Bridgerton X Reader - Blog Posts

this is the cutest thing i've ever read just when I needed something cute in my life, thank you, thank you, thank you.

i just want to keep this tattooed on my soul wtf besties wdym benedic x spinster x laufey this is everything for me, the way he was on his knees for her from the start and she didn't even noticed, bring yearning back please I beg of y'all.

YOU BEWITCH ME

꧁ ༺ ✧ ༻ ꧂

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Oh baby I am a wreck when I’m without you- I need you here to stay.

Line Without a Hook, Ricky Montgomery

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benedict bridgerton x eldest daughter! reader

summary: Benedict Bridgerton has been the least tolerable Bridgerton since you arrival to the ton. You are a lady of respectable means, though nearly forgotten by society due to some extenuating circumstances. But no matter how hard you try, you can’t stay away from him.

cw: time period typical treatment of women in society. btw when i say eldest daughter i mean SHE IS THE FIRST BORN OF HER FAMILY SHE IS NOT RELATED TO HIM NO INCEST THAT IS NASTY !!!! also no smut

a/n: i’m writhing on the floor foaming at the mouth im dying dead. my girlies from the books know that Benedict is a Tier One Yearner (tm) and im utterly obsessed with the dynamic of elizabeth bennet and fitzgerald darcy so i bring you the bridgerton version

i wrote this before i watched season two so shhhhh i didn’t steal her backstory from Kate’s i had no idea they were gonna be so similar T-T

please excuse the crazy long playlist my brain is infected

songs i listened to while writing: Somethin’ Stupid by Nancy and Frank Sinatra, Bewitched by Laufey, Line Without A Hook by Ricky Montgomery (these fools are yearning CRAZY) Amore mio autami by Piero Piccioni, Valentine- Live at the Symphony by Laufey & The Iceland Symphony Orchestra, Someone to Say- Reprise from the Cyrano Motion Picture Soundtrack, Hopelessly Devoted to You by Olivia Newton-John, The Way I Loved You (Taylor’s Version) by Taylor Swift, A Lovely Night by Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone, The Swan by Camille Saint-Saëns, Sebastian Comberti, and Miriam Keogh

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title taken from Bewitched by Laufey (GO LISTEN TO LAUFEY)

✧˖°.

In your short time at the ton, you have met every Bridgerton. Eloise in particular is your favorite- her determination to carve her own path despite the vice grip societal standards have on her is nothing less than refreshing and inspiring. Violet, their mother, is the most likeable of all the ones you have met. Anthony is respectable, Colin is nice, and the children behave well enough for their age. That just leaves one left.

Benedict Bridgerton is the least tolerable and easiest to dislike out of his siblings and family. His cavelier disregard for anything of true substance —besides the art he covets so dearly— grates on you. His smirk prickles your skin whenever he flashes it at you (which is, of course, much too often) and his general manner of being make you desire nothing more than to leave whatever party or ball you are at and never return.

And he, no matter how hard you try, does not seem to get the message.

"Ah," He bows slightly as you enter, "The lady doth grace us with her presence."

You give a tiny curtsey —enough to appease Portia Featherington, whom you have arrived with— and a thin smile, which drops the second she is out of earshot.

"Mr. Bridgerton," You greet, purely out of formality and however might be eavesdropping, gossip is especially rife in this town, "How... nice of you to leave the comforts of your canvas to charm us ladies at this party. I'm sure there is someone else here in attendance who would wish to speak to you more."

Indeed, there are several ladies eyeing the pair of you. To Benedict, with very obvious heart eyes, and to you, barely contained sneers.

If only you could assure them you are of no threat to their dear Benedict. Not a threat to any gentleman well and truly looking for a wife, to speak plainly.

"But who would entertain you? It must be difficult, being here, so far away from your friends and family in..." He trails off, leaning in to you expectantly.

"Cheltenham," You respond, smile paper-thin.

"Cheltenham," He nods. "I hear they have the most magnificent gardens. We do have some impressive ones here in London, but we are not quite known for them."

"Oh, yes. You must be quite familiar with these gardens by now. I must suppose this is our third time having this exact conversation."

There. Right there, his smirk almost falters. As usual, your sharp-tongue and quick-wit catches him off-guard. It is the easiest way to disarm a one Benedict Bridgerton long enough to make a quick escape.

Except this party is rather boring (even though you have just arrived) and well. With almost no chance of possible suitors approaching you and your usual preference of lingering on the fringes of parties and analyzing what happens in them, there is little better to do than subject Benedict to whatever mood you are in.

"You'll forgive me," he affirms, "It is hard to find topics of conversation when one's partner is adamant on not continuing past formalities."

The usual flame begins to spark in your chest. "Oh? Then let us continue, if that's what you desire. I had believed you would want to save your best conversation for the ladies who are much more... diverting."

"My, my," He tilts his head, smirk widening. "Do you consider yourself plain?"

"I consider myself un-agreeable," You remark, words rolling so easily off your tongue. Something about arguing with Benedict specifically always makes your words easier to find, easier to say. "I think you will find that most, if not all, of the gentlemen here agree. Even Lady Whistledown writes of my abilities to repel any and all suitors."

"So I have heard," Nearly in sync, you both pluck glasses of wine off a passing tray, "I do worry, my dear Lady. You sound almost proud of this feat."

"I am. I have worked tirelessly for the title."

He takes a sip of his wine. "I recall several suitors calling upon you back when you first arrived, at the start of this season."

"Ah yes, well," You take a sip of your own, "Nothing makes a woman think of marriage like being fought over like a shiny new toy."

Benedict chuckles, looking down at his glass and then back at you. "I see now why you and my sister get along so well."

"I believe that was evident from the moment we met. Not just anyone deserves the right of befriending Eloise Bridgerton."

"Ah! There we go," He raises his glass as if toasting. "Something we both can agree on."

The conversation lulls into silence, neither of you bothering to start it up again. You merely stand, an appropriate distance apart, and watch. Benedict, likely watching his brother, who has taken to the dance floor, and you, watching a young lady who bears a rather striking resemblance to your one of your sisters.

A stab of homesickness plunges deep into your chest, so sharp and so quick you almost suck in an audible gasp. You haven’t seen your sisters in quite some time. Each of them married and in love and happy- something you worked so, so hard to achieve.

Even if it meant you yourself are likely to become a spinster.

Benedict notices your momentary grief. He follows your eyeline, and when he speaks next, it is surprisingly soft.

“Do you miss your sisters?”

You sip your wine, at the same time using the glass to cover the slight shine of tears that has risen in your eyes and to take a moment to gather your words.

“Do you miss Daphne?”

“Of course I do,” His voice is firm, almost vehement. “But I gather that the bond between sisters is different than sisters and brothers.”

The wine begins to settle in your stomach, rich and heavy.

“It is,” You say, nearly a whisper, “My sisters and I were all very close. I miss them a great deal.”

You allow your words time to hang in the air before continuing. “But they are all married now, and they are happy. Most of them have children of their own. They’ve all gotten fine lives for themselves.”

Benedict makes a noise in the back of his throat that has you turning to stare at him.

“You are the eldest, yes?” He asks, something you can’t identify in his eyes.

“I am.”

“And you have not yet married,” He continues, “I would think that the eldest would get married first, and her sisters would follow her lead.”

You stare down at your gloves. This topic of conversation has come up several times over the course of your stay —Especially because you’re staying with the Featherington’s, being old family friends of your father, and Portia does love a good piece of gossip— and it never gets easier.

“My mother died before any of us entered society. I was raised by our governess, and my sisters were raised by me. Our father has… little interest in the affairs of match-making and courtship and everything it is young ladies get up to.”

Benedict is silent while you speak, eyeing you curiously.

“And my mother had always spoken of how she wished for her daughters to marry for love. And with her gone, well,” You swallow harshly over the lump in your throat, “Somebody had to ensure that came true. How could I prepare my sisters for society and guide them to their matches if I was busy and married?”

He doesn’t respond for several long moments. When he does, there’s an edge to his voice that wasn’t there before.

“I had not considered you so selfless.” He admits, eyes flicking over your face. “I must say, I am quite surprised. So many layers to the ton’s most infamous suitor-fighter.”

And just like that, all the air seems to return to the room, and whatever momentary tension was there leaves, and you remember that you are speaking to Benedict Bridgerton.

You give him another fake smile. “We can’t all be so one-dimensional, Benedict.”

—

You’re not sure how you have found yourself a seat at the Bridgerton dinner table.

Of course, you are not surprised at all to have found yourself at dinner with the Bridgerton’s. Eloise is always insisting you come to dinner— the dowager Bridgerton has heard of her pleas so often that they’ve almost come to save you a seat- you are there at least once a week.

The surprise falls in the matter of who is sitting next to you.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” You say, voice just loud enough for him to hear, “Your wine glass is a bit close to mine, don’t you think?”

The smile he sends you —that you can barely see from the corner of your eye— is sharp and full of teeth.

“Nonsense. I’ve found that a little proximity is good for things every now and then.”

“Every now and then,” You repeat, voice firm, “Somehow I find myself seeing you more and more.”

“Oh, surely there are worse fates.”

“Hardly.”

“Tell me- are you this sharp-tongued with all whom you meet?”

“Only the ones that deserve it.”

He raises his wine glass to his lips. “And what have I done to deserve such cruel wit?”

“Oh, don’t play ignorant to your intentionally aggravating behaviors.”

Benedict rests a hand over his chest in mock pain. “You wound me. Truly.”

The sip of wine you take is a little too large to be considered a sip. “Somehow, I find that hard to believe.”

“Tell me,” He tosses back a generous gulp of wine, “Were you born this stubborn and sarcastic or did it come naturally over time?”

“Hmm,” You pretend to think, “I suppose I’d consider myself that of a fine cheddar. Only tasting sharper with time.”

Benedict laughs, a private thing, clearly already tipsy. “That doesn’t even answer my question.”

“Why do you even want to know?”

“I want to know what your sisters endured during their childhoods. My word. I can only imagine why you haven’t had any suitors since arriving here.”

Fear races up your spine at his words, a sudden a rather unwelcome reminder of why your father sent you to London.

“Yes, well,” You answer, your mouth suddenly dry and your hands sweating in your gloves, “They should know there is no accounting for someone’s personality.”

He’s silent for a few moments. It makes you nervous his silence, so you turn your head, just a little, to see what expression he’s wearing.

Only when you turn, he’s already staring. Not even the half-head turn that you’ve done. He’s staring. Right at you.

His brows are furrowed, little creases on the skin in between them, and his eyes are bright and searching.

“Are you alright?”

You have been in London for two months, one week, and three days.

Benedict Bridgerton is the first person to ask if you’re okay.

“Fine,” You say, smoothing out your features with force, “Wine does not always agree with me.”

He doesn’t believe you. But he doesn’t pry, either.

“Shall you be giving the wine a thorough lecture, then?”

“Wine does not have ears. A lecture would be wasted on it,” You pause, “However, if we can track down the winemaker…”

Your words have their desired effect. He laughs, this time a little louder than something just for the two of you to share, garnering a couple glances from Anthony and Eloise, so you sip your wine and pretend you did not just make Benedict laugh. A real laugh, not the fake one he does when you’re arguing.

You suppose there are worse ways spend an evening.

—

It is an almost pleasant day in London. Almost being that the temperatures are fair, but the weather overcast.

You find garden parties the most interesting of all the parties to be had by the high society families because it means you get to escape to the gardens. Of course, there are others milling about in them, but they offer much more privacy than a ballroom and have the added bonus of reminding you of your home in Cheltenham.

“What is it liked to be overlooked by society?” Eloise asks, ever lacking decorum. It is, honestly, refreshing. She does not beat around the bush or sugar-coat her words.

You think on her words before responding, taking the time instead to eye some rather nice roses. “Honestly? It is not as terrible as you might think. Everybody always says that spinsterhood is a fate worse than death, but if it’s anything like this, I can’t think it to be that painful.”

She nods, thinking over your words. “But didn’t you want to marry? You must be lonely.”

You elbow her side as you walk, arms entwined. “How could I ever be lonely with such incorrigible friends?”

You both laugh, raucous and cackling and nothing close to lady-like.

“Is there a pack of hyenas roving about the gardens?”

You hear the rush of footsteps swishing across the grass, then feel the brush of fabric on your arm.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” You sigh, cutting him a glare, “What are you doing here?”

He loops his arm through yours, the same way that Eloise has done to you.

“Mr. Bridgerton.” You warn, tone sharp

“Oh relax,” His smirk is in high form, today, “I am protecting you ladies from those hyenas. We haven’t found them yet, have we? It’s the gentlemanly thing to do.”

“Eloise,” You pause, craning your neck about the garden, “Do you see a gentleman around here?”

Eloise snickers behind her glove. “I can’t say that I can see any.”

Benedict rolls his eyes. “Humor me, then.”

You continue walking. “I suppose we will. It’s good to engage in charity, dear Eloise. You must not think yourself above those less fortunate.”

He scoffs. “Since when do you consider yourself charitable?”

You flap your fan a few times. “I have a great many qualities. Do not fault me because you are so caught up in yourself to notice anything other than what you want.”

His fingers flex. “And what is it you think I want to see?”

You shrug plainly. “Me as I present myself. Unbecoming and, probably by the standards here, vile.”

“No.” He says, the word more of a sound, sort of ripped from his chest.

You look at him in alarm and he meets your gaze evenly. “You are a great many things- stubborn and irritating, but never vile.”

His words and the vehemence in which he said that stun you into silence. You’d never imagined Benedict, of all people, to take such an issue with that word. Vile. You’ve been called vile often over the course of your life, by mothers and suitors and other debutants and even on occasion your father. Its meaning has been mostly lost on you, the cruel nature in which it is said no longer barbed and painful. It is just a word, like every other word.

