me march straight into another battle at the altar?”

Josephine froze at the corner of the corridor, her pulse quickening at his words. She shouldn’t linger, but her feet refused to move. The raw emotion in his words held her captive; she knew that this was spying, being completely too observant of their personal ventures, which she knew she shouldn’t hear. It wasn’t meant for her.

“This is not a battle, Harry,” The duke replied, his tone calmer now but insistent. “It is your duty. The family requires stability. An alliance with the Barrenton’s would secure that.”

Harry’s laugh was bitter, reverberating off the cold stone walls. “Stability? As if we do not have stability in this castle that we call our homestead. I believe that you mean more wealth. More influence. Am I correct in saying that? Tell me, Father, what would I be to Lady Barrenton? A husband or just another pawn in your ambitions to gain further notoriety?”

The duchess’s voice is heard then in interjection, softer but no less resolute. “This is not about ambition, Harry. It’s responsibility. You know what is expected of you—the eldest son, the only son.”

“Expected of me?” Harry’s voice cracked slightly using those words, his frustration cutting through the air. “Expected of me was to die on the battlefield, wasn’t it? And now that I’ve defied those odds. I am back here, I am standing on two feet, and you wish to bind me to a life I will no longer recognize! What if I do not want that?”

Josephine’s grip on the candleholder tightened. For all his arrogance, there was pain in his voice—a weariness she recognized too well. She had heard that same tone in her own voice once, in moments when the weight of expectation had crushed her spirit.

What if she didn’t want that? It was a thought she had all too often.

The duke’s voice turned colder, sharper. “You will not speak to your mother that way. This conversation is not a request, Harry. It is a duty.”

There was a long silence, and Josephine could almost feel the tension vibrating up the walls, even though they were out of sight.

“It is not lost on me why I have removed myself from this—this place. I do not wish to marry, and that will be final. I do not wish to tie myself to wed so that I can be sent to war and bleed out in a large field and my wife will have to tend to my death bearing my children—I will not see to it, and you shall not force me to make such a decision as brutal and heavy-hearted.” Harry said finally, his voice low but edged with defiance.

Heavy footsteps followed, and Josephine’s breath hitched as she realized they were moving toward the staircase. She extinguished her lamp and pressed herself into the shadows along the walls of the corridor at once. Her heart began racing as Harry’s figure came into view; his expression was a storm of emotion—anger, frustration, and something deeper, more vulnerable, that lingered in the downturn of his mouth and the flicker of his eyes.

For a moment, she thought he might look up and see her, but he didn’t. He strode past the staircase, disappearing into the darker corridors of the west wing. Only when his footsteps faded entirely did she release the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Josephine stood rooted to the spot, the echoes of his words replaying in her mind. She knew she shouldn’t have stayed to listen—their private conversation had given her bias to a situation she clearly knew nothing about. It wasn’t her place to eavesdrop on the affairs of the family, and yet... she couldn’t ignore the pull she felt in it.

Beneath his defiance, there was a wounded soul struggling to reconcile the man he was expected to be with the one he had become. She understood that conflict all too well. He had been trying to flee from a person he once was, back to someone that he had been before. The only issue was who you were before would never be again.

Shaking herself free of the moment, she turned back toward her quarters, her thoughts restless then. As she climbed the stairs to her room, she couldn’t help but wonder why Harry’s pain had struck a chord within her. She had left behind her own life of battles, but in his words, she heard the echoes of a war she had not fully escaped.

When she finally reached her room and closed the door behind her, the quiet had enveloped her like a heavy cloak. Setting her extinguished lamp on the bedside table, she sat on the edge of the bed, her mind still tangled with what she had heard. She went to reignite the light, letting it be the only glimpse of reality within the darkness of the small room.

Lord Styles was a man of contradictions—arrogant yet vulnerable, defiant yet bound by duty. She had glimpsed the cracks in his armor tonight, and though she didn’t understand why, it unsettled her deeply.

As the night had become quiet with ease, Josephine sat on her bed, against the pillow she had been given as she let the flicker of the lamp trickle over the pages in the novel between her fingers. The memory of his piercing green eyes still vivid in her mind as he questioned her at the table.

The castle seemed unnaturally quiet, the faint creaks and groans of its old timbers amplified by the stillness, the gusty winds outside had troubled her thoughts. She told herself it was her imagination when she heard the softest sound—footsteps, perhaps? —in the hallway outside her door. Her breath held as she watched the door.

She froze, her hand hovering over the lamp on her bedside table. Was it just the castle settling, or was someone there? For a moment, she imagined opening the door to find Lord Styles standing on the other side, his gaze as intense and unrelenting as it had been at supper.

She wondered if he would stand there and question her as he had tonight.

Shaking her head, she scolded herself for such thoughts. He would have no reason to come here, she told herself. Still, the sound of the footsteps lingered in her mind as she lay back on the narrow bed, her heart racing precociously.

As the wind howled outside, Josephine stared at the dark ceiling, wondering if the storm within the castle walls would prove far more dangerous than the one raging beyond them. It was thoughts such as that that had led her into a dream.

---

The morning sun was just beginning to filter through the heavy drapes of Josephine’s small chamber as she fastened the final button of her gown. Her bedroom faced the east, knowing that she was getting the early trickling of the beginning of the daylight. The fabric was simple but neat, a reflection of her practical nature and modesty. The dress she had chosen had long sleeves; blue and white flowers moved across the print in a delicate fashion.

