Harry’s Guardian or The Strict Mistress

Harry stood tall, her eyes fixed on some point beyond the line of girls in front of her. She was a beacon of defiance in a sea of submission, her vibrant navy and bright blue dress a stark contrast to the dull, brown and green gowns worn by her companions. Her arms were bare, her hands clad in fingerless gloves, and a slit ran up one side of her leg, showcasing her knee-high boots. She was a rebel, and she knew it.

Mrs. Denu walked up and down the line, correcting the girls’ clothes and makeup. Harry didn’t need any fixing, her face a map of freckles and her hair a messy plait that still had a twig tangled in it. She was a force to be reckoned with, and she knew it.

“Now girls,” Mrs. Denu said, standing in front of them, her heels clicking on the floor. “When the suitor arrives, you are to keep your heads down, eyes on the floor. You do not, under any circumstances, look him in the eye. You must show that you know your place. You will do everything that he asks of you without hesitation. When he arrives, you will all curtsy like we practised. He asked specifically for you, seven, because of your beauty. Do not disappoint him.”

As the other six girls curtsied with ease, Harry stumbled over her own feet, her head bowing slightly as she tried to regain her balance. She caught a glimpse of the man as he walked towards them, his dark auburn hair and broad frame making her heart skip a beat.

Warren walked into the hall, his eyes scanning the line of girls in front of him. He almost rolled his eyes at the sight of their perfect, submissive poses, but then he saw her – the girl at the end of the line, her navy dress a stark contrast to the dull colors worn by the others. She was beautiful, with flawless skin and full lips, but it was the scratches and scars on her left arm that really caught his attention.

“Mama, I said I didn’t have a type,” Warren said, turning away from the girls as his mother approached him. “I don’t want a woman just because she fits your standard of beauty.”

“You don’t want any woman, regardless of her looks,” Mrs. Denu replied, her voice dripping with disdain. “If you won’t be picky, then I will. I don’t want just any ugly girl being the next Mrs. Denu. We have status. I will not let you ruin it by choosing some improper, unattractive harlot!”

Warren chuckled to himself as he walked up the line, skipping past the girls who looked too young. He didn’t want anyone who was going to try to be something she wasn’t, someone who was going to try to be a perfect, submissive wife. He stopped in front of the girl in navy, her dark brown eyes flashing with defiance as she stared back at him.

“So, Harry,” Warren said, his voice low and smooth. “Do you mind if I take the twig from your hair?”

“If you like,” Harry replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I wasn’t bothered to fix it on the way over.”

Warren smiled as he plucked the twig from her braid and dropped it on the ground. “I was wondering, Harry, where you got those scars. Proper ladies don’t have blemished skin, no less flaunt it.”

Harry’s gaze hardened. “I’m not proper, nor a lady. I killed a bear, and I wear my scars proudly.”

Warren’s eyes narrowed, his interest piqued. He didn’t want a wife who was going to try to be something she wasn’t, someone who was going to try to be perfect and submissive. He wanted someone who was real, someone who was honest and true to herself.

Harry shoved clothes into a backpack, packing quickly as she tried to escape the situation. She didn’t want to marry a man she didn’t know, just because of a stupid law invented centuries ago.

No one was home, and she turned slowly, a hunting knife in her hand, as she saw who was standing in her open doorway. Tall, dark, handsome, and prick was standing in front of her, a neutral expression on his face.

“You’re running away?” he asked, his voice low and smooth.

“Maybe because I don’t want to marry a stranger just because of a stupid law invented centuries ago,” Harry replied, resuming packing and sheathing her knife.

“Believe me,” Warren said, stepping into the room. “I don’t want to marry a stranger because of a stupid law invented centuries ago either. That’s why I chose you.”

Harry faltered, unsure of what to say. Why would Warren choose her, the one person who would hate to be his wife if he didn’t want a bride in the first place?

“Why would you choose the one person who would hate to be your wife if you didn’t want a bride in the first place?” Harry asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Well, my mother wouldn’t have been too happy about that, and my father wants to see me marry before he dies, which will be soon,” Warren replied, his eyes narrowing. “I chose you because you would be fine by yourself. I don’t want a wife, you don’t want a husband, so why not appease our families and pretend we care, then go home and just be roommates?”

Harry’s mind was racing, trying to process what Warren was saying. How could she trust him, how could she know he was telling the truth?

“How do I know you aren’t lying, just manipulating me into marrying you so that you can have your way with me?” Harry asked, her voice shaking slightly.

Warren’s eyes flashed with anger, but then he stepped back, his expression neutral once again. “Do I look like I would lie to you, little girl?”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat as Warren towered over her, his broad frame making her feel small and insignificant. But it was his words that really got to her, the fact that he had called her a little girl, and the way his eyes had softened as he looked at her.

“Think about my offer,” Warren said, turning back to the door. “I would rather a wife who can kill a bear than a quiet, needy mouse trailing after me.”

With that, he left the room, and Harry felt a rush of emotions as she watched him go. She didn’t know what to do, didn’t know what to say. All she knew was that she wanted to see him again, to talk to him more, to get to know him better.