He’s staring at you, an almost pained expression on your face, so you figure you should say something.

“I see,” Eloise’s arm tightens on yours, “I suppose I should take your words to heart. I am glad to know that there is at least one gentleman who does not think me a vile woman.”

Benedict smiles, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes for a moment, something you don’t manage to place before it is gone.

“Ah! You called me a gentleman. Have I won you over?”

“For now, at least.”

—

You miss dancing.

Since you are the most un-agreeable lady in the Ton, you are seldom asked to dance, and since a partner is a requirement for the activity, you tend to spend most parties on the fringes, either talking with Eloise or merely observing.

Or arguing with Benedict. But you’ve found it a little harder to truly poke at him with any real malice or criticism since he defended your character so passionately that day in the gardens.

“You’re watching the dancers like they personally offended you.”

He always finds you at parties. Actually, he always finds you no matter where you are.

You gaze at him out of the corner of your eye. “I’m envious. Pay me no mind.”

He snorts. “Envious of the dancers? Whatever for?”

“I miss dancing. The only problem with scaring away all your suitors is that you also scare away all of your potential dance partners.”

You both observe them quietly for several moments, eyes tracking the flowing and sweeping movements.

“Do you,” he pauses, clears his throat when his voice cracks over the last syllable, “Like to dance?”

“Yes,” You admit, a tad embarrassed, “I always have. Most of society’s expectations for women are quite sedentary or still. But dancing is… its movement and passion. And sometimes, when your partner is agreeable and the music fair, it can almost feel like you’re not dancing at all. That there is no one else there, just the two of you.”

Your face heats, the realization that you’ve been talking so long about something you really do care about striking you. “Or so I’ve heard. I haven’t actually experienced that last bit.”

He inclines his head. “Where did you hear about it?”

“From my mother, as she regaled me on the day she met my father.”

You both stand, shoulder to not-shoulder, more like mid-upper arm, observing the spins and steps of the pairs of dancers.

“Would you dance with me?”

You snap your head to him. “Dance?”

“Yes,” He says, voice a little breathless. “I have yet to do my duty dance for the evening and it would be unfair to keep a lady from the dance floor.”

He extends a hand. “Especially if she longs for it.”

You stare down at his hand. “People will talk of you dancing with me. I would not want to bring reproach—“

“Dance with me,” He says again. “Please.”

Who are you to deny such an earnest request?

He marks a spot on your dance card- your first and only of the night.

As the next song comes a close, he leads you onto the the dance floor, and for the first time in awhile, you feel… conscious, of the eyes on you.

Everybody always watches for the who the Bridgerton’s dance with. Except now Anthony has Kate, and he is much less interesting than the second Bridgerton brother taking a partner to dance. Especially a partner with the reputation you have.

The song begins, and you glide your way through the steps.

“You didn’t have to dance with me. I’m sure we’ll—“ you pause, spinning, “—appear in Lady Whistledown’s review in the morning.”

He grasps your hand tightly. “Let them talk. I have never been the brother anyone is well and truly worried about.”

You begin to feel more and more alive and the song plays on. Movement— real, fluid, passionate movement thrums in your veins, the music jumping through the air.

But all good things must come to end.

Eventually, the music comes to a close, and you must curtsy, and allow Benedict to leave the dancefloor.

“You dance well,” He praises, eyes alight, “I see why you miss dancing. You glide like a swan.”

The smile that tugs at your lips is entirely involuntary. “You are too kind. I do not dance that well. I just have a passion for it.”

He raises a brow. “Oh come now, accept the compliment.”

You shake your head, chuckling a breathy laugh. “Then I must pay you one in return. Not once did you step on my toes or lose your way. Color me impressed.”

His face lights up, joy evident. “And the night grows better! A compliment from our dear spinster.”

“I have always proclaimed myself a fair judge, have I not?”

Benedict’s expression is alight with amusement. “You have. But that doesn’t mean I’ve been all that inclined to believe you.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “Well, there’s no accounting for opinions, even if they are wrong.”

“I thought opinions above being right or wrong.”

“Only sometimes.”

Benedict looks all together too pleased with himself as he gazes at you, lips quirked up and cheeks still a little flushed from the dance.

He extends a hand.

“Care for another dance?”

You smile down at your gloves. “I couldn’t possibly. Dancing with me once could be forgiven, but twice? What would your mother think?”

“My mother happens to like you a great deal,” He says smoothly, “And I think I might enjoy dancing with somebody who actually dances.”

How could you refuse?

You place your hand in his.

“I’d be delighted.”

—

As has become a particular habit of yours recently, you’re lying away, staring at your ceiling and pondering Benedict’s actions.

Why did he ask you to dance? Why did he allow you the joy of two dances?

Why did he care?

Why can’t you stop thinking about it?

In your heart, and probably your mind, you know why. The warmth of his hands through the gloves and the dappling of the candlelight on his flushed cheeks is stuck fast in your mind for the exact same reason you’ve hated him since the moment you met:

You love him.

You didn’t love him when you met, but you know yourself. You know he is the type of man that you would love- the type that would break your heart because he is charming and kind, and he will never choose you. And why should he? You’re sharp and sarcastic and nowhere near the shining qualities and perfection of this season’s diamond- any of the season’s diamonds, really. You’re a spinster in the making with an attitude and standards.

It is a most unfortunate combination. For your upbringing to have made you so hard to love and have also instilled such a deep want for love and romance in your heart. You know you were not made for it, not for the kind your father sent you to London to get.

He wants you married to whoever will take you- only problem is, now no one will. Especially not Benedict.

But… could he?

You turn over in bed, smushing your face into the pillow.

No, you tell yourself, Don’t go down that road. Don’t even think about it.

You barely sleep a wink, that night.

—

The morning brings the post, and the post brings a letter from your father.

Not even Portia Featherington’s threats of grounding stop you from racing into a carriage to Bridgerton house.

You enter through the back entrance and upon seeing your disheveled appearance and tear stricken face, a servant rushes inside to fetch Eloise immediately.

The girl herself looks harried and concerned as she meets you in the back garden, a million questions etched in her face and streaming out of her mouth.

“My father,” You half-sob, “Has found me a husband. Baron Dunsmoor. He is— he’s horrible. He has had two previous wives, and then all died in childbirth. He is disgusting and revolting and treats women like, like cows.”

Eloise’s expression crumples. “What is, what can be done?”

You shake your head, pressing the back of your hand to your mouth. “It is too late. He’s ordered me to come home at once so the proposal can be made official.”

The younger Bridgerton girl grasps your shoulders. “What if you were to get a proposal? Here? Now?”

“Eloise!” You say, “Who are we going to find to marry me before tomorrow?”

Her eyes shine when she answers. “My brother. Benedict.”

The cruel, twisting stab to your gut that hearing his name, now, here, gives you is nothing short of agonizing.

If you were not crying before, you certainly are now.

“How could you say that?” You ask, breath hard and stuck in your throat, “He would— He will never marry me. That is, it’s cruel to even suggest that.”

“No, no I promise, he loves you, I am sure of it—“

“Eloise, please do not—“

“He has painted you, drawn you, I swear he must have illustrated your likeness more than—“

“Eloise!” You snap, patience thin and tears thick, “That is enough. Benedict will not marry me. I cannot—“

“Marry me.”

You snap your head up at the sound of a familar, rich voice, eyes meeting Benedict’s as he marches over to you eyebrows drawn tight and lips set.

He looks… distraught. Utterly wrecked.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” You gasp, “You—“

“Benedict. Please. You never call me Benedict.”

His words come out like a dying man’s wish, despite you being the one stuck in a hopeless situation.

“Benedict,” You start, “I cannot marry you.”

“Why not?” He snaps, words and expression immediately becoming sharp and confused, “You would rather live a life with that wretched man?”

“Of course not,” You retort, “But it’s not that simple—“

“Yes it is!” He cries, throwing his hands up and taking another step towards you, “Tell me, honestly, if you wrote to your father and told him I had proposed and you had accepted, would he not choose my proposal over the baron’s?”

“Yes, but—“

“But what?”

“But I cannot accept!” You shout, aware of Eloise standing only a few feet away and servants no dough crowding to watch from the door, “I can endure a loveless marriage to a loveless man. I could not endure a loveless marriage to a man that I love.”

Benedict sucks in a gasp, and you refuse to meet his gaze. How can you, after saying that?

Birds chirp overhead. There is the distance noise of carriages moving about in London. Somewhere distant, a dog barks.

“Do you truly think our marriage would be loveless?” He says, voice scraped raw and quiet, “How could you not know the depth of my affection for you?”

You look up, taking a half step forwards, searching his face for any hint of a lie, for deception.

You find open, painful, vulnerable honesty.

“What reason would I have to believe that I had a chance?” You ask, voice hushed, “All we do is argue. I have been cast out by society and you are a Bridgerton.”

He reaches forwards, grasps your hands in his. Your breath hitches.

Neither of you are wearing gloves.

“I am so in love with you it makes my chest hurt and my bones ache. Eloise was right. I have drawn you hundreds of times because there is just so much inside of me and it has nowhere to go,”

His lips quirk up a little, almost sad, “I loved it when we argued, because it meant you looked at me. It meant I held your attention. And you are remarkably smart and so, so much more wonderful than you give yourself credit for. I would sooner burn everything I’ve ever drawn than let you marry that man, than let you believe that you can never marry for love.”

He squeezes your hands once.

“Please, marry me.”

Your eyes are burning with a fresh wave of tears, but there’s something warm and alive unfurling and beating in your chest, something that glows with every word he says.

You laugh a strange noise, somewhere between a chuckle and a sob.

“Yes,” You gasp, your smile practically splitting your face in two, “Yes. I will marry you.”

Benedict’s smiling too, the both of you looking like fools, smiling and laughing in his garden.

Eventually, he turns to Eloise. “You’d better go tell mother she has another wedding to plan.”

Eloise scoffs. “Oh, please. She’s been working on this one for ages. I’m absolutely positive everybody knew this was only a matter of time except the two of you.”

He looks baffled, and you note in the back of your mind that he’s still holding your hands, “What? I wasn’t that obvious.”

“You danced with her. Twice. In a row.”

“So?”

Eloise rolls her eyes. “You don’t dance with anybody, especially more than once. You’ve been making love eyes at each other over verbal spars for ages. It’s been disgusting to watch.”

You snort. “Then look away.”

“Absolutely not. You insult my brother too well.”

You laugh again, then look back to Benedict.

“My father, and the Baron—“

“I will write to him today,” he soothes, “And have the letter sent with the fastest post carrier. You’re my wife now. I’m not going to let anyone else have you.”

Your cheeks heat. “I’m not your wife yet.”

He shrugs. “Only a matter of time, my love.”

Eloise retches in the background, and Portia will be an absolute nightmare to deal with when you get back, and part of you still wonders if Benedict is serious, but none of that seems to matter.

Not with how he’s looking at you now. Not with your hands in his.

You’re really looking forward to that first kiss.

✧˖°.

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Unwritten Masterlist

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x F!Reader

Summary: Writer and pen pal of Eloise Bridgerton, (Y/N) (Y/L/N) had no plans to come out in society. Her family could hardly afford it after all. And she doesn’t need to marry, not when she can support herself and her family with her writing. But ever the hopeless romantic, (Y/N) embraces London society with hopes of finding inspiration for a new story. Only to find herself the subject of a love story right out of one of her favorite romance novels.

Prologue: The Letters 

Ch. 1: The Wanderer 

Ch. 2: Don Juan 

Ch. 3: Practical Education

Ch. 4: Self Control 

Ch. 5: Vanity Fair

Ch. 6 - coming soon

Ch. 7

Portrait-Benedict Bridgerton x Reader

(GIF credit to @gifshistorical​)

Masterlist

Requested by @peoniarose: I was wondering if I could request a Benedict x Reader that is angsty and fluffy.

Characters: Benedict Bridgerton x Reader, Daphne Bridgerton x Reader (sister-in-law)

Meanings: (Y/N)=Your name

Warnings: Angst, arguing, mentions of cheating, lots of fluff

                                        *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

(Y/N) wandered around her new home, still trying to remember the layout and small details within the huge house. It was so different from the home she grew up in. She had been living there for only a week but it still wasn’t settling into her mind. She felt like a stranger, she felt like she was intruding. (Y/N) and Benedict had been married for the same amount of time, they didn’t have a long courting relationship either, there was still so much she had to learn about her husband.

He was a lovely, charming and kind man. (Y/N) could not deny that she liked him, and she did find him attractive, but as soon as her parents saw that she had been conversing with a Bridgerton they immediately sped up the process. (Y/N) also came from a rich family, and Anthony was determined to seal the deal (he saw that his brother could be happy with this woman, he would never have forced him into a marriage). But now that the exciting courtship was over, the rush of emotions was dying down. (Y/N) thought she would feel entirely different to this.

Perhaps it was because they lived with the rest of the Bridgerton’s, meaning it was very hard to find any private time. The only time they had together was in their own bedroom, but even that was an awkward affair. They slept as far apart as they could, not wanting to make the other feel uncomfortable.

However, (Y/N) recently noticed Benedict straying even further from her. She would wake up without him beside her, and sometimes even go to bed alone. He would lock himself up in his study, doing who knows what, slipping in and out, looking suspicious. She had tried to catch him out, but he was too quick for her. Although she didn’t know her husband well, she could spot a liar. Did he really not want to be around her? He would rather lock himself up in a room than speak with her?

“Daphne," (Y/N) broke the silence they had been sitting in as they continued their embroidery,"I don’t suppose you know what your brother has been up to recently?”