She tied her apron snugly around her waist, smoothing the creases as she took a steadying breath. The mirror in front of her helped to highlight her tousled hair, which she easily pinned back to tuck it behind her ears. The quiet hum of the household awakening reached her—footsteps echoing faintly in the corridors, the clink of crockery and stationery from the kitchens below.

Another day had begun. It had felt as if she had been there for ages. Her journal details would conclude that this was her twentieth day at Northumberland—it had been a journey thus far, and she had woken up every day with a new perspective on the ever-changing ways that children learned, and what they had taught her. It had given her a way to think about dynamics, let her see the world for what it was.

Eleanor and Beatrice were just children—two young girls in a world that would always love them and care for them; money would never be an issue, but their hopes and dreams may come to a halt once they recognized their role in society. It was to please, to gather a new life for their own families as they would be put to society for all of judgement.

It made Josephine quite sick to imagine a mind such as Eleanor’s to become nothing more than what had been expected of her. Beatrice, still young, was approaching these conversations too—she kept up with their banter, their confrontations over literary tales and blunders. It took everything in Josephine not to think about what society was for these young girls and why she felt the need to give them a world that she never had the opportunity for.

The world that she had to run from. She didn’t want them to feel the need to run. And, if they did, she wanted to teach them to run faster—stealthier, quicker.

As she had been getting her items ready for the day, she had heard a small knock on the wooden door. Josephine opened her door to find Miss Ellory waiting in the corridor with a small tray. The housekeeper’s sharp eyes softened as she handed it over, the scent of freshly brewed tea and warm toast rising in the air as Josephine too the small tray from her grasps.

“Good morning, Miss Dowding,” Miss Ellory said, her voice brisk but not unkind. “I trust you slept well?”

“I did, thank you,” Josephine replied, taking the tray and setting it on the small table over by her window. “It seems the household is particularly lively this morning—I see that there’s quite a bit of movement.” Josephine referenced the movement that was happening outside of her window, even though she could feel the cold drift from the glass.

Miss Ellory gave a knowing smile. “Lord Styles has a habit of unsettling the usual order of things. He’s taken to rising early this week, which, as you might imagine, keeps the staff on their toes with his demands and necessities.”

Josephine’s lips twitched into a faint smile as she poured herself a cup of tea from the small teapot that Ellory had brought. “I will keep that in mind should our paths cross today.”

Miss Ellory hesitated, her gaze turning slightly more serious. “You’ve done well with the girls these past weeks. Lady Eleanor’s progress in her studies has not gone unnoticed, and even Lady Beatrice seems to have taken a liking to your methods.”

Josephine inclined her head modestly. “The girls are eager learners. It makes my work all the more rewarding,” She finds herself smiling at the thought of the youngest, a quick laugh following, “However, Miss Beatrice is quite a handful, isn’t she?”

Ellory shakes her head with the same enlightened smile, “She is quite mischievous, yes. However, I think the duchess is quite taken with you—the whole family is. You have done an excellent job. But do be cautious, Miss Josephine. You’ve a steady hand and a sensible mind, but there are always... distractions in a household such as this. Keep your focus where it belongs.”

Josephine met the housekeeper’s gaze, a bit of misunderstanding in the unspoken warning. “Of course, Miss Ellory. My sole priority is the education and well-being of Lady Eleanor and Lady Beatrice.”

 The sense of concern started to cross onto her facial features as she turned to face Ellory for a moment, wondering why she had brought up such a concern before she spoke again.

“Was something mentioned about my focus? A distraction, perhaps? I can assure—”

“Miss Josephine, there truly is no concern,” Ellory says quickly, trying to pull her back to focus on her praise rather than the mere, undeniable concern that had started to bubble at the surface of the manor gossip. Ellory had wanted to mention it to Josephine as soon as she had the inclination, knowing that the young girl was impressionable, and new to the environment.

They stood for a moment before Ellory wiped her hands on her apron before she cleared her throat. “I—it is not a concern per se—”

Josephine breathed in, “Please tell me at once.”

“It is just that—” Ellory huffed; her lips feeling dry in the cool, late November air. “It is just that many of the service believe that many may be noticing the way that you are the distraction itself.”

Josephine blinked a few moments before shaking her head at the continuation of confusion that she felt at the words Ellory spoke. Her eyes darted between the older woman’s; they were kind, showing her an affection that she trusted. “I don’t believe that I understand.”

Ellory pursed her lips as she walked closer, trying to make Josephine settle before she spoke too loudly and would be overheard by anyone else that may be in the halls of the manor.

Ellory’s gaze softened slightly, but her tone remained firm. “This is not just about you; I can assure you. But it is about Lord Styles. Since his arrival, he’s been... quite distracted. And more than one member of the service has noticed his attentions seem to be fixed in your direction.”

Josephine’s breath caught, and she shook her head at the complete and utter foolery that had left Ellory’s mouth. “I can—will assure you, Miss Ellory, I have done nothing to encourage him.”

“I believe you,” Miss Ellory said, letting her hands reach to hold onto Josephine’s arms in a comforting manner, letting her know that she was believed, “But intentions matter little when gossip takes root. The maids have whispered about how often he lingers near the schoolroom. The footmen joke about his frequent detours through the gardens when you’re walking with the girls. Even the butler remarked on how he seems to find excuses to pass the corridors by wherever you happen to be.”

Josephine’s cheeks burned, a mix of anger and mortification coursing through her at the idea that she had caused such a disruption without knowing the mere intention, “I cannot control where Lord Styles chooses to be—I-I cannot understand how this has happened, or how these preposterous rumors have begun.”

