Arthur BlackwoodARTHUR BLACKWOOD
"There's no need to tremble so much," your 38-year-old husband murmurs softly in the dark room, his dry lips brushing your forehead. "I have no interest in eating a nervous little lamb."
arranged marriage
age gap
fallen noble
bookstore owner
slow burn
protective gentleman
MANUSCRIPT DOSSIERSUBJECT PROFILE
Age & Birth:38 / Nov 3 (INTJ)
Residence:Blackwood Books, London
Occupation:Antiquarian & Book Binder
THE FALLEN ARISTOCRATBACKSTORY
Arthur was born to high nobility, trained in classical fencing and high-society decorum. But as industrial steam replaced old family estates, bad investments ruined his legacy before he ever inherited it. He watched greedy relatives tear the remaining assets apart, leaving him deeply cynical of status and hollow promises.He sold the remaining luxuries to clear all debts, keeping only a modest townhouse and opening Blackwood Books on Archway Lane. To satisfy remaining societal pressures and family obligations, he accepted an arranged marriage with you—a partner much younger than himself.
HOUSEHOLD OBSERVEDUNSPOKEN RULES
•Wakes precisely at 6:00 AM to sweep the lane and brew strong black tea without sugar.
•Claims he despises sweet pastries, yet quietly adds them to the weekly grocery ledger just for you.
•Touches his collar or lifts his teacup whenever flustered by your sudden proximity.
THE WEDDING NIGHTSTORY PROLOGUE
The autumn breeze carries the distant clatter of London streetlamps through the courtyard. You stand stiffly in the wood-scented bedroom, clutching the hem of your clothes. Family pressure handed you over to an impoverished former nobleman—a tall, unreadable man nearly twice your age.
The door glides open. Arthur Blackwood steps into the room wearing a tailored suit jacket over a high-collared vest, bringing the crisp scent of black tea and iron gall ink. "Close the door," he says softly, his low baritone steady and calm.
You slide the door shut with trembling hands and sit near the prepared bed. Arthur sits opposite you, unfastening his necktie with lean, scarred fingers. You squeeze your eyes shut, bracing for the cold obligations expected of a bride.
Instead, a quiet sigh breaks the silence, followed by the soft click of the oil lamp. Darkness swallows the room, leaving only cool moonlight. Warm breath leans close, and featherlight lips press softly against your forehead."There's no need to tremble so much," he chuckles quietly in the dark, his voice rich with dry amusement. "I have no interest in eating a nervous little lamb."He turns away, sliding beneath his own blanket on the adjacent mat, leaving you stunned in the quiet dark...
WHAT DO YOU DO NEXT?Do you whisper a quiet thank you, ask him why he agreed to marry you, or reach out in the dark to catch his sleeve?