“I have many brothers, you might have to be a little more specific.” she joked.

(Y/N) smiled.“You’re quite right. I meant the one I’m married to.”

Daphne set down her work.“You know, I do seem to recall he has been rather reclusive. I can’t remember the last time I greeted him at breakfast.”

“Exactly. I’m worried.”

She looked at her sister-in-law, as if waiting for her to keep speaking.“There’s something else isn’t there? I can tell, your eyes hold a sadness behind them.”

“I do not want to burden your thoughts Daphne.”

“You’re my family now (Y/N),” she held her hand,“you can tell me anything.

(Y/N) wasn’t sure if it was entirely proper to involve her husband’s sister in their personal affairs. It was about their love after all, and she was scared that if she spoke the truth, Daphne may think ill of her; because what if she was overreacting? What if she was seeing something that wasn’t there?

"Please (Y/N), I am concerned for you.” Daphne urged her.

“When I have seen Benedict, I notice that he talks with the maids. And I’ve seen this many times. Then he locks himself away in his study all day. I used to stay awake waiting for him to come to bed, but now I just fall asleep because I know he’ll only leave again in the morning without a word to me. I fear that he detests me. I’m not asking for him to be undeniably in love with me, but I would like for us to at least get along.”

“(Y/N), my brother adores you. I’ve seen how he gazes upon you when you’re not looking. You turn him bashful, so much so that he can’t form a single sentence. I’m sure whatever he’s doing is for good reason.”

“But he’s acting so skittish. One time I saw him talking to a maid they seemed so deep in conversation, and when he saw me he immediately stopped speaking with her and scurried away, as did the maid.”

“That is rather odd behaviour for Benedict.”

“I want to ask him about all of this nonsense but I never have a chance.”

“Have you been to him in his study?”

“No. I’m afraid I will disturb him. What if he gets angry?”

“My brother would never be angry with you. Especially if you were there to express your true feelings.”

(Y/N) had a sudden confidence in her after she spoke with Daphne. She was in her right to confront her husband. She was being made to feel like an outcast here, Benedict was supposed to be their for her and help her ease into this new household and life. Instead he had cowered away. Her head was held high as she walked down the corridors with purpose. This would all stop now. The young woman was going to march up to her husbands study, waltz in and demand he explain himself.

It went differently than she had expected.

She came to a halt in front of the doors, arm raised to knock though she never made contact with the wood. Why was she so nervous? It was just Benedict, he was an absolute sweetheart. She assumed part of her didn’t want to enter in case her fears were true. However, standing there forever wasn’t going to solve anything, and she forced herself to knock firmly on the door.

Benedict huffed at the interruption. He was desperately trying to finish his work, it was taking him far too long to complete. Calling for the person to enter, he panicked when his wife walked in, instantly scrambling to put away what he had been working on. He clumsily stood, bumping back into his chair.

“(Y/N),” he stuttered,“what can I do for you?”

(Y/N) had a slight frown on her face, his nervous composure making her all the more suspicious.“I wanted to talk. I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

He hesitated before quickly shaking his head.“No, no you’re fine darling.”

She hadn’t heard that term in a while. (Y/N) walked further into the room, a sudden air of tension filling the space.

“Benedict, I don’t want to argue." 

He furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.“Well, neither do I. What would we argue about in the first place?”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“No I haven’t.”

“Yes you have! I never see you when we wake, it seems that you’re up before any of the staff! And throughout the day, you go out of your way to not cross paths with me, all the while I see you flirting with the young maids, whispering to them in your charming manner. You know I’ve caught you, because you run away each time. I cannot believe the amount of disrespect you have for me Benedict! And I never see you when it is time to retire for the evening. You leave me all alone in this new house to sleep by myself, it’s as if I’m not even here!”

Both her and Benedict were surprised by her outburst. She hadn’t raised her voice but her tone was snappy. It was clear to see that she was frustrated and upset. Benedict felt a wash of shame and regret come over him, however, he was also angry, and shocked that she would think of him being unfaithful to her.

“I’ve been away from you because I am trying to complete a piece of artwork, and it is taking an infuriatingly long time to complete.” he quipped back.

“I understand your art is important to you, and you know I support you fully in that. But that’s not an excuse to ignore your wife and run around with other women.”

“I have done no such thing!” this time he raised his voice.

In his frustration, he forcefully turned around his easel with had a canvas resting on it. The wooden legs slammed against the floor as he stared at his wife. (Y/N)’s mouth dropped open when she saw what he had been sketching. It was her.

“I have only been able to finish your face.” Benedict was calmer now.“It’s the only thing I knew from memory because I stare at your beauty every day.”

(Y/N) couldn’t believe it. He was going to paint her.

“It was supposed to be a late wedding present. However, I realised we really don’t know everything about each other. And that’s why I’ve been speaking with the maids, because I thought they might know more about you than I, or at least observed you more. I was trying to find out what your favourite dress was, favourite flowers, anything I could add to this soon to be painting so you could understand how devoted I am to you.”

“Benedict…” (Y/N)’s words trailer off. She was in awe at his gesture.

“I’m sorry that I made you feel like I was ignoring you. I just wanted to get this right. And…and you must know that I deeply care for you. Those early mornings and late nights were to ensure I could get this finsihed on time, though obviously that never happened. But every time I woke up or just before I slept, I always kissed your cheek, secretly knowing that it was the only affection I had given you that day.”

“I feel terrible for thinking you would do something like that Benedict.”

“No, you had every right to think like that. When you explained yourself it was easy to see it from that perspective.”

(Y/N) clasped her hands together as she approached the canvas, standing beside Benedict.“Will you…will you finish it?”

She looked up at him, seeing he was already looking at her.“I will certainly do my best to capture your radiance.”

“Do you think I could sit for you? That way we could spend time together. And as you mentioned, we really must know each other better.”

He smiled.“I would like that.”

“Me too. You’re a very caring man Benedict.”

“Only for you my love.”

hey guys i dropped out of college to work instead 😋🙌 but now ill actually have time to write bc i do enjoy writing, just never had the time.

& plz don’t bully me for dropping out, college is NOT!!! for me but i tried anyway.

thinking of a p2 to baby zegras but idkkkk we’ll see where the wind takes me

anyway, peace love & hockey pucks

my love, my life

Violet Bridgerton x daughter!reader, Bridgerton!reader

summary: Violet and her youngest, Y/N were mirror image. when you debut and fall in love, she faces the reality of letting you go || warnings: growing up, nostalgia, crying sessions when writing this|| word count: 705 || masterlist

Violet Bridgerton had nine children, four boys and five girls. Her youngest two, Hyacinth and Y/N, had surprised her by being twins. Neither of them would ever meet their father and Violet held them closer to her because of that fact. As a child, Hyacinth wanted to discover everything, see the whole house and the gardens and sometimes beyond. You, on the other hand, were perfectly content to curl up on your mother’s lap as she stitched, watching her work.

If anyone ever asked, Violet Bridgerton did not have a favourite child. She loved all her children equally was equally saddened when they, in turn, flew from the nest. But secretly, you were her favourite child, always willing to help your Mama and wanting to spend time with her. You were always content, never causing a fuss or making trouble for her to fix, unlike all your other siblings.

When you debut, you remain by your mother’s side, wary of this new experience. You spend your first season testing the waters of romance, charming suitors but not being interested in any fully. It’s on,y in your second year that you find yourself truly charmed.

Lord William Harding comes from a respectable and wealthy family but most importantly, he understands you. He will gladly spend an afternoon strolling through the park together, not saying a lot but occasionally pointing out something and telling a joke. He makes you feel warm and safe and that’s all you can ask for. It’s starts slowly until you realise that you crave his warming silence and his gentle conversation.

“I think I love him Mama.” The confession came as you were lying across your mother’s lap in the drawing room. Your book had been abandoned and Mama put down her embroidery to look at you.

“You think or you know?”

You meet her gaze, suddenly worried at the realisation. “I love him.”

Violet simply laughs at your concern. “Relax, my love. You have nothing to fear. I see how he looks at you.”

“What does that mean?”

“He loves you.” She says. “Whether he realises yet or not, he adores you.”

“Are you sure?”

Violet simply raises an eyebrow and smiles knowingly, continuing with her embroidery.

Your mother is all-knowing, especially after watching most of her children marry. William continues to court you, constantly looking at you with adoration. You confess your love to him as you dance together at your mother’s ball towards the end of the season and he reciprocates fully, imagining your future together and planning everything. Unbeknownst to you, he calls on your brother the very next day to ask for your hand in marriage. Anthony is well aware of your feelings towards William and gives his blessing willingly.

The time flies through your engagement until you're standing in front of your mother on your wedding day. You can't stop the tears gathering in your eyes as you look at her, knowing this is the final hurdle of your girlhood. Violet grasps your hands tightly in hers and pulls you close.

"You'll always be my daughter, no matter where you are."

"Mama-"

"It's alright to be afraid, it's alright to be unsure. That's love and life."

You dry your tears. "I want this so badly yet I am terrified of leaving you behind."

"I am not left behind." Violet says, convincing you more than she convinces herself. In truth, she is afraid of being left behind. All her children are now married, all will begin families of their own and she'll be reduced to the grandmother who is visited when it's convenient. It's only life, everyone grows up and grows away from their roots.

"I'll always need you." You promise her. Mama hugs you tightly once more before shooing you towards Anthony who was waiting for you by the entrance to the chapel. This was the end of your childhood, walking down the aisle on your brothers arm watching your mother follow behind you. He passing you to William and you find yourself perfectly at ease next to him.

"Take care of her."

"I swear to everything, I will."

Anthony nods once, taking his seat in the front row as the rest of your life begins.

taglist: @aoi-targaryen

Its soooooooo goooooooooddddd!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

More Than Honour

Chapter 23: Threadbare Composure

Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Introduction: They called it dinner. With candlelight and wine and the illusion of civility. But beneath the silver and silk sat something hungrier. A table of secrets. A room of witnesses. A game no one agreed to play— and everyone was losing anyway.

Anthony sat rigidly in his chair, hands folded too tightly over his napkin. Lucien was too quiet. Edwina too radiant. And you—too far away. Still laughing softly at something Hyacinth had said. Still occasionally turning toward Lucien like he was gravity.

Violet had nearly succeeded in shifting conversation toward something neutral—opera seasons, carriage redesigns, the weather in Bath—when Daphne, seated beside her husband, lifted her wine glass and gave her brother a look that could only be described as wicked.

“Well, since we’ve all touched on the subject of Anthony’s impressive... need for control,” she began, smooth as clotted cream, “did you know he once challenged Simon to a duel?”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Then—

Gregory gasped audibly.

Hyacinth knocked her spoon into her bowl.

Lady Mary made a startled noise into her wine glass.

Edwina blinked rapidly. “A duel?”

Colin groaned. “Not this story again.”

Colin dropped his spoon. Benedict leaned back, suddenly grinning.

“Oh, absolutely this story again,” Benedict said, leaning in with an almost reverent grin. “I had to physically stop him from marching Simon into the woods like a madman.”

Simon, calm as ever, lifted his glass with a small smile. “He was halfway through threatening my bloodline before Daphne even finished adjusting her hem.”

Anthony shot him a glare. “You laid your hands on my sister—”

“I kissed my fiancée,” Simon corrected, eyes twinkling. “You responded like an unhinged opera villain.”

Lucien, very casually cutting his meat, didn’t even look up. “That explains the dramatics. I did always sense you had a flair for duels, Bridgerton.”

Anthony’s jaw clenched. “At least I didn’t court my scandals publicly.”

“Oh no,” Lucien murmured, still not looking at him. “You just escorted yours into the woods and declared war.”

A collective snort erupted from Colin, Benedict, and Hyacinth.

You, despite yourself, let out a sharp laugh—and quickly masked it behind your wine.

Anthony’s gaze snapped to you.

You were already composed again. Almost.

“I do recall Daphne mentioning the incident,” you said mildly. “And something about you screaming something dramatic about honor while she was still smoothing her skirts?”

Eloise grinned. “He did. I heard about it from the butler before breakfast.”

Simon chuckled. “I believe his exact words were: ‘This family shall not be disgraced by a Duke with no intentions.’”

Benedict added helpfully, “And then he tripped over a tree root and tried to duel anyway.”

Hyacinth, delighted, leaned forward. “Did you use swords or pistols?”

Anthony, visibly exhausted, pressed his fingers to his temple. “Pistols.”

Lady Danbury, who had been silently sipping her wine through the entire affair, spoke for the first time. “I remember that morning. The ton nearly combusted. You know, if you’d fired a moment earlier, half the gossip circles would have had to rename the Bridgertons entirely.”

Colin mock-gasped. “The Bleedgertons.”

Lucien, shaking with silent laughter, raised his glass. “To duels poorly thought out, and reputations narrowly saved.”

Anthony ignored him, turning to Daphne with something that looked suspiciously like pleading. “You couldn’t have picked any other story?”

Daphne’s smile was sweet. “You chose to escalate. I chose to educate.”

Gregory, still wide-eyed, turned to Simon. “Would you have shot him?”

Simon looked contemplative. “Possibly in the leg. Nothing fatal.”

Lucien finally looked up, eyes gleaming with wicked delight. “And would you have apologized, afterward?”

Simon met his gaze evenly. “Depends which leg.”

Even Kate cracked a reluctant laugh at that.

Anthony, thoroughly outnumbered and glaring daggers at everyone, turned to you—his last possible source of dignity.

But you only tilted your head with faux sweetness. “Well. I suppose this means you won’t be proposing a garden stroll tonight.”

Benedict choked on his wine.

Edwina blinked between the two of you, utterly baffled by the dynamic she could not name.

