The rain had not stopped since dawn.
It was not a storm,just the soft, steady kind of rain that made the world feel hushed and far away. Warwick Manor had settled into that familiar silence it wore during dreary days, with only the occasional creak of old wood or clatter of teacups in the drawing room to remind one that it was still very much alive.
Elenora sat alone in the library, tucked into the window seat, legs curled beneath her, a book resting open but unread on her lap. Her eyes wandered over the grey gardens outside, where the trimmed hedges had softened under rain and fog.
Her solitude was interrupted by the rustle of paper.
The butler approached, clearing his throat quietly. "This arrived with a package from the city, my lady. No seal."
He handed her a slim volume,Lord Byron's poetry. Worn, aged.
Too personal to be a formality.
Inside, a card.
Thick paper. Unadorned. A few lines in ink, written with a pen that had lingered at every curve:
If you're not too noble to enjoy real conversation,
The Rosemere Greenhouse. Tomorrow. Five o'clock.
No gowns. No titles. No lies.
– D.C.
No full name. But he didn't need to sign it.
Her fingers curled around the note.
Heavens help her,she was curious.
* * *
The next day, Elenora did something she hadn't done in years.
She lied.
To her lady's maid, to her father's steward, to her own schedule. She claimed she had a headache, and that solitude would serve her better than tea with Lady Glenmere. No one questioned her. No one dared.
At precisely half-past four, she stood at her wardrobe in a state of quiet rebellion.
She did not choose silk or lace. She chose a dark wool traveling coat, simple boots, and a bonnet she had not worn since she was seventeen. Her gloves were unadorned, her perfume light. The mirror showed her not as Lady Elenora Warwick, but as someone… less royal.
More real.
The carriage she took bore no crest.
She did not tell the driver where she was going,only to stop two streets away from the gardens.
* * *
The Rosemere Greenhouse sat behind the East Market Square, nestled between overgrown hedges and the ruins of an old bathhouse. Its iron frame had rusted over the years, but the glass,though fogged,still let in threads of late-afternoon light.
She pushed the door open and stepped into the warmth of moss, wet stone, and blooming jasmine. The scent clung to her immediately, soft and green, like forgotten spring.
He was already there.
Seated beside a mismatched table, pouring tea into two chipped porcelain cups as if this were a weekly ritual. His coat was draped over the back of the bench. His sleeves rolled up. There was ink on his fingers.
"I expected you'd ignore the invitation," Darius said without looking up.
"I considered it," she replied. "Twice."
"Only twice?"
His smile was fleeting, but sincere. "Progress."
She sat opposite him and accepted the tea.
The silence between them stretched. It wasn't awkward. Just unfamiliar. Like two people trying to measure the room between their words.
* * *
"You read Byron?" she asked eventually, nodding toward the volume beside him.
"When I'm feeling dramatic."
"So... often?"
He chuckled. "Only when the sky weeps and nobility ignores my letters."
"I didn't ignore it."
"I'm aware."
She sipped her tea. It was over-steeped, bitter,but strangely comforting. No servant had poured it. No butler stood waiting. For the first time in a very long time, she was simply... present.
* * *
"You've changed since the ball," he said after a while.
"Have I?"
"You don't flinch as much."
"I don't flinch."
"You did. When I said your name. When I stood too close."
She stared at him. "And you noticed?"
"I notice everything," he said, but without boast. "Especially the things people try to hide."
"And what do you think I'm hiding?"
He considered her. Not hungrily. Not mockingly. Just... thoughtfully.
"You wear silence like a shield."
"That's hardly insightful."
"It is when most people wear noise."
She looked away.
The rain had started again, tapping gently against the glass. The light outside had shifted,greyer now, but with the softness of twilight.
* * *
"I used to come here as a boy," he said, voice quieter. "When my father forgot I existed. Which was often."
She glanced at him, startled by the honesty.
"Why tell me that?"
"Because I don't want to fight you tonight."
They were quiet again.
This time, it was Elenora who broke the silence.
"My mother died here in winter," she said. "Not in this greenhouse, but in Warwick. Pneumonia. I was fifteen."
He didn't respond with pity. Just listened.
"I think," she continued, "my father decided that day that I'd never be allowed to break."
"Did you?"
"Not aloud."
Their eyes met.
And in that small, warm, broken place between memories, something shifted.
Not affection.
But the very first crack in the wall between them.
* * *
"I should go," she said at last, rising.
"You always leave when things start to feel real," he murmured.
"I always leave before they become dangerous."
He stood as well, offering no protest. "Then you'll be running from me for a long time."
She paused at the door.
"No," she said. "Just until I figure out whether you're worth the fall."
And then she stepped into the night.