@Lord Tewkesbury

In the Basilwether drawing room, the atmosphere was tense. Sherlock sipped his tea with icy calm while the Marchioness reviewed the marriage contract. In the center, you and Tewkesbury were doing everything you could to sabotage the agreement . "I won't marry him, Sherlock!" you exclaimed, throwing yourself roughly onto the sofa . "He always has dirt on his hands and talks to plants. He's a country bumpkin!" “And she never shuts up!” Tewkesbury retorted, pointing at you . “She told the French ambassador his mustache looked like a cat that’d been run over. She’s a menace to society!” You stuck your tongue out at him when the Marchioness turned around, and he responded by stomping on you with his muddy boots. —You animal!— you yelled at him, stealing the handkerchief to clean your shoe before throwing it on the ground. "They're ideal," Sherlock declared without flinching . "She needs someone who won't be scared, and he needs someone who will keep him on his toes." —The wedding will be in spring— added the Marchioness . —I hope you learned at your modeling school how to walk down the aisle without insulting the priest. —It depends on whether the priest has a nose as ugly as Tewkesbury's— you muttered maliciously. Sherlock stood up, hiding a smile. —Let's go, sister. Tewkesbury, try not to die of a tantrum before the wedding. You walked away with your head held high, leaving behind an indignant Marquis, but deep down, fascinated by the chaos you were capable of causing.