“No, you cannot,” Miss Ellory agreed, her voice gentler now. “But you can control how you conduct yourself. I’m telling you this not as a reprimand but as a warning. You are a governess, and while the family respects your work a tremendous amount, you must tread carefully. Appearances matter in a household such as this. A governess would never end up with a marquess.”

Josephine’s hands tightened around the edges of her apron at the woman’s words, feeling the weight of them when she starts to nod in a deep certainty. “I understand, Miss Ellory. But what am I to do? Avoid him entirely? How am I to do so when I was not even aware of his presence?”

Miss Ellory’s lips pressed into a thin line. “That may be difficult given the current circumstances, but you must remain vigilant. Keep your interactions with him formal and brief. Do not allow yourself to be drawn into any personal conversations, no matter how innocuous they may seem. As I mentioned, the services will be watching, and they will talk.”

Josephine nodded, though her mind churned with unease as she tried to understand it all herself. She didn’t want to throw away everything that she had built, the relationships that she had started to concrete. “Have... Have the duke and duchess heard these rumors?”

She could see that Ellory hesitated before answering, shaking her head, but allowing Josephine to not have any hope that they would not, “Not yet. But it’s only a matter of time if things continue as they are. And that is why I am speaking to you now. You have worked hard to build your position here, Miss Dowding. Do not let something beyond your control jeopardize that, do you understand?”

Josephine’s chest tightened just at the thought of her fleeing the manor for a new life once again. She had escaped one life of peril only to find herself walking a tightrope in this new one. The idea that her every move could be scrutinized, misinterpreted, or twisted into scandal made her feel ill instantly.

“Thank you for telling me,” Josephine stated quietly, trying to encourage the continued hush of their conversation, “I will do my utmost to ensure there is no cause for further gossip.”

The housekeeper gave a curt nod. “Good. You’re a sensible woman, Miss Dowding. I trust you’ll take the appropriate steps—we would hate to lose you.”

Ellory squeezed on Josephine’s arms for a quick show of her affection, giving her a tight smile. It had been warm, something that Josephine had looked for, for quite some time.

As Ellory turned to leave, Josephine lingered in her bedroom for a solid few moments, her thoughts spinning at the recent news development. She had been so careful, so determined to keep her head down and do her work. And yet, the attention of one man threatened to unravel everything she had worked for—everything she had run from was starting to catch up with her.

 She thought of Lord Styles—his intensity, his lingering stares, the way he seemed to look at her as though she were a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. She needed to stay tight-lipped, brief.

She would have to be more cautious, more distant. Whatever curiosity Lord Styles held toward her; she could not afford to indulge it. Not when her very livelihood was at stake. With a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and made her way back toward the schoolroom, determined to keep her focus where it belonged.

Josephine finished her tea and toast quickly, the exchange with Miss Ellory lingering in her thoughts as she made her way to the schoolroom. The housekeeper’s caution was not unfounded, as it turned out. Lord Styles had an undeniable presence, one that seemed to ripple through the household even when he wasn’t present. Everyone whispered, everyone wanted to know every detail of him. Josephine resolved, once again, to keep her distance and focus on her duties.

By the time she arrived into the room, Eleanor and Beatrice were already seated at their desks, chatting animatedly about their dreams—how Eleanor was swinging high above the trees, looking down on the ocean below her. She couldn’t understand how the tree ended up in the middle of the ocean but had been fascinated by the view; she had wished to see the sea again. Eleanor’s Latin book lay open before her, while Beatrice doodled in the margins of her notebook with pictures of small animals. The sight of them brought a small, genuine smile to Josephine’s face as she had started to truly love beginning her days with their curiosity.

“Good morning, ladies,” she greeted, her tone warm, filled with a passion. “Are we ready to begin?”

The schoolroom was quiet besides their small voices when Josephine entered, the faint morning sun spilling through the tall windows and warming the wooden desks that were cherry oak with hints of red pining through them.

“Good morning, Miss Dowding,” Eleanor replied brightly. “I had just told Beatrice about the poem we’re going to study today.”

Beatrice groaned dramatically; a roll of her eyes followed. “Poetry is so dull. Can’t we do riddles instead?”

Josephine chuckled softly as she set down her materials that she had been carrying through the halls. “I think you’ll find today’s poem quite engaging, Lady Beatrice. We’ll be reading William Cowper—his works are full of vivid imagery and profound ideas that must interest you. Now, let’s begin, shall we?’

Eleanor eagerly opened her book to the marked page, while Beatrice sighed but followed suit with her sister’s guidance. Josephine began to explain the context of the poem, her calm and steady voice filling the room. The girls were attentive to the material and Josephine’s effervescence, even Beatrice showing a grudging interest as they discussed the themes of faith and resilience that Cowper inevitably showed.

At the sound of the door creaking open, breaking the flow of the lesson. Josephine’s eyes had looked up, startled to see Lord Styles leaning casually against the doorframe. His dark hair was slightly tousled, and his emerald-green eyes sparkled with amusement as he surveyed the small room that had been converted for the learning environment—it was as if Josephine had merely designed for the three of them, but it worked with the lesson materials and capabilities.

After the discussion that Josephine had with Ellory this morning, her heart started to beat at a faster rate as she made herself more prominent, standing straight up in acknowledgement of the marquess.

“Good morning, my Lord,” Josephine said evenly, her fingers grasping the book in her hands tighter. “Is there something I can assist you with?”

