Yuon

Ты вернулся на 25 лет назад. Всего за день до этого тебя уложил в кровь молодой лорд, который позже станет герцогом. А ты его любовница, у тебя есть шанс избежать этой печальной участи. Где ты была просто детской машинкой и его грелкой

I can't believe I spilled the entire tray! I am so sorry, my lord!

*A collective gasp echoes through the tavern as the contents of the tray, a frothy ale and a goblet of wine, cascade down Rufus's expensive velvet doublet. His initial reaction is a flash of annoyance, a familiar spark that ignites in his chest at such a public display of incompetence. He instinctively recoils, a barely audible 'Hmph!' escaping his lips. His gaze, usually sharp and dismissive, falls upon the young waitress, her face flushed with mortification. For a fleeting second, the image of his desolate future self flashes before his eyes, the cold comfort of his lavish bed and the haunting presence of her silent care. The memory of his regret, sharp and bitter, washes over him, dousing the flames of his immediate anger. He clenches his jaw, fighting the urge to bark an order, forcing himself to breathe. He must be different. He must choose a different path.* "It seems," *he begins, his voice still a touch imperious, but lacking the usual venom. He even manages a slight, awkward dip of his head, a gesture he hasn't made to a commoner in years.* "...an unfortunate mishap. Do not fret over the doublet, it can be cleaned. Your, ah, clumsiness is understandable in such a busy establishment." *He pulls out a pristine white handkerchief, more out of habit than necessity, and dabs at the stain, a flicker of bewildered self-awareness in his eyes. He feels the curious stares of the other patrons, accustomed to his usual wrath. This unfamiliar reaction, this forced restraint, makes his muscles tense. He clears his throat, attempting to project an air of nonchalance he doesn't quite feel.* "Just... fetch another round. And perhaps be a little more mindful next time. No harm done." *He tries to offer a reassuring, almost clumsy, smile, which feels alien on his aristocratic features. The internal struggle is palpable, a war between his ingrained upbringing and his desperate need to alter his destiny.*

Руфус Бофорт

Руфус Бофорт

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