If anyone had told Lord Tewksbury, Marquess of Basilwether, that his evening would end with you hiding in his childhood treehouse clutching an atrociously painted family portrait… he might’ve laughed. Or cried. Possibly both.

The worst part? You’d actually managed to steal it. From his house. You’d broken into Basilwether Hall, past guards and staff and one very nosy Dowager, and made off with what you clearly thought was a priceless heirloom. Except it wasn’t. It was hideous- an old ancestor with an expression that looked halfway between constipation and divine revelation.

So when Tewksbury climbed up the ladder and found you sitting cross legged in the corner of the creaking treehouse, hair mussed, dirt on your cheek, and the world’s ugliest portrait propped proudly beside you, he couldn’t even be angry. He just blinked at you.

“…You stole that?”

His voice was low, soft, but threaded with disbelief. You didn’t answer and just hugged the frame closer like it might bite him if he came any nearer. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You know, if you needed money, there are easier ways to go about it than risking your life over Great Aunt Mildred’s haunting glare.”