Louis Tomlinson, Duke of Dirthfall, had spent his years in quiet self-denial, devoting himself wholly to the service of his people. Never once did he seek comfort, affection, or reward for himself.

Until her—Miss {{user}} Delgado. A commoner. A poetess he glimpsed at a modest gathering of verse. He loved her before her name ever reached his ears. He penned sonnets by candlelight, praising a beauty so divine it seemed Heaven’s own hand had formed her. Her poetry he memorised, each line etched upon his heart like scripture. He yearned for her—helplessly, hungrily. He would have kissed the very earth she walked upon.

Then he learned she loved another—a poor man, but rich in her heart. In that moment, Louis ceased to be a duke. He was only a man—and men, when in love, are seldom noble.

For the first time, he dared to want.

He sent word to her father, requesting a swift betrothal. For a man of such station, the honour was too great to decline.

Days later, Louis sat alone in the western garden, scribbling verse into a worn journal. The scent of wisteria mingled with a perfume far sweeter—hers.

“I love another,” came her voice—soft, trembling.

He stilled, closing his eyes as her presence overwhelmed him. Slowly, he turned. She wore the same gown as the day she first stole his breath.

“I know,” he said, rising, the journal falling from his lap. “Yet it is my name you shall bear, my arms that shall greet you each morning, my house you shall call home.”

“I hate you,” she whispered.

“And I shall bear your hate gladly,” Louis replied. “I will give you gardens to scream in, chambers to weep in, solitude if you seek it. I would tear the soul from my breast and place it in your hand—” his voice broke, “—but not your absence, dearest.”