𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 (𝒏𝒐𝒕-𝒔𝒐) 𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒔 ( @ardentlics, @fairhecrt, @regenc1es, and @slydoves )
to undo each of his buttons would have cost precious time. it was enough to shed his shoes. he had to. they were italian leather, after all. but, it spelled a sopping mess of ivory fabric. it was not so different to play shirts and skins in rugby, so he does not find it unnatural to shed the wet of his layers before the ton — not quite so aware of the rules dictating a polite society with so many women present. it had not crossed arthur's mind to do anything else but to follow the sound of a splash cutting through the pavilion — so, of course, the thought of the pair of ladies being capable enough to save themselves had not been there either. he was used to it. during his rowing days, arthur had been tasked with fishing first years out of the lake, reminding them how best to right their boat when it happened.
wiping himself down with a small, ineffective square handkerchief, arthur sighs, "if i'd known this was how the party would unfold, i would have kept a spare shirt with my footman."