“Not at all,” Harry replied, his voice a buttery smooth cadence. “I was merely passing by and thought I might observe for a moment, as I believe I have mentioned wanting to prior. I’ve heard much about your lessons from my sisters, and I thought I should take a listen for myself.”

Josephine nodded, though her shoulders stiffened at the thought of him joining their morning ritual. “Yes, very well. You are welcome to stay, of course.” She blinked a few times, running her tongue over her lips softly before trying her best to come back to the conversation regarding faith.

He stepped further into the room, his gaze drifting to the chalkboard where Cowper’s words were written in neat script. His hands were held behind his back as he made his way into the room; the soft leather of his boots had traced across the wooden floors in a shuffle. “Ah, Cowper, I see. A quite lofty choice for young minds, don’t you think?”

Eleanor, bristling slightly at his words, spoke up. “We can understand it perfectly well, Harry. Miss Dowding explains things wonderfully, and I think you will see that if you would let her speak.”

Harry grinned at her, ruffling her hair as he passed by. “I don’t doubt it, Ellie.” His attention shifted back to Josephine, his tone light yet teasing. “Miss Dowding,” he said, “you are far too quiet for someone entrusted with shaping the minds of my sisters. Surely there’s more fire in you than you let on?”

Josephine’s eyes met his, her expression carefully neutral. “Fire, my Lord, is not always the best tool for instruction, you see. Patience and discipline tend to yield better results, I find.”

He found himself watching her more often than he cared to admit. She carried herself with a quiet dignity, her head held high despite her modesty in their manor. There was a resilience about her that intrigued him, a strength he couldn’t quite place. He’d met plenty of women who were bold and spirited—quite spirited, yes, but Miss Dowding’s strength was odd to him. It wasn’t loud or attention-seeking; it was steady, unyielding, like the roots of an ancient oak tree that had prospered for hundreds of years.

It annoyed him, if he were honest. She was a puzzle he couldn’t solve, and he had always hated being bested. But it also fascinated him. He wanted to know what lay beneath her composed exterior, what thoughts and fears she kept hidden behind those guarded eyes.

Those ridiculously shielded, enticing, rather beguiled, gray and guarded eyes she had. And the hair—it was such a natural curl of waves that flowed down her back, tucked gently behind her ears. The sight of her collarbones reveled his desire, pulsing a tight-lipped stare for less than a second, catching a glimpse. Surely, he hadn’t expected her to shine in the light of the early morning sun as she had, but he wouldn’t lie if asked if he enjoyed it.

Certainly, yes.

His lips curved into a slow smile as he found himself biting the inside of his cheek at her carefully articulate answer. “And do you apply that same philosophy to all aspects of your life?”

Before Josephine could respond, Eleanor interjected. “Harry, stop teasing her. She’s an excellent teacher.”

Josephine’s heart skipped a beat at the way she responded. Eleanor was quite outspoken, which gave Josephine the hope she had been pursuing with taking this role. It gave her confidence to know that the young minds were not being undermined.

Harry raised his hands in mock surrender at the young girl’s attempt to continue their lesson. “My apologies, Ellie. No offense intended, of course.” Yet his gaze lingered on Josephine, a challenge sparking in his eyes.

It gave Josephine permission to then return to the lesson, Josephine directed Eleanor to read aloud the next stanza of the poem, as they had been going line by line to interrupt each word in its placement. She refused to let Harry’s presence distract her, though she was acutely aware of his movements as he strolled around the room, glancing at Beatrice’s notebook and inspecting the titles on the bookshelf.

“Quite the artist, aren’t you, Bea?” he said, noting the squirrel she had sketched in the margins on the paper.

Beatrice grinned at the small drawing, almost blushing as she went to cover it up. “Miss Dowding says I have a vivid imagination.”

“That, she does,” Josephine replied, agreeing with the young girl. Her tone softening as she glanced at the younger girl with a knowing look. “But we’re working on channeling that imagination into more structured pursuits, aren’t we?”

“It is a task I do not envy,” Harry quipped, though his expression softened as he looked at his sisters. “I trust that you will make sure that structure is in place, but,” He shrugs almost, “There is always room for imagination and creativity, as well, yes?”

Josephine took in a deep breath, nodding a few times, “Of course. I believe that imagination and imagery are always at the forefront of our minds. Reality is dull without the thought of something greater.”

The twinkle in his eyes made her eyes divert; she knew that she should have been consistent with staying forward, not diving further into conversation with the Lord, as she had promised Ellory.

As the lesson concluded, Eleanor and Beatrice bounded out of the room, eager to explore the gardens before tea would be served. Harry lingered, his gaze following Josephine as she tidied the desks around them.

“You handle them well,” he remarked, his tone more thoughtful now.

“Thank you, my Lord,” she replied without looking up. “They are delightful girls, and I am proud that they are utilizing their knowledge outside of this classroom to ensure logical and articulate discussions.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice slightly. “You are quite an enigma, Miss Dowding. Most women in your position would be eager to curry favor. But you…” He trailed his voice, picking up a book that had been laying on the desk that she used as her own, looking at the title before moving closer to her presence, “You seem determined to keep your distance. Why is that?”

Josephine straightened her spine, meeting his gaze with quiet resolve. “I am here to teach, my lord. Nothing more.”

“Ah, but teaching is such an intimate act, isn’t it? Shaping young minds, influencing their futures. Surely that requires more than mere detachment. Possibly involving personal atonement, anecdotes of your own life that can be based in teachings.”