Anthony said nothing.

And Simon—ever the quiet disruptor—leaned back, swirling his drink.

“I’m beginning to enjoy family dinners,” he said.

Lucien, with barely veiled amusement, leaned forward. “So just to be clear…you threatened bodily harm because a man fell for your sister?” His gaze flicked to Anthony, eyes glinting. “Are we sure you have not scheduled my duel yet?”

Anthony stiffened.

You, ever so sweetly, patted Lucien’s arm. “If he has, I will stand between you and the bullet.”

Lucien turned to you with a grin. “Ah, my angel. Always dramatic.”

Colin snorted. “You are one to talk.”

And for the first time since soup had been served, you found yourself laughing out loud—with Lucien beside you, Anthony smoldering across the table, and the entire house two anecdotes away from burning to the ground.

The laughter from Daphne’s duel anecdote still lingered in the air like smoke — sharp, stinging, leaving behind the burnt edge of revelation. Anthony had gone quiet again. Simon had leaned back into his chair, smug and satisfied, while Benedict and Colin wore identical grins that said we’ve waited years to say this out loud.

You had barely touched your wine, fingers tracing the rim of the glass, eyes fixed somewhere past the flickering candlelight in front of you. You weren’t retreating. Not exactly. Just… breathing. Carefully.

Which is why you missed the glint in Eloise’s eye before she spoke.

“So, Lord Blackbourne,” she said, far too casually for anyone to believe she hadn’t planned it. “Why do you call Y/N angel, anyway?”

The fork you were holding paused mid-air.

Eloise continued, elbows unapologetically on the table as she leaned in toward him with narrowed curiosity. “You don’t use her name. Not even in passing. Just… angel. Repeatedly. Sounds intimate.”

Gregory immediately turned, alert. Hyacinth’s eyes sparkled. Colin snorted into his wine. Kate tilted her head.

Anthony… didn’t move.

You felt every eye shift to you—but you didn’t flinch.

Lucien didn’t flinch.

Instead, he set down his glass with a quiet ease, his gaze finding you immediately. Not with a smirk or a laugh. But with something quieter. Something that slowed the beat of your heart.

“When I first said it,” Lucien murmured, his voice like velvet brushing against the grain of the room’s tension, “it was meant as mischief.”

Your breath caught.

“The kind of name you give someone when you’re trying to disarm them,” he continued, eyes never leaving yours. “Because they’re looking at you like they know your game and won’t play it. Because their smile is lovely, but not soft. Because you say it once and expect it to land lightly.”

He leaned back slightly, almost contemplative now. The room around him faded — for you, and seemingly for him as well.

“But she didn’t flinch when I said it,” he added, softer now. “She didn’t blush, didn’t glare, didn’t fall for the bait. She just… smiled. This quiet, maddening little smile. Like I had no idea how deep I’d just sunk.”

Your throat went tight.

Lucien’s fingers lightly tapped against the stem of his glass, once, before stilling.

“And from that moment on, nothing else fit,” he finished simply. “Not her name. Not miss. Not any title. Just angel. Because she’s never been anything less than my undoing in disguise.”

Silence wrapped around the table, taut and humming.

Hyacinth let out a breathy “oh my God.”

Colin blinked rapidly. “Did anyone else feel that in their spine?”

Daphne pressed a hand over her heart. “Honestly, that might’ve been the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

Simon raised a brow at Anthony, who hadn’t moved. His knuckles were white against the silver of his fork, and the muscle in his jaw had gone tight enough to crack.

You still hadn’t said anything.

Lucien turned to you now — just you — and, with the gentlest edge of a grin, added, “Unless, of course, you’d prefer I stop.”

It wasn’t cocky.

It wasn’t for show.

It was a question. A quiet one.

You didn’t look at anyone else. Just met his gaze and shook your head once, slow. “No. I don’t mind it.”

Lucien smiled.

Across the table, Anthony reached for his glass, slower this time. Measured. But his eyes didn’t leave yours. Not for a moment.

The tension still shimmered in the air like heat off stone, delicate and dangerous.

Lucien’s gaze hadn’t left yours. You held it, steady, a breath from something… more.

But Hyacinth, ever the chaos elemental in curls and silk, broke the moment with a sing-song curiosity that cut through the silence like a ribbon:

“But wait—when was the first time you said it?”

You blinked, startled. Across the table, Lucien’s mouth curved just slightly.

“Oh, I remember that,” Colin chimed in, already grinning. “It was that dinner. The one where I lost a bet to Benedict about whether or not Anthony would snap a butter knife in half.”

“I believe the final tally was… two,” Benedict added helpfully. “One bent beyond recognition. One thrown in the general direction of the fireplace.”

“I knew something was missing from the cutlery drawer the next morning,” Violet murmured, sipping her wine with the serene composure of a woman who has seen the apocalypse in cravat form.

Hyacinth leaned across Simon like a spy at court. “It was the night Lord Blackbourne flirted like the house was on fire and Y/N was the only woman worth saving.”

Lady Danbury arched a brow. “Sounds theatrical.”

Daphne chuckled. “It was art.”

“I wasn’t even there,” Simon said, “and I’ve heard the story at least three times. From three different sources. None of which included the same number of wine bottles or swooning incidents.”

“Oh, there was no swooning,” Colin said cheerfully. “Just Anthony pouring enough wine to drown a scandal.”

Anthony, seated across from Lucien and very much present, set down his glass with care. “I do hope the entertainment value outweighs the embellishments.”

“Funny,” Eloise said, swirling her wine, “I don’t remember needing to embellish. Lord Blackbourne served the tension. You roasted in it.”

Hyacinth squealed. “Yes! You were seething, Anthony. You tried so hard to look composed, but your fork nearly pierced the duck.”

Lucien, ever composed, didn’t gloat. Not quite. But the glint in his eye as he turned to you was unmistakable. “If memory serves,” he said softly, “you were the one who started the real fire.”

You tilted your head, meeting his gaze. “I might’ve poured the oil. You struck the match.”

Colin snorted. “And the rest of us? Roasted marshmallows.”

Gregory, wide-eyed, stage-whispered, “Didn’t someone say ‘turn about the garden’ and it was basically a marriage proposal in disguise?”

“I asked if she wanted to walk,” Lucien said innocently. “I never said how far.”

Eloise nearly fell off her chair laughing. “And she replied ‘Are you sure you can keep up?’ Like she hadn’t just murdered him in cold blood.”

Hyacinth pointed a dramatic finger across the table. “And then he smirked. Said he never has trouble keeping up. I nearly fainted.”

Daphne’s smile was knowing. “And Anthony—”

“I remember perfectly well,” Anthony cut in, voice low.

Silence descended, taut and immediate.

All eyes flicked to him.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t move. He just looked down at his plate, then up at Lucien. Then—you.

Kate, seated beside Edwina, watched it all. Closely. Like someone reading between lines only a few others could see. Her gaze lingered on Anthony’s tightened jaw. On your hand as it rested a little too still near your wine glass. On Lucien, who—despite all the revelry—wasn’t looking at anyone else but you.

Anthony exhaled, sharp and slow, then turned his attention to Edwina beside him, reaching for the wine to refill her glass.

“I’m afraid,” he said, his voice steady, “my family takes great pleasure in exaggerating past events.”

Edwina smiled, slightly confused. “I don’t remember it being so… theatrical.”

Kate’s brows twitched faintly.

“Exaggerated?” Colin laughed. “Anthony, you were seething. Daphne tried to change the subject and you looked at her like she’d insulted your lineage.”

Benedict grinned. “You were about to quote something dramatic. Then Blackbourne beat you to it. Poetry, wasn’t it?”

Lucien didn’t confirm or deny. But he turned to you, and with that quiet cadence of his, murmured just loud enough:

“There is pleasure in the pathless woods…”

Your lips parted. Your breath caught.

“…there is a rapture on the lonely shore…”

Hyacinth gasped. “He’s doing it again.”

Anthony reached for his wine.

Kate leaned in, eyes narrowed—sharp, calculating. “That was Byron, wasn’t it?” she asked lightly.

Lucien nodded. “Indeed. Quite a favorite of Lord Bridgerton’s, I hear.”

The corners of Kate’s mouth didn’t move, but something shifted behind her gaze. Slowly, she turned toward Anthony.

“Is it?” she asked.

Anthony said nothing.

Daphne leaned into the chaos like it was a chaise lounge. “To be fair, it’s one of the most romantic recitations I’ve ever heard. From either of them.”

Anthony’s fingers gripped the stem of his glass a little too tightly.

You felt it.

The pressure.

The attention.

The way Lucien hadn’t taken his eyes off you, even as he dropped words like embers.

The way Kate watched Anthony with rising suspicion.

The way Anthony looked at you like memory was a weight he couldn’t put down.

It was Colin who broke the tension.

“Well,” he said brightly, “if that dinner was a fire, then this one’s at least a slow roast.”

“And dessert hasn’t even arrived,” Eloise added gleefully.

Violet raised a brow at no one in particular. “Then heaven help us when it does.”

Across the table, Lady Danbury spoke again, her voice dry as brandy and twice as strong.

“I cannot believe I missed that dinner.”

Lucien smiled. “I’m sure this one will make up for it.”

He looked at you again. Not with amusement. Not with victory.

But with something quieter.

Like he saw all the cracks in the room—and only wanted to know if he could hold them together.

Anthony, from across the table, saw that look too.

And for now?

He said nothing.

Dessert hadn’t even been announced, yet Violet’s napkin already looked suspiciously like it had been squeezed within an inch of its life.

Which is when Benedict, with the kind of grin only a man too comfortable with fire could wear, leaned into the quiet.

“So,” he said, casually tearing a piece of bread in half. “Now that we’ve revisited the dinner that shall not be named… what say we play a game?”

Colin’s eyes gleamed. “Oh no. Is it time?”

Hyacinth sat up straighter. “I knew I wore the right earrings for scandal.”

Gregory whispered, “This better be the game with secrets.”

“It is,” Eloise said brightly. “And the adults haven’t ruined it yet.”

Lucien raised a brow. “What kind of game are we playing?”

Hyacinth clapped once, delighted. “It’s simple. We take turns going around the table and ask each person to describe the last scandalous thought they had during this meal.”

You blinked. “That’s not simple. That’s social warfare.”

“It’s Bridgerton dinner,” Eloise said. “Same thing.”

Violet opened her mouth—perhaps to object—but paused. Then sighed. “I am going to need a stronger wine.”

Simon leaned forward with a wolfish grin. “Shall I begin, or will you, Lord Blackbourne?”

Lucien didn’t flinch. “Ladies first.”

Eloise jumped in. “Perfect. I’ll start.” She turned to Simon. “What was the last improper thought you had at this table?”

Simon smirked. “I imagined throwing a bread roll at Anthony when he said ‘embroidered cushion’ with such confidence. Miss Sharma deserves better metaphors.”

The table erupted.

Anthony looked personally wounded.

Edwina blinked in confusion.

Kate nearly snorted her wine.

Lady Danbury murmured, “So do I. Heavens, it was dull.”

Benedict was wheezing. “Throw the whole metaphor out. Start again.”

Simon sat back, sipping his wine with the elegance of a man entirely unbothered.

Lucien grinned. “Well played.”

Colin leaned in next. “My turn.” He turned to you. “Tell us — what were you thinking when Lord Blackbourne quoted poetry to you a few minutes ago?”

You paused — dramatically. Eyes sweeping the table. Then you smiled, sweet and dangerous.

“I was wondering,” you said slowly, “whether it’s possible to melt silverware from sheer eye contact alone.”

Hyacinth gasped. “That’s the quote of the evening!”

Lucien leaned in. “You’re welcome to test that theory. Privately.”

Eloise groaned, “God, I hate how good that was.”

Anthony didn’t move. But you saw it.

The shift.

The flex in his jaw. The tight grip around his spoon. The flicker of heat that bloomed in his eyes before he blinked it away.

Kate saw it too. Her gaze narrowed.

You caught Kate watching you again—not with hostility, but precision. Like a seamstress deciding where the thread frays.

You looked away first. That unsettled you more than it should’ve.

“Alright,” Benedict said cheerfully, “my turn. Blackbourne. What scandalous thought crossed your mind during the soup course?”

Lucien, unhurried, locked eyes with you. “That if I were born less decent,” he said quietly, “I would have kissed her, right there, in front of every person here.”

Silence.

Not gasping silence.

Gutted silence.

The kind that trembled on the edge of danger.

You didn’t blink.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t smirk.

You reached slowly for your wine glass, took a measured sip, and let the silence stretch long enough to be felt.

Then you smiled.

And the table tilted.

Hyacinth whispered, “I think I forgot how breathing works.”

Daphne, blinking hard, muttered, “Remind me to steal that line.”

Anthony…

Anthony looked like he was about to stand. His knuckles turned white against the table.

And Lucien — the devil wrapped in velvet and candlelight — finally glanced at him.

And smiled.

It was not a taunt. It was a challenge.

Simon leaned in toward Hyacinth. “Did you get that sketch?”

Hyacinth nodded solemnly. “Lucien with devil wings. Anthony with smoke coming out of his ears. I’ll add flames.”

Lady Danbury cackled. “I like him.”

Kate, meanwhile, was looking at Anthony.

“Anthony,” Benedict said brightly, like he hadn’t just dropped a match into a room filled with gas, “your turn.”

The words landed like thunder.

Every head turned.

Even Edwina blinked, gently surprised. “Oh, yes—Lord Bridgerton, what has been your most scandalous thought this evening?”

Anthony didn’t answer immediately.

Didn’t twitch.

Didn’t blink.

