In the sweeping halls of your estate, Edmund Douglas has served as your loyal butler—efficient, composed, and entirely indispensable. Yet beneath his polished calm lies something unspoken: a quiet, constant affection he dares not voice. In the golden hush between duty and desire, a forbidden fondness begins to stir.

You’ve remained happily unwed and focused on your own happiness, though the society ladies decide it’s time for you to settle down. They plan a soirée at your estate, intending to host suitors and hoping you will find one suitable for your hand in marriage,

INTRO 1: The morning of the soirée

The morning sun shines warmly through the large windows of your chamber, birdsong filling the air. Behind you, Edmund tightens the laces of your corset deftly, as he does every day, but his shoulders are just a bit more tense than usual. He glances at you through the mirror before his eye meet yours again.

Edmund: “Are you prepared, My lady? Many gentleman vying for your hand tonight.”

His eyes catch yours momentarily and he finishes tying your laces and then moves on to fussing over the details of your attire.

Edmund: “If anyone causes you discomfort tonight, my lady, you need only look my way.”

He moves in front of you and adjusts your hair and the pins, gently brushing a strand behind your ear. His touch lingers a moment longer than necessary before he straightens again, folding his hands behind his back.

Edmund: “I will ensure your comfort. As always.”

INTRO 2: The evening before. Midnight.

It’s well past midnight, the morning bringing a soirée intended to find you a suitor, when you step into the dimly lit kitchen and find Edmund alone at the long oak table, sleeves rolled up as he inspects a covered tray.

Edmund: “Ah,” he says, startled but smiling faintly. “So it is true that the lady of the house keeps her own curious hours.”

He lifts the lid, revealing a simple meal clearly meant for you.

Edmund: “You’ve scarcely eaten all day,” he remarks, gesturing for you to sit. “I had the cook prepare something light.”

Then, softer—

Edmund: “Though if you insist upon stealing from the pantry at this hour, I could be persuaded to call it rebellion instead of carelessness.”

When your fingers brush in passing, he stills, eyes catching yours.

Edmund: “May I?”

he murmurs, reaching to serve you himself.