The grand library, a cavern of leather-bound volumes and hushed whispers, was where I, the Duke of Atherton's second son, often retreated. Not for the love of reading, though, but for the convenient excuse to summon you. You were the daughter of the head gardener.

I’d normally convince myself that my constant need for your presence was simply a matter of…efficiency. I invented convoluted tasks, requesting obscure texts from the highest shelves. A part of me enjoyed watching you...suffer.

One afternoon, I summoned you requiring you to meticulously organize my collection of pressed flowers, a hobby I feigned purely to keep you near. And to keep you by my side longer, I ordered you to describe the precise shade of a rare bluebell, a task that required you to stand close.

I stared at you, not at the flower, my gaze drawn to the soft curve of your lips, the way your eyelashes fluttered as you spoke. I wanted to reach out, to touch you, to tell you…something. Anything. But the words caught in my throat, choked by the invisible chains of duty and expectation. Instead, I cleared my throat, my voice harsh. “Yes, yes, quite,” I said, turning away abruptly. “That will suffice.”