Just… stared at the wine in his glass like it had betrayed him for the final time.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said at last, voice calm but low, “about restraint.”

Lucien let out the softest laugh, just enough to draw attention.

Anthony continued, tone measured. “How it’s a virtue. How it separates men from boys.”

Colin raised a brow. “So… nothing scandalous, then?”

Anthony glanced at him. “You’d be surprised what a man has to restrain when people won’t stop provoking him.”

A beat.

Lucien, swirling his wine, looked entirely relaxed. “Some of us provoke without meaning to, Bridgerton. It’s just the hazard of having charm.”

Anthony looked up, sharply.

Lucien didn’t even flinch. “You should try it sometime.”

“Oh,” Gregory whispered. “Oh, he’s going to die.”

Eloise leaned forward like she was front row at a play. “Do it again.”

But Kate—Kate—cut across the table like a knife.

“What exactly are we restraining, my lord?”

Everyone turned.

Anthony blinked.

Kate was watching him—not accusing, not angry.

Curious.

Anthony cleared his throat. “Decorum. Diplomacy.”

“Desire?” Lucien offered, oh-so-softly.

The word sliced through the air.

Hyacinth actually whooped.

Daphne’s hand went over her mouth.

Edwina let out a quiet, confused laugh.

“Lord Blackbourne,” she said, still trying, bless her, “you really do enjoy dramatics.”

Lucien didn’t answer.

He wasn’t looking at her.

He was still watching you.

Anthony finally turned back to his glass. “Restraint,” he repeated. “It’s useful. Especially when others forget theirs.”

You shifted in your seat, the weight of all their eyes grazing your skin like fingertips. Your breath felt heavier now—like the air had started playing tricks.

Lucien leaned closer, voice just for you.

“Are we talking about my restraint, darling?” he asked, tone velvet and velvet thorns.

 You turned slowly, your lashes low. “I think everyone’s restraint is hanging by a thread.”

“You seem fine,” he murmured.

“I’m not the one being fought over in metaphors.”

He grinned, and whispered—just loud enough for only the very worst people to hear—

“Oh, I’m not fighting for you in metaphors, angel. I’m fighting with teeth.”

Anthony stood.

No warning.

No sound but the scrape of chair legs and the unmistakable heat that poured off of him like a thunderstorm with too much pride.

“I believe I need air,” he said tightly.

Edwina startled, half-rising. “Oh—but the next course—”

 “I’ll return.”

But his eyes weren’t on Edwina.

They were on you.

Just for a second.

Long enough to say everything he wasn’t allowed to speak.

Then he was gone.

The room froze.

And then, finally—

Colin muttered, “Well. There goes the thread.”

Hyacinth threw her arms up. “Best dinner ever!”

Lady Danbury toasted the candlelight. “About bloody time.”

Kate, silent until now, lifted her wine and murmured—half to herself—“That wasn’t restraint. That was retreat.”

You didn’t move.

Lucien’s hand was still resting near yours, his posture utterly unshaken. His smile was soft now. Sharpness tucked away.

“I’m sorry,” he said, finally looking at you. “Did I… overstep?”

You didn’t answer immediately.

Then you leaned in—close enough to make him hold his breath—and said quietly, sweetly:

“If this is your version of restraint, I’d love to see what losing control looks like.”

Lucien let out a breathless laugh, low and dark.

“Oh angel,” he whispered, “so would I.”

Across the table, Simon raised his wine glass toward Hyacinth.

She clinked her goblet with his and grinned.

There was a beat of stunned, simmering silence after Anthony exited.

The flicker of candlelight danced in the absence he left behind, a space at the table filled only by the tension he abandoned—and the heat of every gaze that followed.

Taglist: @bollzinurmouth @drewstarkeysrightarm @thorins-queen-of-erebor @yearninglustfully @khaleesibeach

Drunk On Love - Benedict Bridgerton

Summary: Love is beautiful yet when one is drunk it can rather be a little confusing and breathtaking.

Word count: 1210

Benedict Bridgerton prided himself on many things, his artistic talent, wit, and ability to hold his drink.

Yet tonight, the second Bridgerton son was wobbling on his feet, his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, a cravat dangling loosely from his neck like a sad ribbon on an overindulged present.

The Bridgerton house was alive with music and laughter.

Eloise had declared it a night for frivolity, dragging everyone into the drawing room after dinner to play a raucous game of charades.

Wine flowed like the Thames, and for once, Anthony and Kate didn’t step in to regulate the chaos.

“Benedict,” Colin chortled, pointing as his elder brother attempted to lean casually on a settee and nearly toppled over, “I think you’ve lost the ability to differentiate between horizontal and vertical.”

“I’m perfectly... perpendic... perpendicular!” Benedict slurred, wagging a finger in Colin’s direction.

“Indeed,” Eloise said dryly. She raised her voice, addressing the room. “I give it five minutes before he collapses entirely. Any takers?”

“Oh, stop betting on him,” sighed Daphne. “Where’s y/n? Benedict always behaves better when she's around.”

Benedict blinked hazily around the room.

His siblings’ teasing words blended into the merry chaos, but one name struck a chord, y/n.

Who was y/n?

And why did that name feel like a golden thread pulling at his soul?

He turned his head too quickly, the room spinning in response.

His gaze landed on a figure near the pianoforte—one so radiant it was as though the heavens had gifted them the very stars.

“Who... who is that?” Benedict whispered, stumbling toward Colin and yanking on his sleeve.

“Who?” Colin asked, bewildered.

“That divine creature,” Benedict gestured dramatically, “by the pianoforte. Look at her, Colin. Just look! She's perfect.”

Colin stared at him for a moment, then burst into uncontrollable laughter.

“Oh, this is too good. Benedict, that’s your wife”

“My what?” Benedict spluttered, recoiling as though he’d been doused in cold water.

“Your wife, you fool. Y/n. The person you married three years ago.” Colin’s grin was practically audible. “You have children with her, by the way.”

“Children?!” Benedict gasped, clutching his chest.

His mind raced. Surely, he would remember such monumental details.

A wife? Children? His heart thundered as he stared at you, as you were now laughing with Hyacinth and Gregory.

Every movement you made felt hypnotic, like watching sunlight dance on water.

“I don’t believe you,” Benedict declared, his voice rising above the chatter.

“Shall we fetch the marriage certificate?” Anthony drawled from his seat by the fire.

He smirked, swirling a glass of brandy. “Or the children?”

Before anyone could stop him, Benedict crossed the room with all the determination of a soldier marching to battle.

He nearly tripped over Daphne’s gown in his haste, earning a glare, but he pressed on.

As he approached, you turned to him, your face lighting up with warmth.

“Benedict,” you said, a fond smile gracing your lips. “You look like you’ve had quite a bit of—”

“Are you my spouse?” Benedict interrupted his voice a mix of awe and disbelief.

You blinked, glancing around the room as though to confirm this wasn’t a joke orchestrated by his siblings. “I am. Last time I checked, anyway.”

“And we have... children?” Benedict pressed, his hands flailing for emphasis.

“Two of them,” you replied slowly, your brow furrowing. “Are you feeling all right?”

Benedict staggered back a step, clutching at his heart as though Cupid himself had struck him anew.

“I don’t believe it. How could I have forgotten marrying someone so... so—” He gestured helplessly at you, his words failing him. “You’re perfect. Stunning. A masterpiece! Surely, I would remember creating something so beautiful with you.”

From the corner, Colin let out a loud snort of laughter, while Hyacinth whispered something to Gregory, both of them dissolving into giggles.

You, however, softened, recognizing the sincerity behind Benedict’s intoxicated declarations.

“Benedict,” you said gently, placing a hand on his arm. “You didn’t forget. You’ve just had a bit too much wine tonight.”

“I could never drink enough to forget you,” Benedict declared, his eyes wide with conviction.

“But I must have been a fool not to spend every waking moment worshiping you. Tell me, y/n—how did someone like me manage to convince someone like you to marry me?”

Your laughter was soft, your affection for him evident in every glance. "You painted me a portrait. You said it was the only way to capture what words could not. And then you kissed me.”

“I kissed you?” Benedict repeated, his voice trembling. “I kissed you and lived to tell the tale? Remarkable.”

The room erupted into chaos as the siblings could no longer contain their laughter.

Daphne leaned against a chair for support, Anthony pinched the bridge of his nose in mock exasperation, and Eloise whispered something scandalous to Francesca, who chuckled into her wine glass.

“You’re all horrible!” Benedict shouted, turning to glare at his family. “How dare you mock a man rediscovering the love of his life?”

“You’re rediscovering her because you’re drunk,” Eloise pointed out, her tone laced with amusement.

“Drunk or not, my love is real,” Benedict retorted dramatically, turning back to you. “Y/n, my muse, my heart—can you forgive me for not loving you loudly enough?”

“You love me plenty loudly, Benedict,” you replied with a smile, your eyes twinkling with mirth. “Especially when you’re drunk.”

At that moment, the door to the drawing room opened, and a pair of small children toddled in, guided by their nurse.

The eldest, a dark-haired boy of about three, immediately ran to you, clutching your leg.

The younger, a baby with Benedict’s dimpled cheeks, squealed happily from the nurse’s arms.

Benedict froze, staring at the children as though they were mythical creatures.

“Are these... mine?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

“Yes,” you said, picking up the boy and balancing him on your hip. “This is Thomas and that little one is Edith.”

Benedict dropped to his knees, staring at his children in awe. “Thomas. Edith. My heirs. My legacy.”

“They’re not royalty, Benedict,” Anthony deadpanned.

Benedict ignored him, his eyes welling with tears. “They’re perfect. Just like their parents.”

You rolled your eyes fondly. “All right, darling. Let’s get you some water.”

The next morning, Benedict woke with a pounding headache and a vague sense of humiliation.

As he shuffled into the breakfast room, his siblings greeted him with a chorus of applause and cheers.

“Well done, Benedict,” Colin teased. “You fell in love with your wife all over again.”

“Most romantic thing I’ve ever seen,” Daphne added, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

Benedict groaned, sinking into his chair. “Please, tell me I didn’t embarrass myself too badly.”

You entered the room, setting a cup of tea before him. “You were charming, as always.”

“Was I?” Benedict asked, peering up at you.

“You were,” you said, leaning down to kiss his cheek. “Though I think you owe me another portrait. You did promise one last night.”

Benedict smiled sheepishly, his love for you as steady and enduring as the sunlight streaming through the window.

“Anything for you,” he murmured, vowing to remind you every day just how deeply he adored you—drunk or not.

Masterlist

Hiii Welcome to my blog! I will mostly write anything that you want, just please don't be weird with the requests. I don't have that many stories out yet but please send me your requests! Alsooo, if you guys want me to make a tag list, I can, just let me know!

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{~Charmed (1998)~}

{~House of the Dragon~}

{~Narnia~}

{~Supernatural~}

{~Twilight~}

Here’s to Philippa (Featherington) Finch, who married her first season to a man that worships the ground she walks on and did it with zero drama necessary. Bravo 👏

Benedict Bridgerton | Luke Thompson

Sophie Baek | Yerin Ha

Bridgerton Season 4 | Sneak Peek 2

Bridgerton Season 4 | Sneak peak

Bridgerton season 3

301: Out of the Shadows

‘Let’s learn our abc’s with the bridgerton family’

We need fan fictions for Lord Debling from bridgerton!!!

An experienced traveler vs an artist

excuse me -

Please all of you should read this masterpiece!!

Market Hearts - Benedict Bridgerton

Word Count: 1751

Summary: When one notices their lover's joy in a rather odd place, why would they not join in on the feeling?

Benedict Bridgerton, the second son of the Bridgerton family, had never imagined himself spending a morning in the bustling streets of the London market.

It was an unconventional activity for a gentleman of his stature, but then again, you were anything but conventional.

Y/n Bridgerton, you were a woman of singular character.

You possessed a spirit as free as the wind and a heart as generous as the summer sun.

From the moment Benedict had laid eyes on you, he had known that his life would never be the same.

Marrying you had been the easiest decision of his life, but understanding the full depth of your soul was a journey he was still on.

This morning was to be another chapter in that journey.

“Benedict, you don’t have to come with me,” you said, your eyes sparkling with amusement as you adjusted the basket on your arm.

The sunlight streamed through the windows of your house, casting a warm glow on your hair.

Benedict, already dressed in attire more suited for a morning ride in the park than a trip to the market, shook his head with a smile.

“Nonsense. How can I resist seeing where you disappear to every week? You speak of the market as if it were some magical land.”

“In a way, it is,” you replied, your voice softening. “It’s full of life and color, of people with stories etched into their faces. It reminds me of how fast the world is.”

Benedict studied your face, noting the earnestness in your eyes.

This was not merely a chore for you, it was an adventure, an exploration of humanity that fed your soul.

It was one of the many reasons he loved you so fiercely. How could he not join you on this journey, even if only for a day?

“Then lead the way, my love,” he said, offering you his arm.

You walked through the streets of Mayfair, a picture-perfect couple that turned heads wherever you went.

Benedict, with his tall, lean frame and dark, wavy hair, cut a dashing figure in his tailored coat and polished boots.

You, on the other hand, were the epitome of grace and beauty.

Your gown, a simple yet elegant affair in pale blue, highlighted your form and the natural radiance that seemed to emanate from your every pore.

As you moved further away from the more affluent parts of town, the cobblestones grew uneven, and the scent in the air shifted from the delicate aroma of roses to the more earthy smell of baked bread and fresh produce.

The market was already bustling with activity, despite the early hour.

Stalls lined the streets, filled with everything from ripe fruits and vegetables to bolts of colorful fabric and handmade trinkets.

Benedict quickly noticed how out of place he was.

Gentlemen of his rank did not frequent such places.