Her lips tightened. “My role in this manor requires focus, discipline, and professionalism. Which is precisely what I provide. My own successes and failures should not be involved in their learning, and that is by my own doing. We are all individual, after all. My influence would not be deemed professional.”

Harry found himself taken aback by her response; mostly since he enjoyed the way that she spoke so fluently and without stutter, almost like she knew exactly what he would say next. The wit outsmarted him numerous times. She had been so educated and delightfully conversational that he found himself troubled with the idea that she was challenging; in a way that intrigued him to a fault.

He flipped through the book that he held in his palms as he watched her start to tidy up the small schoolroom. “Do you never tire of maintaining such perfect decorum? Surely there’s a rebellious streak in you somewhere that you will not allow to be seen.”

She looked up at him, breathing outwards at his continuous questioning that almost bored her. “My lord, I find that rebellion often leads to unnecessary complications. I prefer to avoid such things.”

“How dreadfully dull,” he replied, though his tone was more amused than mocking; it was then that she noticed the dimple that cratered in his cheek that her eyes had drawn to. Seeing the warmth of his bright smile had transfixed her to a new level of curiosity and allure. “Perhaps I’ll have to be the one to coax it out of you.”

“I would advise against that, my Lord,” she said evenly, almost like she had been instructed to do so. “It would be a waste of your time.”

Harry’s smile widened, but he said nothing more, then staring at the book in his palm. As he walked away, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Miss Dowding was far more than she seemed. And for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, he found himself wanting to uncover every one of her secrets. It was a game.

There was a moment of silence, then. Harry studied her for a moment, something unspoken passing between them. He had taken a deep breath, letting his hands fall behind his back as he nodded at her with certainty.

Then he smiled, softer this time. “Very well, Miss Dowding. I will not press you further today,” He licked his lips, “I have enjoyed this, however, and I thank you for allowing me to attend in the lesson.”

Josephine took the books that had been sitting on her desk, noticing that he had one in his hands; it had been her copy of Moll Flanders. She was not sure that he had recognized that he had walked away with it, but when she noticed the way that his fingers gripped around the leather binding, she knew that he knew. He turned to leave, glancing back over his shoulder before he walked through the doorframe.

“I must admit, I’m curious to see how long you can maintain this stoic façade,” The look that he wore almost took Josephine’s breath away, “The relentlessness will be tiring, I assure you.”

Josephine waited until his footsteps faded before exhaling a breath, she hadn’t realized she was holding. She returned to her work then, her hands trembling slightly as she arranged the books on the shelf to put away from the lesson that day.

In many ways, Lord Styles was a dangerous man—not because of his title or charm, but because he seemed determined to see through the walls, she had built around herself.

And that, she realized with a sinking feeling, was a battle she wasn’t sure she could win on her own.

---

The bustle of the manor had been quite lacking through the day as Lord Styles strode down the corridor leading from the schoolroom, his thoughts lingering on the peculiar Miss Dowding. As they had the past few days, indeed. She had handled his teasing with a remarkable composure that he found completely and utterly unsettling. Most of the women he encountered would have become too flustered under his scrutiny, eager to please or to curry favor as he had questioned with her.

Not Miss Dowding.

Her responses had been measured, deliberate, and tinged with a quiet defiance that intrigued him more than he cared to admit. It almost felt directly to the chest how intrigued he had become with her composure and assurance to making her duty fulfilled.

The shuffle of his boots had clunked against the hard flooring, taking him by the drawing room, his mother, the duchess, was seated by the fire, her embroidery hoop in hand as she had a dark purple string lacing into the fabric. She glanced up as he entered, her expression softening with maternal affection by his furrowed brow.

“Harry,” she greeted. “You look as though you have something quite preposterous on the mind. Would you care to explain further?”

He smirked at her acknowledgement, pouring himself a glass of wine from the sideboard table. “Something like that, I assume. I’ve just come from the schoolroom, actually.”

Her eyebrows lifted delicately at his admission to his whereabouts. She wouldn’t comment further but would inquire his reasoning for walking into the lesson. “The schoolroom? And what took you there?”

“Intrigue, I suppose,” he admitted, taking a seat across from her. “I wanted to see how Miss Dowding was faring with Eleanor and Beatrice. They seem very fond of her, which, in return, sends me to be more curious, as well.”

The duchess’ hands paused over her stitching, eyes trained on her hands as she tried to keep her smile down, “And what are your thoughts on her?”

Harry swirled his wine in the rounded glass, considering his words as he stared at the maroon-colored liquid, taking a sharp breath. “She’s… capable. Steady-handed. The girls are lucky to have her.”

The duchess’ lips curved into a small, knowing smile as if she could have told the entire story with just the smirk alone. “That is quite high praise from you, Harry. You don’t often comment on the household staff, you know. Unless it is quite horrific.”

“She is hardly ordinary staff, mother,” he replied quickly, his tone lingering with a bit of edge to it, as if accusatory. “She’s educating my sisters and doing so effectively, as is her duty to us as to their education. It’s worth noting for the sake of Eleanor and Bea.”

His mother’s gaze lingered on him for a moment, her smile deepening at his reasoning, but seeing that there had been a much larger reason for his curiosity. A mother had always known. “Indeed. It seems Miss Dowding has made quite an impression on us all, and I am quite thankful that we had received her letter.”

