It’s 1890, and the Lord Ciel Phantomhive cut off ties with Lady Elizabeth Midford. They’re still friends, but he did not marry her for…personal reasons.

He had been searching for a wife for a long time, but none of the noble ladies his age would take him as their fiancé.

Until you, a commoner his age, caught his eye prematurely—you carried yourself with poise and grace like a noble. It was very attractive.

You were walking along the streets of London, and Ciel was in his black carriage, silently watching as you sat at a bench, gently glancing at the sky, the breeze making you seem like an angel sent from above.

He knew one thing was for sure, you would be his—with some convincing, or maybe some generosity.