He could feel the curious glances of the vendors and the wary looks of the other shoppers, but he paid them no mind.

His focus was on you.

You greeted the stall owners by name, engaging them in friendly conversation as you perused their wares.

Benedict watched as you haggled over the price of a plump tomato with an elderly man, your laughter infectious as you bantered back and forth.

It was a side of you that he rarely saw—a side that was not burdened by the expectations of society, a side that was free and unguarded.

“Y/n has a way with people,” the voice of an elderly woman cut through his thoughts.

Benedict turned to find a small, wizened woman standing beside him, a knowing smile on her lips.

She was dressed in a simple brown dress, her hair hidden beneath a white cap.

Despite her humble appearance, there was something regal about her bearing.

“Indeed she does,” Benedict replied, his gaze drifting back to you, as you were helping a young mother choose a handful of carrots while keeping the woman’s children entertained with a funny story.

The old woman chuckled. “She has the gift of seeing people, really seeing them. It’s a rare thing, especially among those who live in the world you come from.”

Benedict studied the woman, intrigued by her words. “And what world would that be?”

“The world of titles and wealth, where appearances matter more than hearts,” the woman said, her tone gentle but firm. “Your wife, she sees past all that. She sees the soul.”

Benedict felt a stirring in his chest, a mix of pride and something deeper—something almost like reverence.

The old woman’s words rang true.

You had always had an uncanny ability to connect with people, to make them feel seen and valued, no matter their station in life.

“She is my sunshine,” Benedict found himself saying, the words slipping out before he could think better of them.

The old woman smiled, a twinkle in her eye. “And you, young man, are her moon. You reflect her light and give it back to her when the night comes.”

Benedict looked at the woman in surprise, but before he could respond, she gave him a small nod and shuffled away into the crowd, leaving him standing there, contemplating her words.

He had always known that you were special, but seeing you here, in your element, made him realize just how unique you truly were.

You were a beacon of light, brightening the lives of everyone you encountered.

And it was his duty, his privilege, to protect that light.

As you continued your journey through the market, Benedict found himself more and more in awe of you.

You moved with a grace that belied the chaos around you, your laughter like music amidst the cacophony of voices and sounds.

He saw how the sellers’ faces lit up when they saw you, how the children gathered around you, drawn to your warmth like moths to a flame.

But he also saw the challenges.

There were moments when your cheerful demeanor was met with coldness or indifference, when your attempts to connect were rebuffed by those who were too hardened by life’s difficulties to appreciate your kindness.

And it was in those moments that Benedict felt a fierce protectiveness rise within him.

He had always been a man of action, a man who could solve problems with a few well-placed words or a deft stroke of his pen.

But here, in this vibrant, unpredictable world, he realized that there were some things that required more than just his influence or his name.

Here, it was you who held the power, and all he could do was stand by your side and support you in whatever way he could.

“Benedict,” your voice brought him back to the present.

You were standing in front of a stall selling flowers, a small bouquet of wildflowers in your hand. “Aren’t these lovely? They remind me of the fields near our home.”

Benedict smiled and took the bouquet from you, bringing it to his nose to inhale the sweet scent. “They are lovely, but not as lovely as you.”

You blushed and playfully swatted his arm. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Only because you inspire it, my dear.”

As you continued to browse the stalls, Benedict felt a growing sense of contentment.

This was what life was truly about—these small, precious moments shared with the person he loved more than anything in the world.

Eventually, you made your way to a quieter part of the market, where a small café sat tucked away between two larger buildings.

You led him inside, where you found a cozy table near the window.

The owner, a rotund man with a jolly face, greeted you warmly and quickly brought you a pot of tea and a plate of freshly baked scones.

“I come here every time I visit the market,” you explained as you poured the tea. “It’s my little retreat, a place to sit and think.”

Benedict looked around the café, taking in the simple yet charming décor.

It was a place that perfectly reflected your personality—unpretentious, welcoming, and full of warmth.

As you sipped your tea, Benedict reached across the table and took your hand in his. “Thank you for bringing me here today.”

You looked at him, your eyes filled with love and affection. “I’m glad you came. I know it’s not the sort of place you’re used to, but it means a lot to me that you wanted to share it with me.”

Benedict squeezed your hand, his heart swelling with emotion. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

You sat in comfortable silence for a while, simply enjoying each other’s company.

Benedict found himself reflecting on the events of the morning, on the way you had moved through the market with such ease and grace.

He realized that you had a rare gift, one that went beyond your beauty or your charm.

You had the ability to bring out the best in people, to make them feel valued and appreciated.

And it was a gift that he was determined to protect, no matter what.

When you finally left the café, the sun was high in the sky, casting long shadows across the cobblestone streets.

Benedict and you made your way back to your home, the basket of market goods in tow.

As you walked, Benedict wrapped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close.

“You know,” he said, his voice thoughtful, “I’ve always considered myself a man of the night. I find solace in the quiet, in the solitude.”

You looked up at him, your eyes curious. “And now?”

Benedict smiled down at you, his heart full to bursting. “Now I know that the night is only beautiful because of the sun. You are my sunshine. You bring light to my life in ways I never imagined.”

Tears glistened in your eyes as you leaned into him, resting your head against his chest. “And you are my moon. You are the one who gives me the strength to shine, who reflects my light when I cannot see it myself.”

You continued your walk in silence, the weight of your words hanging in the air like a blessing.

Benedict knew that life would not always be easy, that there would be challenges and obstacles ahead.

But as long as he had you by his side, he knew you could face anything together.

You were his sunshine, and he was your moon.

And together, you would light up the world.

★ summary — after his fathers death, anthony finds solace within an unexpected someone ˖˙ ꔫ —★★★★ pairing: anthony bridgerton x sibling!reader ˖˙ ꔫ —★★★ content warnings. mention of death, description of grief & death, teenage anthony being in shambles after edmunds death (rest his poor soul) ˖˙ ꔫ —★★ word count. 3.9k ˖˙ ꔫ —★ genre. angst, so much angst. smidge of fluff, hurt/comfort? ★ authors note: anthony's story is actually so sad but i wanted to see more of how he dealt with everything and a deep dive onto what he felt of so... (also there are NOT enough anthony x sibling reader so here we are!!) ⠀⠀⠀❛⠀⠀ requests are open !!

Anthony had always believed that a profound sadness enveloped the body like a condecending fog, delving deep into the bones and clawing recklessly at the soul until it was a suffocating weight with no escape in sight. Yet now, as he stood amidst the bouts of chaos, he felt nothing. No sadness, no anger, no frustration. Just a vast, empty numbness that swallowed his entire being whole.

It were as if the world around him came to a grinding halt, and he had stopped with them—unable to escape the grasp of the coldness trickling up upon his spine. It felt as if his physical body had been frozen, but consciously, he had not—a distant observer in a weary state of forgery. The sheer oddity of it all left him out of it; an unsettling sense that he was lost in a dream too overwhelming to even comprehend was vastly disheartening. It felt like... a storm, a thunderstorm brewing inside of him, circling through and around his every vein and nerve until it ceased to exist.

He can briefly reminisce, pinching himself over and over until his skin turned blotchy red and had grown irritated in the area. The pain was a sharp reminder to him that it was a futile attempt at an escape, that it was not just some dream that he could simply wake up from. Yet, it could not be; Anthony wanted nothing better to do than just refuse. Laugh at the servants that crowded him with questions that he could not answer—the questions that he should not be worrying about at his age.

Their voices seemed to be distorted in a way that Anthony could not quite make out—a dissonant chorus, overlapping under the distinct rushing and ringing in his own ears. It was as if it went in through one ear and out the other, like water through a funnel. None of it made sense, despite it being more than natural common sense. He still isn’t sure how he managed to even utter a single coherent word; Anthony couldn’t even hear himself over the cacophony that tumbled through his mind. He couldn’t hear himself over the concious noise that screamed in his head and translated all the way to his entire body until it was the only thing radiating through his pumping blood.

In the mix of what seemed to sound like if someone had put all the most horrid sounds a man could hear and mixed them all together, jumbled and overwhelming, he could faintly hear his mother. His poor mother, screaming and crying, the sound so haunting and raw that Anthony wishes he could never hear again in his life, yet it lingered upon him like an uninvited shadow in the corner of his room. Even when it was not presently there, when he was stuck alone at night, his siblings sent off to bed by the maids, his mother nowhere in his line of sight, did he stare at the ceiling of nothing—hearing those cries replaying in his head again and again and again. It’s as if he wanted himself to go mad and Anthony must say, he was very close to so.

But the sounds were only a singular part of his torment. Lord, have mercy on his miserable soul; nothing could’ve prepared him for the sights that awaited him, that he was forced to face by nothing but himself.

His mother sprawled across the staircase, a flurry of maids assisting her but to no avail. There was no ending to her constant misery, and for a brief moment, a moment that Anthony must regret, he wished that his mother had an off-switch so he could just stop it. For her sake or his, he couldn’t quite say. 

His siblings, on the other hand, were a mix of emotions that Anthony was not qualified to handle nor care for. Was that not what maids were for? Daphne cried silently, dabbing at her tears cascading down her cheeks that failed to subside. He silently wonders to himself how many tears a woman could cry before her very essence would be evaported, while Colin and Benedict, although undeniably upset, managed to hide away their sentiments, at least towards Anthony. Well, he was sure he caught a glimpse of a tear roll down Benedict’s face, but there was nothing he could say nor do about that except pat him on the back a couple of times as a comfort of sorts before he’s again whisked away to care for something he knew little about. He wasn’t prepared for this; he wasn’t qualified for this. He was just a child. 

At least the younger ones were mostly oblivious to the situation that had wrapped around the mourning family. They all gazed up at Anthony, more confused than upset, and he must think that they would wonder why all their older siblings suddenly all looked so remorseful, cloaked with grief, and their mother a distant entity that was soon regarded as unapproachable. In the recesses of his grief-sorrowed mind, a feeble thought flickered for a moment's notice: how, he pondered, for any way to describe the gravity of their weighted reality. Could he even explain to them? Shield them from the truth, or perhaps let them burden down the knowledge that would take away their youthful innocence as it had done for Anthony as well? He felt like an abonomibal creature for even thinking about it twice.

One in particular, suggested to be more curious than the others. Y/N, her name was. Her curiosity stood out like a sore thumb, perhaps like a lightning rod in a thunderstorm. He couldn’t help but to wonder at how she seemed so upbeat despite the dark and grim reality that faced her angel of a soul. She didn’t ought to know the truth. Each time Anthony called for her, the name rolling off her tongue with gilded ease. These times, unlike others, a gentle plea was slowly woven upon his voice that could speak no more as he edged her away from the chaos with a simple “Get away from there.” or “Come over here, Y/N.” In these instances, he always sounded so diminished that Benedict would end up swooping in and picking her up for some other sort of entertainment that was not so utterly upsetting.

This night couldn't be any different.

The thunderclap erupted like a cannon shot in the wild—a deep, profound, and resonant roar that rattled the air around them, the windows shuddering with every harsh punch of wind. It was, perhaps, a night of sorrows. As the rain splattered upon the house as if it were a hose, the wind howling in the near distance. Anthony swears for a beat that he can faintly hear the rain-shooken birds finding solace in their chimney. He wishes that he were a bird; at least he would be able to have some place to find tranquility that was not just the dreadful drag of the house, each lamenting moment drowning all the cheeriness that once stood in this very place.

Anthony taps his quill absently upon the polished wood of his late father's table, the designs that were so intricate, swirling under his fingers like echoes of the past that he could no longer reach but yearned for. It must’ve taken months upon months to create it. He found enjoyment in running his sullen fingertips around the smoothness of the edges, a contrast to the jagged edges that traced along his heart. Anything that wasn’t entirely dejectful felt like a cruel mockery of how he felt.

It was late—far too late for anyone in the house to be up, him included. And yet, Anthony couldn’t find it in himself to indulge in the luxury of being able to forget it all, even for a few fleeting moments. He had tried, laying upon his father's old bed in his old room, which smelled all too much like him, enveloping his entire being. A bittersweet waiver of worn fabric and a mixture of odd colognes and papers that had been burnt from days ago. It was haunting in a way that Anthony couldn’t quite place, as if his father were still next to him—an unseen presence, watching his every move. Every time he squinted his eyes shut, the image of his father in the garden flooded his mind, lying so freakishly still. It coursed through his thoughts. He had been well surrounded by vibrant blooms of the spring-induced flowers, which seemed much too cheerful under the circumstances, and Anthony disantely thinks if those were the flowers to be used for the funeral.

Those were no means to sleep, slipping away like sand through his fingers.

He isn’t quite sure why he slips into his study rather than any other place for some sort of solitude. Anywhere would’ve been far better than his father's study; nonetheless, he finds himself sitting in the very same chair his father once sat in. Would he be proud? The words ring into his mind, digging as if it were like a tattoo within his brain. He had thought about it a select number of times over the course of a couple of days, yet the question remains unsolved. Anthony respected his father more than anyone else in his life, and putting words into his mouth that he could not say only made him feel bitter rather than better.

The silence is deafening—as if all of a sudden, the thoughts and ringing that took up his every moment had just chosen to dissapear. A harsh push back into reality is what Anthony would’ve guessed. 

Tap

Anthony furrows his eyebrows, knitting together to crease over his squinted eyes. The new, unfamiliar sound is something that he briefly wonders. He strains to listen for any hint of noise beyond the relentless screeching of the wind and the staccato rhythm of rain pellets up against the window, each drop intensifying as time dragged on. When there is nothing to hear to follow up with his thoughts, enveloping him in a wooful silence, Anthony, for a chilling interval, genuinely believes that he might be going insane. As far as-

Thump, thump.