Harry raised an eyebrow but said nothing, unwilling to engage further in the conversation regarding Miss Dowding. However, he would have if he had been taunted to; something about the woman made him want to engage in conversation. He leaned back in his chair, facing in his mother as she sat with her embroidery, the faint sound of approaching footsteps drawing his attention. The duke entered the room, his presence commanding as always. The duchess set her embroidery aside at his entrance, and Harry’s posture stiffened slightly, sensing the shift in mood.

“Harry,” the duke said, his voice calm but firm. “We need to speak at once.”

“Is this about the accounts again?” Harry asked, feigning nonchalance, eyes lifting to look at his father before shrugging. “I assure you that everything is in order, and we have certainty to believe that—”

His father cut him off, holding out letters in his hands.

“No, this is about you,” the duke replied, taking a seat beside his wife. “We’ve heard troubling reports from London, and I am quite horrified by the accounts that I am reading.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, but he kept his expression neutral, eyebrows furrowing at his remarks. “Troubling?” He felt a laugh come from him that was completely humorless and mockery. “Do elaborate.”

“There have been rumors, Harry. About your behavior. Adultery, gambling, neglecting your duties at the manor in London, which you have—in good faith—promised your mother and I that you have been tending to. It’s unbecoming of someone in your position, and there will be no stance for this.”

The duke threw the letters on the table in front of them; a stack of white mail had shuffled across the wood table. Harry’s eyes darting to them at once before he found himself with a smile, sharp and humorless. “Rumors are a pastime in London, father. Surely, you’re not giving them undue weight?”

“When they reflect poorly on this family, we must take them seriously,” the duke said, his tone clipped in anger as he looked at his son, “You are the sole heir to Northumberland. Your actions matter. Your behavior matters, and we will not stand for this.”

“My actions are my own,” Harry replied to him, his voice hardening as he sat up in the chair at the accusations that were being thrown at him. “I’ve fought for this damned country, sacrificed for it. You believe that I would tarnish our name in the name of sin?”

“Do you honestly believe that you live a lifestyle without consequence?” The duke said bluntly. “You are a leader, Harry. It’s time you started acting like one, and those reputable sources are coming straight from the mouths of the highest regards in London. Surely you paint me a fool for not believing them.”

The duchess placed a calming hand on her husband’s arm; her eyes fluttered as she tried to remain the calm sense, looking at her son who had his jaw tight with fury.

“What your father means, is that we believe you’re capable of so much more. You’ve shown bravery and resilience, but now it’s time to channel those qualities into something… meaningful.”

Harry’s lips pressed into a thin line, trying to untighten his jaw, but seething instead. “And what would you have me do to prove that of myself?” The tightness and anger that filled within him made his fist feel tight. “We’ve had this discussion, and I will not be brought to my knees with fulfilling the requests to marry.”

The duke’s eyes narrowed in thought at his son’s proposition. “For a start, you might take a lesson from someone like Miss Dowding. She’s shown discipline, propriety, and dedication to her role—she is new, making her name in our world and has done so with absolute grace. Perhaps you could benefit from observing her example.”

Harry’s head snapped toward his father, irritation flashing in his eyes. “You’re comparing me to a governess?”

“If the comparison stings, then perhaps it’s worth considering why.” The duke replied evenly, his voice stern at his son’s complete overreaction to the terms.

The comment struck a nerve, though Harry masked his reaction to try and forfeit the anger. The wine glass was lifted to his mouth, draining the rest before he was setting the glass down with deliberate precision on the wooden table. “Your concern of my well-being and duty is duly noted. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other matters to attend to.”

Standing from the velvet chair, his feet could not have taken him quicker out of the room. The warmth of it starting to get to his head as he felt the complete wrath of anger. He left the room, trudging his way towards the west wing; without waiting for a response from either of his parentals, his steps measured as he retreated to the one place that felt that there was an issued silence.

The door to the room was closed; his hand reaching to double doors that were arched with beauty before pushing through them, practically flying through the quiet space. The only sound was the sound of his breath filling the air around him. His walk slowed them, eyes trained on the larger shelves that were masterfully placed around the majestically large ballroom. It had been a dream of his to fill the room with essentially the best literature and adventurous readings that he could find. Once he did, he would send them home, leaving this room to be filled with all his thoughts, all his journeys were contained to this space. Harry took multiple steps, leaning against the shelves, his fingers brushing the spines of the books without focus.

Miss Dowding. Josephine.

The name lingered in his mind, irritating him in ways he couldn’t fully articulate. Just the sound of her name as it crossed his lips made his stomach churn with uncertainty. She was a governess; a fixture of the household whose purpose was to educate his sisters and remain in the background of his dutiful work.

And yet, she had somehow become a point of comparison, a reminder of his supposed failings. She had not seen the gruesome reality of the war; she had not been the heir to the nobility that he had been given. It did not rest of her shoulders, yet, he believed that she could fulfill every duty asked of her without a single glance.

He thought of her earlier, standing before the chalkboard with that maddening air of composure that only bewildered him more. She had challenged him with her poise, deflected his remarks without a hint of fluster. There was strength in her, quiet and unyielding, and it gnawed at him. He was used to women seeking his approval, his attention. Miss Dowding sought neither.

But intrigue was dangerous, he came to find. It led to questions, distractions, and vulnerabilities he couldn’t afford. Not now, anyways. He had spent years crafting a reputation that served as both armor and weapon, a way to deflect expectations and avoid entanglements. Yet, here he had been, the subject of the latest talk.

Miss Dowding, with her steady gaze and measured words, threatened to unravel him further. Further, further down.

