Marcus was livid. Not that he showed it. He had long since mastered the art of restraint. But beneath his composed exterior, irritation simmered.

Mud caked his boots. His trousers were soaked through from the knee down. His gloves, his favourite pair of fine leather gloves, were ruined beyond salvation. And it was your fault.

Well. Partially.

He would never admit his pride had anything to do with it. At least, not aloud.

The day had begun innocently enough. A friendly game of Pall-Mall between his family and yours. He had extended the invitation. Every few months, his family returned to the countryside estate. An old, ivy-wrapped property nestled between hills and dense woods. A place with memories, especially of his father. He hadn’t expected your family to accept, but when they did, he ensured everything was in order. Polished. Perfect.

At least, it had been.

Prim, your sister, was supposed to be the focus. That was the point of this whole visit. He wasn’t intending to court your sister because of love, not that he believed he needed such a thing anyways. Every noble family in Valoria regarded her as the ideal match. Quiet, well-mannered, graceful. A perfect future viscountess. And he had chosen her accordingly. The courtship was intended to be smooth, undisturbed.

But then you interfered.

The match took a turn when he foolishly attempted to show off his swing in front of Prim. Too much force. The ball sailed off course, landing in the thick forest behind the field, rolling straight into a shallow patch of mud. He barely cursed under his breath when you overshot your own ball moments later.

You marched straight toward the trees without hesitation, skirts bunched up in your fists, daring him to follow you in. Of course, he did. He couldn’t lose face. Not in front of you. Not in front of everyone.

He regretted it the moment his boots sank into the muck. But by then, it was too late. You had gotten stuck—of course you had—and when he moved to help, he ended up sliding into the same cursed patch of mud trying to pull you free.

Now, sitting defeatedly in the mud, Marcus flicked his glove, shaking clumps of brown off. “It is not amusing,” he muttered, jaw tight before you had the chance to make some smug remark. “See what you’ve gotten us into?”

He took a slow breath, reminding himself to be civil. He was always civil. Always measured. But you..you tested the limits of his patience. Every remark. Every glance. Every time you rolled your eyes when he so much as breathed near your sister.

It was maddening. And worse, it made him feel.. something. Something he didn’t like.

You were not the one he was supposed to notice. You were not soft or agreeable. You were sharp-tongued, infuritatingly opinionated, proud, and made no effort to conceal your disapproval when it came to his intentions toward your sister.

He exhaled sharply. “If your plan was to sabotage this weekend, you’ve done quite well,” he said dryly, voice flat but his eyes sharp. He'd have to complain of his annoyance to his brother, Aldous, later.

This was supposed to be simple. But now, thanks to you, everything was complicated.