METHOD OF MADNESS ━ 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐛𝐲 ¹ (Under editing)

𝒾𝒾𝒾. 𝓈𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃𝓉𝑒𝑒𝓃: lady sarah

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : arsonist's lullabye - hozier

⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

iii. seventeen: ❝lady sarah❞

✵✵✵

Cheltenham, England

Marianna begrudgingly went along with the plan she and Thomas had crafted for their day at the races, though she couldn't hide her disappointment. The thought of being there on business rather than pleasure drained her of the excitement she'd longed for. It had been ages since she'd attended such a grand affair—perhaps even the first time in her life.

As they navigated through the throngs of people, the noise and chaos of the racetrack felt distant, muffled by the weight of unfulfilled desires. She wanted nothing more than to spend the day with Thomas, to lose themselves in the crowd, and forget the purpose that had brought them here. But instead, they wound their way toward a hidden speakeasy, a secret enclave tucked away from the glittering spectacle.

Mar's gaze lingered on the main stage, where the horses thundered by in a blur of power and grace. A pang of longing tugged at her heart. If only she had a sketchpad instead of a gun, she would capture the scene with the swift, sure strokes of her pencil, immortalizing the fleeting moments in ink and charcoal.

Sensing her distraction, Thomas tried to steer her thoughts away. "I still prefer the Garrison."

She shot him a quick glance, her tone laced with bitterness. "Of course you do. Grace is there."

A smirk played at the corners of his mouth, amusement flickering in his eyes at her jealousy. He nudged her gently. "Do you dance?"

"I paint." She replied flatly, her mood as unyielding as the steel in her voice.

Thomas cocked his head, his expression urging her for more, as if he were peeling back the layers of her guarded heart.

With a resigned sigh, she conceded. "If properly asked, I suppose I could."

A genuine smile broke across Thomas's face, warm and infectious, drawing a reluctant smile from Mar.

Their eyes locked, and in the midst of the racetrack's cacophony, his voice softened, becoming a melody of its own. "Lady Sarah of Connemara, will you dance with me?"

With a nonchalant nod, she accepted his outstretched hand. He led her down a flight of stairs, weaving through the crowd of revelers, until they found themselves in the midst of people swaying to the music.

For a moment, they stood there, uncertain, awkwardly hovering on the brink of something unspoken. But as the rhythm of the music swelled, Marianna and Thomas found their footing, moving in sync, the tension between them dissolving into the dance.