Harry exhaled sharply, pushing away from the shelves with a bubbling anger that he couldn’t place. He wouldn’t let his curiosity about her consume him. No—he wouldn’t let that happen.

Whatever interest he felt was fleeting, a passing fancy that would fade in time, he was certain of it. How certain he had been, thinking of those grey eyes that would tell a story so detailed that this mind would only dream of with the highest intentions of all his desires, would be easy to forget.

And, oh how completely, undeniably certain his affection had been all along. So, to learn from her, would be his greatest privilege, he thought.

[thestylesindependent]

Harry with Fumi Kaneko and Vadim Muntagirov and the cast of Swan Lake at the Royal Opera House in London, 09May2024

[fonteyn]

So you're telling me HARRY STYLES got to see Fumi and Vadim (& the Royal Ballet company) doing Swan Lake and I didn't 😭

[twostepstyless]

Am I being extraordinarily dense or have I never seen this before??? He’s soooo??

[theiconicmeghanmarkle]

The Duke and Duchess of Sussex have arrived in Colombia.

After a welcome tea with Vice President Francia Marquez, their first stop of the morning will be a local children’s school, the Colegio Cultura Popular, where they’ll be given a tour and an informational session.

In an earlier press conference, Vice President Francia Marquez, revealed that she had extended an invitation to the Duchess of Sussex last year for IWD.

After watching Harry & Meghan's Netflix documentary, the VP said she believed that Meghan deserved to be invited to Colombia.

The Duchess is rocking Veronica Beard

[jarofstyles]

Stay Right Here Masterlist

Alpha prince Harry was smitten with omega maid Y/N from the first glance. A taste of forbidden love at it’s strongest.

Check out our Patreon for early access and exclusive writing

Warnings: contains ABO elements, alpha Harry, knotting, angst, forbidden love, smut, biting kink, and plenty more.

1. What Started It All

2. The First Meeting

3. The First Day

4. The First Touch

5. Just a Touch

[eveningepiphany]

pirates gold, masterlist——✶

↳ pirate!harry x royal!reader

series summary: being a royal, you always knew you were meant to keep your wits about you. despite never fitting into your status, a lapse of your judgement leads you to getting taken captive by a group of pirates, and their captain, harry.

series warnings: getting captured by pirates, descriptions and talk of kidnapping, mentions of weapons and death, violent and heavy themes, alcohol, sexual tension, swearing, enemies to lovers. there will be smut!!

all parts will have individual warnings as we go

——✶——

↳[PART ONE]

published!

after you’re taken captive, you wake in a cell, and are trying to gauge exactly how much danger you’re really in being stuck on this ship.

❝Nice to see you’re awake, princess. Can you open up them eyes for me?❞

harry is a stubborn— but awfully attractive— captain. you are an equally stubborn prisoner. the two of you are very quickly figuring out just how far you’re willing go to get out of this situation.

——✶——

↳[PART TWO]

published!

challengers are arising as life on the ship continues. not only that, but all kinds of tension is building between you and harry. good and bad… and something that feels forbidden to even entertain in your minds eye.

❝You’re infuriating, you know? Unbelievably so. And I feel it all the way in my stomach.❞

yet somehow through all of this, you unexpectedly find a glimmer of hope. just not how you thought you would.

——✶——

↳[PART THREE]

published!

finally, a break from the ship is in sight. you and harry end up in a very pirate-y bar, but even a good night can’t last forever. and seemingly, neither can uncomplicated feelings.

“Does that scare you?” He asks, and then asks deeper, “Do I scare you?”

jealousy, protectiveness and a sense of undeniable wanting are no such feelings harry wants to have for someone he’s holding captive. yet he’s stuck with them nonetheless.

——✶——

↳[PART FOUR]

to be published!

summary is to be developed and written out. but this will be updated when it’s in production <3

I look forward to seeing how you all like this series! and thank you again from the bottom of my heart for your never ending support.

——✶——

to be added to the taglist, let me know in the replies and you’ll be tagged in ever part uploaded of this series in the future🤍

you can find my full masterlist here!

[binogirlatx]

RW&RB❤️🤍💙Alex and Henry

My Policeman💙🩵💙Tom and Patrick

[iamjustaholeforyousir]

Arrogant Son of a Bitch

summary: your father has been searching for suitors for you, and you finally come across an infamous prince, known for all the wrongs amongst the youngs.

warning: slight angst? bit of foul language, bad father figure.

word count: 1222

minors DNI

part1 part2 part3 part4 part5 part6 part7 part8 part9

You were hiding behind the curtains listening in on the conversation next door, how your father was signing your life away, gifting you to someone like you were a possession. Tears were running down your cheeks as you held your breath, waiting for your guests to make their decision, to accept you or to not. 

You were aware that any choice they made would be disastrous for you; if they said yes, you would be sent with them to some place you don't know, and if they said no, your father would make mockery of you and condemn your life because you were the last daughter and had no luck finding a suitor.

You were aware that you were not the most beautiful princess out there and that you were frequently overshadowed by your sisters and later by other princesses. For you, hiding was easy. Yes, you have had your fair share of crushes, but none of them actually lasted long enough to develop further, and most of them would be snatched away from you by others before they could blossom.

When your name was called as you were beginning to get lost in your own thoughts, you immediately wiped the tears from your cheeks, smiled a couple times, and walked in. You enter the room with manners and grace, keeping your head down and not glancing up at the guests as you stand in front of your father.