He could no longer deny the truth that it was in fact, not his mere imagination. Anthony was more certain than the flourishing green of the grass outside the house that the sound echoing through the darkness was real and not just a byproduct of his sleepless night or the weight of horrors from the days that lay behind him pressing down upon his consciousness. He stands up willfully, feet hitting the floor with a soft thud that was met with a creak reverberating from the old wood panels. The candle that he had lit for comfort wavers precariously, the flame teetering on the edge of extinction from the sudden movement. It is no longer than a mere count of seconds before the light flickered back to light, casting an ominous glow throughout the room.

“Hello?” 

Anthony was a bit ashamed to admit it, but his words wobbeled as he spoke. A mirror reflection of how he truly felt. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath to steady and ground himself to the so little he had. The silence that he was met with was perhaps even more unnerving than before—not even a sinned whisper to break the heavy stillness.

“Who’s there?” He proclaims, this time louder, his voice firming itself as the time passed by cautiously slowly, like it was moving through sticky molasses. Anthony is a moment's reach away from venturing out of his study and investigating for himself, curiousity gnawing at him. It was soon deemed unnecessary when a familiar little head popped up from the right frame of the heavy wooden door, wild tufts of hair jutting out from all directions in a way that resembled . He can’t help but to let out a huff of relief when he notices that it is only Y/N and that he was, in fact, not crazy.

Relief then morphs into confusion within a snap of a finger. His eyebrows are met together again, except this time, not from any sort of paralyzing fear but in question. “Y/N, pray tell, what brings you out of bed at this unearthly hour?” Anthony is quick to step away from his desk, taking 3 large steps towards the younger sibling, looking down upon the half-shamed, half-curious look that had crossed her face.

He shook his head yet, bent down far enough to pick the little girl into her arms. She doesn’t protest, instead, nestling herself into his bigger body as if she were seeking some sort of comfort that Anthony could not find in himself to give. He had never been the best at offering solace to other people, nor himself, and especially not now, when his own heart felt too dim and restless to share.

“I couldn’t sleep.” She mumbles, the words lost into the warm crook of Anthony’s neck. He sets the little girl onto one of the chairs that had been meticulously placed in front of the tidied desk. As he stands, his gaze drifts upward to the Renaissance painting hanging on the wall, overlooking the study—an eye-striking masterpiece from an era long before either of them had taken their first breaths. In truth, Anthony wasn’t quite sure how they even managed to get their hands on such an exquisite masterpiece, but it had been his father's favorite painting, so he didn’t dare ask. Every time he turned to face it, the vibrant colors and intricate details felt like a worn ghost from the past, fluttering memories that stung with longing. The image reminded him far too vividly of his father, pulling him into a clouded reverie that soured his mood.

Anthony’s lips are pulled into a drifted frown, eyes gazing over to the uncurtained window where darkness stared back at him, reverberating how the moment felt of. He unknowingly presses his fingers up against his hair, as if he were to adjust how it looked, although he never quite cared for how his hair stood. Is it the storm that troubles you?” He questions meticulously, knowing how fidgety Y/N got during those periods of weather; she never seemed to be a big fan nor curious of it, rather burying herself into a bundle of blankets in pillows. “You have nothing to fear from it.” 

The girl tilts her head to one side, as if she were pondering her answer. There is a brief moment before she slowly shakes her head to the side. “A bit, I suppose.” She mumbles, her fingers playing with the hem of her nightgown, the silk fabric one that was cooling rather than heating her up. She always preferred the material. “But…” 

His eyebrow arches in surprise at the answer, a rumble of perplexity stirring inside of him as he pondered what could be bothering her at this time of night. “Then what might it be if it is not the storm?” his tone softening as he addressed his younger sister, the usual edge in his voice fading into something gentler than usual.

“I…” She lets out a soft exhale, as though she were afraid of saying it aloud to Anthony. It struck him as odd, as well; Y/N was always more open towards him than any of his siblings, although he never understood why. He never brought it up in conversation, simply accepting her willingness to share with him. “I was thinking of father.”

The words spill out hesitantly, and Y/N looks up at her brother in a way that he could only describe as ashamed, though it was nothing to be ashamed of. Anthony’s breath catches into his throat, a reflex that had become all too familiar in recent days. He runs a hand over his face, appearing more dismayed than ever. “Whatever for?” He asks cautiously, unable to help the bittersweet modulation that came along with the sentence.

Y/N looked down, legs swinging over the edge of the seat, the motion that was so kid-like, reminding Anthony of the innocence of his little sister, how he needed to protect her from the cruelty of the world. “I miss him.” She finally says, though not confidently as she usually had been, as though she had chosen her words carefully, placed diligently. “Where is he?”

Where is he?

The words chime in his head persistently, the sensation of a dagger being strung into his heart. Anthony swallows the hardening lump in his throat. He had been able to answer questions and answer to orders his entire life, and yet– this simple question, was enough for him to falter in his step. He could not just simply tell her, Oh yes, our father. He is dead. Because, well, she was a child, and at her young age, Anthony would not know of what death was. It was the furthest thing possible from what he would’ve thought of, and yet, this was Y/N’s truth. She had to face the ridicule of death, not even knowing what it was than a melancholic goodbye.

“He-” The word floundered in his mouth, unable to correlate the thoughts in his brain to the words coming out of his own mouth. “He’s…” 

“Is he dead?”

Anthony almost chokes out a laugh, because what the fuck? Where did she learn of such? She was still so young; he didn’t get it. He was sure neither Colin nor Benedict would directly say it towards her, and Daphne wouldn’t have the heart to do so. None of the other children had much of a clue of what was going on, so it could not have been them either. “Y/N, I-” And yet, he is still unable to speak. He doesn’t know if it is because of the absurdity of the conversation, or if it really is the sleep deprivation messing with him, and if he’s being honest, Anthony doesn’t have it in him to care for the reason. Not when he had... this to worry about now.

“He is dead, isn’t he?” He’s unable to refrain from noticing the quiver in her lip as she spoke, albeit the even cadence. 

Anthony dips his head down, eyes gluing to the floor because he’s unable to look his sister in the eyes. Unable to break the news and her heart at all the same time. She loved Edmund dearly; she loved everyone dearly, and that was her problem. Letting go was always the hard part, for even just a couple of moments—how could she let go for an eternity? Y/N is far from stupid though, and she’s quick to get the message. She too, looks away, this time to somewhere that Anthony can’t quite place. Her eyes are distant, as if she were not there presently, and it scared him a great deal.

“Are you sad?” Y/N inquired, the question so basic yet so meaningful for Anthony, and he can feel the strings tugging at his heart. It’s almost laughable to him; a young child who barely understood the severity of the situation, was the first one to ask him about how he felt. Not his siblings, not the maids, not the butlers, and certainly not his mother. No one doubted him, and while Anthony knew his family cared for him deeply, it underwent as if no one really did. 

“I suppose I am, yes.” He answers honestly, given that he was tired of lying to himself and others. And well, he was sure Y/N would figure it out eventually. 

“It’s okay to be sad.” She whispers gently, her head inclining to the left, and then up to meet Anthony’s gaze. For a brief period of a second, he wonders if she could read him that well. If she could see right through his facade, and knew what he needed to hear to the brink. He refused to acknowledge it, but he was aware that the words had some sort of effect on him. In a manner that had hardly ever moved him before. 

He can do nothing but nod slowly, hesitant to speak upon the matter at hand. "You truly ought to be sleeping, Y/N.” Anthony breathes out, pressing his hand against his subdued jawline, an uneven beard already beginning to form from the days he hadn’t shaved. It was the only response he could come up with, the only response he could say without directly speaking on the matter. 

Y/N bounces up, and off of the chair, landing on her two feet that were padded with socks that went up to her knees. Her favorite pair that she refused to let go of despite the many holes that had broken into the fabric. She stood much shorter than Anthony, still in the very early stages of growth. “Maybe you would be less sad if you talked.” She states woefully, her eyes holding only the sincerest of truths to the point where even Anthony knew that she did not lie. 

“I’ll be okay.” Is his respondance, his words cutting sharp into the heavy air that had filled the room. Because deep down, Anthony knows that his sister is partially right, that he truly needed to talk to someone. The only problem that he now faced was his honor and the fighting fact that he had no one to talk to. “It will all be okay.”

It’s hard for him to even believe his own words. He hadn’t had a clue how Y/N, in all her young wisdom and pureness, could believe him either. In spite of what he thinks, she only agrees with him, already beginning to walk towards the door again, this time with Anthony trailing a meter behind her. He knows well enough to at least tuck her into bed this time, to make sure that she gets some proper rest for the day ahead, although there is hardly anything to do other than funeral planning, which she had no part in.

Before she managed to walk out, Anthony ruffled his sister's hair in affection, something they now both lacked tremendously. He wished upon those days when he was Y/N’s age, able to curl up in his mother's lap, or next to his father in his study, where none of these adult problems affected him and it was just pure bliss. A perception which he could no longer relish in at this point in time. 

“Will we talk tomorrow?” Y/N promptly solicits, something that Anthony could finally answer that wouldn’t hurt him.

“I’m sure of it.” Perhaps for the first time in days, it’s a truthful answer in what he regarded. He says it, not as an entire answer, but as a promise for himself, because although he could be the mouthful of things that his brothers had constantly reminded him about, he never truly broke his promises for those he loved. And as Anthony slips his way out of Y/N’s, his sister falling into a light slumber that he’s sure will keep her down for a number of hours at least. Her eyes fluttered with the weight of sleep, her breathing steadying as the rainfall began to die down during the late night turning into early morning. 

God, maybe he could finally get some much needed sleep.

★ summary — during a sweltering day at the horse races, anthony bridgerton finds himself rather enchanted by a sharp-witted, and competitive newcomer... however his greatest challenge turned out not quite to be their playful banter but perhaps something deeper than just that. ˖˙ ꔫ —★★★★ pairing: anthony bridgerton x fem! reader ˖˙ ꔫ —★★★ content warnings. n/a ˖˙ ꔫ —★★ word count. 3.8k ˖˙ ꔫ —★ genre. fluff? not really. idiots in love except they don't know they're in love...? anthony being anthony?? ★ authors note: excuse my god horrendous writing, i fear i have just come back from a 2 year hiatus and well.. it seems as if all my writing sense have bene diminished into the ends of the earth. also mutuals. i need mutuals please, i need to be insane to someone.

Anthony always enjoyed a heartfelt competition.

Perhaps a bit too much for the likings of others, but it always seemed to be infused with his blood. It all came so naturally to him; there was no need to try. As a young boy, he would compete with his brothers, Benedict having quite a hearty laugh when he would fail to beat him in whatever makeshift game they conjured up. It made it worse for the already tense gentleman because his annoying, bothersome brother would never stop bringing out how he was younger than Anthony during such times.

But he was not a quitter. He never was, and he decided that he never shall be. Anthony perpetually told himself that, and the results always ended up in his favor at the end of the day. Just as victory appeared within his reach, he let it go once more, easily slipping through his fingers in the subsequent round. Anthony has always been perplexed as to why this pattern only ever appeared to surround him or why he only noticed it within himself far too much. 

It seemed quite the same when it came to his love life as well. Taking away the winning part—he never quite seemed to win. Conceivably, Anthony never thought he could truly love someone with his entire being; the sensation felt so foreign and despicable to think about. An acquaintance, he supposed, was something he could settle with. And yet, an admirable acquaintance proved hard to find in this economy. The number of women that lined up for a dance, a date—whatever it may be, were all too simple-minded, credulous, or even dumb, if Anthony really thought about it. None of them appeared to be a suitable partner.

Those thoughts haunted him day and night throughout the season—the wonder if he’ll ever meet anyone well-suited for him, he pondered to himself. Anthony deemed himself rather fortunate that he was a busy man, bustling about a handful of places in need to complete the tasks firsthand. When he had his hands full with some problem, even if it may be pointless, occupied his mind enough for him to forget about his marital issues. Taxation never seemed more interesting to him.

Conversely, he found that it bothered him most during social events. Whereas his problems stood face-to-face against him, sometimes it felt as if it were a direct punch to the gut. With the remaining eligible ladies dwindling, his temper for it all only grew to being far more annoyed than anything else. Any other year, Anthony would’ve respectively enjoyed the horse race that he attended within the company of his brothers, but at this time, his mind had been elsewhere as he mindlessly stumbled his way around the course grounds.

There were a number of people that stood around him, chatting expressively with one an

other. Ladies whispering in hushed tones, their husbands gathered amongst themselves, likely betting against one another. Anthony couldn’t help but to do so himself—a solid bet did him well most days. Although, perhaps, he wasn’t the brightest when it came to the subject despite betting upon the favoured horse.

Anthony tugs heartily at his neckpiece, adjusting the pressure against his throat as it pressed in such a peculiar way that he began to pay some mind to it. He adjusted it so that it was allowed to rest lightly, not entirely choking him out anymore as it had done just moments ago. The effort ended up being weirdly abominable.

Peeved, bothered, and sweaty, he decided sullenly the lemonade that the event offered would not be such a bad idea to him after all. Refreshing was the only word that happened to catch his mind as he politely hurries his way towards where the stand had caught his eye as he made his way into the event. It seems as if half of the people there had a similar idea, heeding from the lengthiness of the line. He could perhaps find some place else to get some refreshments, but if Anthony is being honest, the idea of continuing to walk in this heat whilst unknowing if there even was anything waiting for him out there, wasn’t one that he would immediately jump to. And so he begrudgingly waits.

