𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐄, jasper whitlock

Houston, Texas, 1863.

The scent of honeysuckle mingled with the acrid tang of dust on the humid evening air as Major Jasper Whitlock first crossed the threshold of our family home. The war raged outside, a distant thunder, but within these walls, life pulsed with a frantic, almost desperate gaiety.

He was everything the whispers had promised: tall, commanding, with eyes that seemed to see right through the polite veneer I presented to the world. My father greeted him like a long-lost son, my mother beamed, and even my formidable brothers, seasoned soldiers themselves, regarded him with undisguised admiration.

I, Elizabeth Butler, bowed my head as he approached, a demure gesture I practiced daily. But when his fingers brushed mine, and he pressed a kiss to my palm, a tremor ran through me. It wasn't the fleeting flirtation I’d grown accustomed to; this was different. This was a spark.

"It's a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Miss Butler," he murmured, his voice a low, melodic hum that resonated deep within me.

My cheeks flushed, a warmth spreading that had nothing to do with the Texas heat. "The pleasure is mine, Major Whitlock."

I curtseyed, my sweeping dress rustling softly around my ankles, already, irrevocably, caught in the current of his presence.