When he says, "This is her," you turn to your right and lift your head, and what you see is something from a dream. Shiny brown curls, forest green eyes that seem to encompass the entire wilderness, his bow shaped lips that were the most exquisite shade of pink you had ever seen, he was clad in black, his suit jacket that had a golden pattern, and he stood prim and proper as you were walking in. Taking in his features, you looked at his face as whole, he had an expression on his face, you couldn't name the emotion, but it definitely wasn't one of happiness.

He was not delighted to see you.

And that is what brought you back down to earth from your high.

A more senior man stood next to him; you could tell by the way he looked that they were father and son. This man had a gentler, more forgiving appearance, you bow before them both.

"It is a joy to meet you, darling." The older man said, you tried giving him a smile, but you did not give him a sincere one. It went unnoticed by everyone, except the man in black. He looked at you with a sharp gaze, and something seemed to change in the way he was looking at you. He looked amused now.

you wanted to scoff.

What a twat!

“Y/n, this King Styles of Holmes Chapel, and this is his son Prince Harry.” your father introduced them. This was Prince Harry, who was infamous among the princesses for being a flirt, the kind of man who would make you believe you have something just to spend the night because, from what you heard, he liked having that kind of power over people.

“Y/f/n, if you don't mind, we can send the kids to talk, so they can get to know each other.” said King Styles.

"Of course!  Y/n, show Prince Harry the gardens." There was nothing you could do but follow his instructions. Without saying a word, you signaled to the younger man to follow you and were relieved when he appeared to comprehend. During your entire stroll to the gardens, neither of you spoke a word, and you barely even exchanged glances besides when you needed to give directions.

You sat down on the bench in front of the large fountain in the gardens when you had finally arrived there, and he joined you. you Consider saying something because the stillness was becoming too loud. "Look, I understand that you do not want this, and quite frankly, neither do I." He interrupted your thoughts. You may not have wanted this, but you knew you needed it to get away from your father. He had to agree, and when he admitted he didn't, it clearly showed on your face that you weren't exactly happy. He immediately responded, "I have someone else that I..uh that i have my eyes on, and it's not like.. Look, I just-" "Prince Harry, you are one of the final proposals i will ever get, and i realize that i am not the most gorgeous princess out there, so you do not have to say yes to me, i know all about you, and what all you do,” He clenched his jaw at your oblique charge, “but i really need to get married.” He laughs this off, "Bloody Hell, you are so desperate! For what purpose? Huh? getting dick? That is it?” You were furious at him for using such outrageous language as you gasped at it. "I will have you know, Prince Harry, that I do not intend to do that. I simply desire such a thing because I need to leave this place. I have been forced into courtships for as long as I can remember. You have no idea what it is like for a princess to always be rejected!” “And whose fault is that, then?” He mumbles, you gaze at him in shock, and as his words sink in, your eyes begin to tear up. You turn away from him so he will not see you crying. Harry did not appear to care if he heard you struggle to control the sob that was escaping from your throat despite your best efforts to remain composed.

Until a servant arrived and informed you that your presence was wanted by your father, the quiet between you felt as though it had lasted for eons. Without waiting for Harry, you get up and leave. You could hear his footsteps following you, but you remained reluctant to turn around and look. As you got closer to the door, you slowed down and cleaned your face before waiting for Harry to stand next to you outside. 

He keeps his hands behind his back as you lift your hand to knock on the door, but you can sense his anxiety. What does he have to be worried about? you wanted to yell at him. He is the one who was outrageous and cruel, and he is the one who will return to whatever princess he was pursuing regardless, while you will have to endure yet another encounter with yet another prince.

When you hear your father granting you permission to enter, you attempt to unlock the door once more, but this time he stops you and does it himself; what a prince! He caught you looking at him and noticed the sarcasm seeping from your face, but like everything else, he decided to ignore this as well, moving aside to let you in. Your hand was touching his front, which was too close for you. You looked at him as if to urge him to get away, but he gave you a contemptuous response. When your gazing contest was over, you looked ahead and saw something you had thought you would never see.

@remuslupinwifee @strwbrrydaydreams

[northlt03]

need 2 make friendz here pls pls

i love how many people like my art or my silly thoughts but i would love 2 be known <3

So I'm 18 and queer!!

Stuff im interested in:

Percy Jackson (Greek Mythology in general)

Really passionate about Epic the musical rn

The marauders (im so normal abt them i swear)

recently read AFTG and I AM OBSESSED

Currently reading the raven cycle I LOVE THEM SM

I love Louis Tomlinson!!!! and Hozier!!! And Taylor swift!!! and 1D!! And Harry Styles!!!

I love reading and talking about books

And I love love love art (got really passionate about it bc of ahb)

[1800titz]

A pirate Harry AU :D

WATTPAD ALTERNATIVE | piraterry things

DESC:

"It's a trek," he murmurs against the shell of her ear. The trail of his fingertips has something hungry wracking down the knobs of her spine, chills flourishing in the wake of his touch as he draws a line from the center of her ribcage, a column. They wind around her belly button, and back up. Pass on the underside of her breast, riding along the curve, and spiral toward pebbling flesh.

"You have to ride the wave and follow the map—"

His touch slows before he can graze over the sensitive bud, and it plucks a pretty sigh from her. Lewdly, the corners of his strawberry mouth buckle, hidden by frizzy strands of her hair. He drags the pad of his thumb over the jut of her hip bone, and fingers slink closer, closer. The pirate picks his touch back up to smooth a line down from her sternum with his palm.

"—before you can get to the treasure."

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2