The sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the grand hallway. The cold marble floor barely muffled the frantic rhythm, the hem of a gown lifted slightly to avoid tripping. The chase wasn’t real—no one was actually pursuing—but the thrill of running freely was far more enticing than enduring another tedious lecture about etiquette.
That is, until the inevitable happened.
A shoulder grazed the side table near a grand pillar.
Crash!
A porcelain vase tumbled to the floor, shattering into countless fragments.
Silence fell.
The few servants nearby stiffened, their faces drained of colour.
And then—footsteps approached.
Slow. Steady. Unyielding.
A tall figure emerged from the dimly lit corridor, dressed in an impeccably tailored waistcoat and a long, dark overcoat. His features were sharp, composed—too composed, as if nothing ever unsettled him. Grey eyes, cold and calculating, swept over the mess on the floor before finally settling on the girl who had caused it.
A moment of quiet passed.
Then, his voice.
"What, pray tell, is this commotion about?"
The servant nearest to him swallowed hard before bowing low.
"M-my apologies, Lord Arthur. This—this is the young lady."
Arthur's gaze flickered with the faintest hint of curiosity. "Young lady?"
The servant nodded hastily. "The daughter of the Duke’s new wife, my lord."
Ah.
So, this was her.
Arthur inhaled deeply, exhaled even slower.
His hands moved with practiced ease as he removed his gloves, one finger at a time, before handing them to a nearby servant.
"See to it that this mess is cleaned," he said coolly, before looking back at her.
"And as for you—" His voice dropped ever so slightly. "You will learn how to conduct yourself as a Beaufort."
***
Dinner was a formal affair, as always. The long mahogany table was set with silverware polished to perfection, the glow of candlelight reflecting off their pristine surfaces.
Duke Reginald Beaufort sat at the head of the table, his expression unreadable, the weight of his presence enough to keep the atmosphere stiff and measured.
Arthur sat to his right, posture impeccable, every movement precise. Across from him sat the girl—wild, untamed, wholly unfamiliar with the refined world she had now been thrust into.
Arthur set his fork down deliberately.
"Father," he spoke, his voice steady, calculated. "I wish to take her to my residence in London."
The Duke raised a brow. "For what purpose?"
Arthur reached for his glass, taking a slow sip before responding.
"She requires proper instruction." His gaze flickered toward her briefly before returning to his father. "If she is to exist within society, she must learn its rules."
A beat of silence passed.
Then, the Duke gave a single nod. "Do as you see fit."
Arthur merely inclined his head in acknowledgment before rising from his chair.
"We depart tomorrow." His words were final.
He didn’t wait for a response before leaving the room.
***
The next day, أنت and Arthur departed for his private mansion in Mayfair, London. Unlike the sprawling Beaufort estate in the countryside, this residence was built for prestige and convenience, situated close to the royal court. The townhouse stood tall with its immaculate white stone façade and wrought-iron gates, exuding quiet elegance. Inside, the air was heavy with order—mahogany furnishings, dark leather, and the scent of aged parchment, every detail reflecting its owner’s disciplined nature.
Now, أنت and Arthur stood in his mansion’s grand library, surrounded by towering bookshelves and the scent of aged parchment. Candlelight flickered against dark mahogany, the only sounds a distant clock and the crackling fireplace—an atmosphere as rigid as its owner.
Tonight, however, the sanctity of this place was about to be broken.
Arthur stood by his desk, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves as he regarded the girl seated before him. She looked... out of place. Like a creature plucked from the wild and placed inside a gilded cage.
"From this moment forth, you will learn to speak, walk, and behave as a proper lady," he stated, his tone leaving no room for argument.
She did not respond.
Arthur exhaled through his nose, stepping around the chair until he stood behind her. With the faintest touch, he placed his hands on her shoulders, adjusting her posture with a firm yet careful grip.
"Straighten your back. No slouching." His voice was low, just near enough for her to hear. "Chin up, just so—not too high, not too low."
He felt the way her muscles tensed beneath his touch.
For a brief second, he hesitated.
Then, clearing his throat, he withdrew, returning to stand before her once more.
His gaze was unreadable, though something flickered beneath its surface—something even he couldn’t quite place.
"There is one thing you must understand," he said finally. "Aristocracy is not merely about wealth or status. It is about how you carry yourself. Respect is not given; it is earned."
Still, she remained silent.
Arthur watched her for a moment longer, his gaze never faltering, before he reached for the porcelain teapot beside him. With careful precision, he poured tea into a delicate cup and extended it toward her, a silent command lingering in his outstretched hand.
"Show me how you hold the cup."
He waited.
