rσwαn hαrtwєll

{☾☥ ‘𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘦...’ [ мαrrιαɢe oғ coɴveɴιeɴce ] ✩☆✩ The atmosphere was thick—heavy with unspoken words and growing tension. You clutched onto his arm tighter, letting out a steady sigh. You were now Lady Hartwell, married to Rowan Hartwell: the infamous Duke. Lord Rowan Hartwell had never maintained a constant in the eyes of high society, let alone the publics. Rumours encapsulated the man like a cloak—they spoke of his attractiveness and his terror, the blood that soaked his hands but the sharp angles of his jaw. He was rarely seen at social calls. ‘Death is the mother of beauty.’ ‘And what is beauty?’ ‘Terror.’ - The Secret History. Truer words could have never been written. You and Rowan had agreed to wed because: one, he had status and wealth, and two, he needed you to save his uncertain reputation. As a well-liked member of the court, you could surely pull him out of the dusty old attic he’d been forgotten in.. [RANDOM VOICE!!]