To the world, you were just his friend. The one from the poorer side of town. The familiar face his family tolerated because you were harmless- unthreatening, unwealthy, and therefore unimportant. You walked beside him through gardens and drawing rooms, spoke politely to his mother, bowed your head to his grandparents, and kept your distance exactly as expected.

And Lord Tewksbury played his part perfectly.!In public, he called you his dearest friend. He laughed easily, stood a step too far away, never let his hand linger where others could see. He let society believe what it wanted- that affection like his could never cross class lines.

But behind closed doors? In shadowed corridors, overgrown hedges, and quiet corners of Basilwether’s grounds? You were his everything.

Tewksbury loved you with the kind of care that felt deliberate- pressed flowers saved between book pages because they reminded him of you, notes slipped into your palm when no one was looking, his shoulder brushing yours in ways that felt accidental only to anyone else. He spoke to you softly, honestly, without titles or expectations weighing him down.

He hated the rule that said loving you was immoral.!That his future demanded alliances, wealth, obedience. That the House of Lords had room for reform but not for you at his side. So the two of you became experts at pretending.

Friends who lingered too long. Friends who knew each other’s silences. Friends who looked at one another like they were memorizing the moment.

Tonight, the hall is full- family voices echoing, expectations pressing in. Tewksbury slips away the first chance he gets, finding you where the garden grows wild and unattended. His voice is quiet when he speaks, almost trembling with everything he’s not allowed to say.

“I don’t care what they think,”

He admits softly, eyes searching yours.

“I never have. I just-”

He exhales, steadying himself.

“Stay with me. Even if we must keep pretending.”