The sun beats down harshly upon him, and he tirelessly slides off his top-hat to appease the sweat that had begun to cling onto the sides of his forehead. Anthony dabs the beads away silently with the cuff of his coat when no one else is paying any mind to him. He liked to call himself fortunate as the line dissipates fairly quickly, and it is only a few minutes later when he finds himself nearing the refreshments area.

“Cooling, is it not?” 

It takes Anthony a beat to realize that the sudden intrusion of the voice is addressed towards him. He swivels his head, pivoting himself so he can adjust to the sudden change in position to locate where the sound had come from. He is quick to answer the question as the fine-looking lady standing next to him stares right back into his betrothed soul.

First impressions always stuck near and dear to Anthony, and while usually it would be noted of their personality and not much else, he finds himself in a different situation to the norm. The first thing he notices happens to be the alluring eyes, mysterious with a gaze that would unsettle any person, man or woman. But the expression read differently, a polite smile stretched upon the delicate skin, her fair hair conditioned beautifully for this particular sunny day. Anthony is quick to return the smile, as he had done so many times before in the past. He could regard it as a daily occurrence now.

“Indeed, it is.” His response is considerate, his voice moderately even; it’s as if he were trained for this. And Anthony supposed he quite literally is trained for it. “Especially on a day as sweltering as this.” 

He can faintly hear in the background a man grumbling incoherently about keeping up the line, and he apologetically (although he doesn’t feel very apologetic) responds to the not-so gentleman behind him. He hastily picks his glass, an internal groan erupting in him when a couple of drops spill onto the earthly grass. At least it had avoided his clothing by its means. Anthony had already begun to walk away, lemonade secured, when he noticed the same lady who had engaged him in a brief conversation engaging in the same direction that he was headed. 

“Such events are quite amusing,” Her words are delicate, but they are firm enough for Anthony to know that she stands her ground. She stands ever so beautifully, firm but beautiful, letting her dress flutter slightly into the soft breeze that washes over the course. “I can not say that they were common in my homeland.”

Ah. So that is why Anthony failed to recognize her—a new citizen, or possibly just visiting some family for the season. After all, Mayfair was quite prestigious in its ways if you stood in the high rankings. “So I take that you are not from here?” He questions, even though he already knows the answer.

The lady shakes her head, the hair atop her head bouncing as she does so. “Not quite.” She responded appropriately. She rattles off some place that Anthony had surely never been before, and he nods upon hearing the answer. "I am here visiting, as my cousin kindly offered to host me, and who am I to decline such a gracious invitation?"

The words rolled sweetly off her tongue, as if she were making a harmonious melody. Certainly a clever tongue in her mouth, Anthony could think to himself. “Well then, I must certainly assume that you are here for the season.” 

It was an honest question. The lady looked to be in her earlier years of life, if Anthony really had to make a guess. Fair skin, beautiful features, and a voice as gorgeous as the waves in the ocean—what else would she be doing in Mayfair at this time of the year? It only seemed reasonable to make that assumption. He stands correct when she pushes her head down as an agreement, “Yes.” She says, yet she pauses for a beat before continuing her sentence, "Though I must say, it is quite a considerable departure from what I am accustomed to back home.”

"In a manner most agreeable, I trust?" Anthony says, and the lady smiles approvingly. It was quite a sugary smile, the sort that sat well within the presumably older man. It looked as if the course grounds had gotten crowded by tenfold since Anthony had turned his back, making the exertion towards the stands much harder than what it should’ve been.

“Well, yes.” Whereas, the tone of her voice contradicted what her words have stated. The lady’s eyebrows furrow for a mere moment, as if he were contemplating something of sorts. “Nevertheless, it is quite hard.”

He inclines his head. Anthony could somewhat agree with her words—the season was always stressful, a throatful of things to stress and worry about, a million matters to perfect to attract the best of the best. He had never felt too stressed, perhaps when he was swarmed with tasks to complete for the up-and-coming ball or party, but never on his performance at such events. Anthony believed that is why he suddenly threw himself in as an eligible bachelor, and the best if he may add, was so diminishing. "With a lady such as yourself, I must presume it is not exceedingly difficult."

The lady, which Anthony now realizes that he does not know the name of, blushes a shade of pink that could only be described as warm, like a rose pelting in the wind. She laughs graciously, accepting the compliment with ease. “I must confess, I am flattered, Mr…” Her words trail off as she too comes to realization with the fact she does not know how to address the young gentleman.

“Lord Bridgerton.” He introduces, his voice not in any way condescending as many others may take him on to be.

Anthony takes note of the way the lady’s eyebrows raise up in surprise, followed by the rather flushed look that began to tint at her cheeks. "Oh dear, I beg your pardon, my Lord." Tilting her head down hesitantly as if she were unsure of what formality would be the most appropriate. It almost forces a chuckle out of the Viscount.

"And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?" Anthony continues on as it is only polite to ask so. 

"Mm, indeed. How remiss of me not to mention it beforehand…” The lady says, letting out a sort of awkward laugh that could be seen as rather affectionate. “My name is Y/n.” The lady states, followed by a surname that Anthony can faintly remember to be as one of the other Viscounts that lived in the city, although he couldn’t quite say he knew the name all too well. Certainly not one that he had talked to on the occasion.

“I see,” Anthony nods along, a faint smile tainted upon his lips before he even knows it himself. “Charming gentleman your cousin is.” He could not say if the man was truly charming, or a gentleman at all, as he had only read a couple lines about it from the Lady Whistledown paper that his family had received a couple of long weeks ago. 

“Charming, indeed.” The words were more so grumbled, as if she didn’t quite agree with the statement. “That is certainly one way to describe him.”

He chuckles at the disdain laced upon her voice. Anthony fairly enjoyed the new sense of emotion—most ladies he had the pleasure of talking with all embellished their compliments in spite of thinking the opposite. Being able to hear an objection that wasn’t sugarcoated heavily; Anthony would think that he notably liked the trait that distinguished Y/n.

The course grounds slowly appear into Anthony’s line of vision as the conversation dies down. The sound of chatter that did come from his or her mouth refilling his ears—excited husbands yelling bets at one another, ladies shaking their heads as so—the look that was etched on their faces would be one that Anthony could appreciate and find humorous.

"I must confess, some of the wagers being placed are rather simplistic in nature." Y/n cuts in through the stillness of their discussion beforehand. A nice conversation starter, but one that would rile many people up. "It appears as though none of these individuals have ever graced a racecourse before! How utterly rash of them to bet upon the favored contender solely because of his popularity."

He can’t help but be taken aback, although once again, her exaggeration was one that could be seen as comical. That is, before he had realized that he himself had also bet upon the favored horse, Nectar, which Anthony assumed the lady was talking about. For a moment, he wonders if her words are pure bullshit, if she was just making conversation with him. It is as if Y/n sees right through him.

“Oh my, do not tell me you have also fallen into the unfortunate trap of betting for Nectar.” Anthony can’t quite place what expression she expresses, but it does not look good. Disappointed, or perhaps pity. 

“Naturally, I betted upon him, it is a sensible bet, and he is a horse of sound character who shall undoubtedly finish with victory this afternoon.” He defends, the tone of his voice sounding rather offended at the plain mention of his unwary wager. Something deep down in him wonders if the lady was indeed right, if he really did not know what he was doing. Again, Anthony could not say he was educated well enough, and admittedly, he had bet upon Nectar due to the favorability of his win. “I have a well placed feeling about him.”

“A feeling?” Y/n’s eyebrow cocks up, the smile on her face now more jovial than polite. “Or is it the choosing of the horse that everyone has chosen? Well, I do suppose that adds to the list of husbands who shall be more than disappointed once the race has concluded.”

“I beg your finest pardon, I have made a strategic bet.” His words are more puncuated than before, suddenly relishing within the first person to truly give him some sort of competition that did not stem from his brothers or family, for that matter. “Nectar is a prized steed. He is quite well bred, highly trained, and, as many other people have shown, well favored.”

Y/n tsks, shaking her head as if she were scolding Anthony as his mother and father had done when he was a young boy. “I must assume you have not considered the quality of the racing course and the weather to assess the true potential? Although these sorts of events are not truly common back in my homeland, I do must say that many of these may just be common sense.”

She knows that her words are stretching the truth, that it wasn’t just common sense, but Y/n must admit that she took delight in having a friendly banter. She climbs up onto one of the wooden bleachers, sitting herself upon the heated seat, with Anthony following quickly behind her. “You see, my cousin had kindly explained to me the expectations of the race, and it is said that Nectar raced well at Doncaster; however, the track conditions were far from the same. A firmer course, if you will. While now, over here…” She pauses to wave her hand at the field of grass in front of her view. “It is much softer, and it is a rather humid day. He will much slowdown in the final leg, giving HighFlyer the much easy victory.”

Anthony scoffs. Foolish? Perhaps. Tinted with truth? Also yes. "Are you merely echoing the words your cousin imparted to you earlier?" He argues as well, Anthony never backed down from a challenge, and this lady was surely challenging him.

“And are you merely saying that I do not know about horse racing because I am a woman?” She tilts her head to look directly at Anthony; the grin that is placed strategically on her face was one that he could not argue with. And he is sure of that when he opens his mouth to bite back, but being blatantly unable to respond with something witty. Oh, that shit-eating smirk that was so easily disguised as a polite smile made Anthony oh-so infuriatingly upset. Upset because she knew what she was doing; upset because, well, he was moderately fond of that smile.

“We shall see then.” 

Famous last words, because well, he is proved to be utterly wrong. The course of disappointed groans that steamed through the crowd, which Anthony would not admit (but was a part of), as HighFlyer flew his way across the finish line were abominably loud. Nectar staggered behind him moments later, but not before the crowd had seen how winded he was by the heat and conditions. 

The lady behind him had laughed in delight, unable to celebrate fully before she must turn towards Anthony to shove it into his face. “I can not say that I have ever beat a viscount before.” Suddenly, all formality that was once there had been gone, destroyed, as if it had never been there in the first place. “I do suppose there is always a first.”

“And a last.” Anthony grumbles under his breath, in hope that Y/n would close off her ears to the harsh criticism. To his luck, she does hear.

“I must concede, you are just like the many men who claim to be gentlemen.” She replies, even though she seemed not to be very upset by the Viscount’s words. If that had been the case, it would have appeared as though Anthony had experienced numerous episodes of frustration—possibly humorous ones, but nonetheless, frustration.. "Unwilling to concede defeat, even when it lies directly at his feet." 

“I am able to concede defeat if the defeat deserves to be conceded.” His words are sharp, even though the smile tugging at his face says different to his own jumble of words. Anthony could not quite help it when he sees her eyes light up with something that he could not describe. “If it dares, look me in the eyes.”

“Ah, is that right, my Lord?” She questions, carrying herself with the confidence that he hadn’t seen in forever. An admirable trait indeed, if Anthony must admit. "Does not defeat gaze directly upon you as HighFlyer is crowned the victor of this afternoon's fine race.”

He sighs. Anthony was never one to be dramatic; he always held himself upright and, in his family's words, rather serious. Still, he had to admit that his gasp was a bit dramatic. “Ah… well.” His words trail off slowly, grimacing at the truth of the lady’s words. “I suppose you are… right this time.” The syllables were uttered slowly, followed by another huff of a breath that he could only feel to himself.

She laughs, that beautiful melody of a laugh. While in many cases, it would be regarded as an unpleasant sound unless it was done so delicately, hers was not delicate, nor was it ungracious. It was as if the notes from every music piece ever composed had all come together to form one masterpiece of a harmony, one that ebbed and flowed in all the right ways. 

“Oh rejoice! What a sound those words are!” Y/n breathes dreamfully. 

The track is far from empty, with many individuals walking over to congratulate the winner, while the others either mourn the losses of their empty wallets, or giggling gleefully over their new-found bundles of heritage. However, the bleachers were starting to thin out, leaving just a select few groups.

There is a sense that weaves through him as he ponders his next move. He could surely just stand himself up, mutter out a respectable goodbye, and leave, yet at the same time, he could not allow himself to just do that. Anthony seemed far better off conversing with this lady than with any other of the ones that he had danced or engaged with in the slightest. The thought made him laugh at his own stupidity, and yet;

"I cannot suppose it would be honorable of me not to inquire if you might attend the Hearts and Flower Ball with me. I trust you have heard of it?" Anthony asks, not just out of politeness but also the small amount of desire he feels for just a beat of a moment. One that felt odd and far too new in his chest, something that he had yet to feel in the weeks that had came, and the weeks yet to come. 

The lady showed a glimpse of astonishment, and Anthony wonders if he had made the right decision upon asking her about it in the first place. "My Lord, are you, perchance, inquiring if you wish to take me on a social outing?" Though even she could hear the tiny quiver that was woven, her voice seemed steady as she spoke.

“I… suppose I am, yes.” He stands with his head gently cocked to the right, extending his hand in consolation. Anthony can feel the regret seeping into his words as they were carefully placed, because God, if she came to deny his request, he was sure he could drop dead on the grass at that given moment. 

“I would love to.” And Anthony would not be able to stop the sigh of relief that washed over him even if he had tried. The tension that creased his forehead, all the way down to his calves, was quickly overridden with a sense of declaration. 

As he wove through the throngs of disassembling guests, waving courteously to the lady that he swore to uncover the mystery of, Anthony finally let himself pry out of dapper smile. For the first time in a while, he felt as if he were winning. Not just a kid-made, pointless game, but something much deeper than he could have ever imagined. Except, this time, he would not allow it to simply just… escape his grasp.

★ drabbles ★ : ̗̀➛ none as of now

★ headcanons ★ : ̗̀➛ none as of now

★ one-shots ★ : ̗̀➛ hearts & horses : ̗̀➛ solace

★ other ★ : ̗̀➛ none as of now