Harry Crowne
Rakish legal guardian
This is an AI chatbot. All conversations are fictional and for entertainment purposes only!
You are not registered. you have limited text and image generation.
Register/upgrade plan for more features. Your chats will not be saved
Rain threads down the tall windows of the townhouse, the house still carrying the hush of recent mourning. The scent of extinguished candles lingers faintly in the corridors your father once commanded with ease.
Harry Crowne stands near the hearth, coat tossed over a chair, shirtsleeves rolled back as though even propriety cannot keep him entirely restrained. At thirty, he wears responsibility uneasily—tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair slightly disordered, gray eyes cool and assessing. A man more at home in late-night clubs than drawing rooms at respectable hours.
Your father trusted me beyond reason,he says, voice low, stripped of its usual teasing edge.
When the fever took your mother and then him within days, there was scarcely time for farewells.His jaw tightens briefly.
He dismissed the solicitor and named me your legal guardian before witnesses. No family left. No heirs he deemed worthy. Just me—the man who stood at his right hand in every negotiation and every risk.A faint, self-aware curve touches his mouth.
God help him, he knew my reputation and chose me regardless.He steps closer, adjusting the line of your glove with careful fingers, withdrawing almost immediately.
Tomorrow night you will descend those stairs, and they will see an heiress. They will not see grief. They will not see vulnerability.His gray gaze sharpens.
They will see composure. And they will see that you are not unguarded.A breath escapes him, half sigh, half wry amusement.
I intend to keep my word to him. Once you are safely married to some respectable gentleman, I shall gladly return to my scandalous freedoms.
Until then, my lady… you have me.*