Chapter Text
Uh oh.
The simple exclamation like that was the fruit of many bottled feelings inside of you, and though not voiced out loud, the notion still held an appropriate amount of pressure on you. So much so that your pelisse felt incredibly tight in that moment.
On a normal day, the sight of three (not one or two but three) Bridgerton brothers wouldn't faze you as much, even though Anthony felt like forbidden fruit every time he was in near vicinity. It was talent, being able to resist the charms the three most eligible bachelors had. Having Daphne as the closest of friends tends to serve you well in that department.
Not today, apparently.
Positive that your palms were sweating under your silky gloves, you did the first thing that came to your mind when you were nervous.
You clung to the person next to you.
It was subtle, the way your hand tightened around Rickard's taut muscle. So subtle you hadn't expected for it to be caught.
Anthony seized the union of your locked arms, openly showing the storm within his dark irises. His dark, formidable horse let out an annoyed grunt, shaking his head as if he needed to let go of some steam — preferably on an open field and not in the crowded Hyde Park.
Lord Thorne took a protective step in front of you, acting as a human shield in case of the horse going berserk. He looked calm as he addressed your beloved.
If that's who Anthony was to you.
You were anything but sure about that particular fact.
"I was given the assumption that you Bridgerton's knew how to behave around a lady," said the earl, tilting his head whilst his eyes danced around the three brothers.
You were promptly placed behind him, by now completely sure you had drawn attention to yourself as you caught eyes of several members of the ton, glancing at you.
The attention that threatened to strike, as a marchioness, you couldn't allow yourself to be associated with. Your father wouldn't be so pleased with you. "My lords, should it not be best on all our parts if we took this somewhere… a tad bit more private?"
"I must say that I agree with Miss Y/LN," said Rickard promptly, his blond curls framing his face as he fixed a loose strand behind his ear. "Our little escapade is far from over, and I wouldn't want business to get in the way."
His words were serious, but the tone was light. A common thing Benedict did in those situations was try and suppress a laugh—or a snort. Colin, too, had started to fight the curves of his lips that warned to spiral into a mocking smirk.
"Oh, we are not here to do business with you Thorne," replied Anthony, his words matching the seriousness of his voice. A shudder sneaked down your back, dancing along your spine until you felt warm and weird all over. "Miss Y/LN here, is our sister's dear friend. We are here to give her Daphne's regards."
Anthony's brooding turned into hostility, making Colin butt in with a dashing smile. "Our mother and sister would love for you to join them for tea, whenever it is you are free of course."
"Oh… Certainly," you mused, catching the surprise and masking it with a polite smile. "I quite missed Daphne."
Benedict nodded, almost as if he understood you. "Our dear sister is endearing," he said, "I must say I am not surprised."
You almost laughed at his comment, glad to have common ground to talk about without drowning in awkwardness. Anthony smirked ever-so-slightly.
"I heard she is quite busy these days." You said, fixing your bonnet with your free hand, your reticule sliding down your arm to the elbow. "With the duke courting her and all."
"From who? Lady Whistledown?"
Colin was quick to slice through Benedict's comment, preserving whatever secrecy the Bridgerton's would let you in so Lord Thorne did not hear. "I believe that is something worth discussing over tea and biscuits, don’t you think?"
"You are quite the negotiator, my lord."
"Great words coming from you." Colin said, tipping his hat in your direction charmingly.
All to bring out a reaction out of his eldest brother.
Anthony glared at him.
"I too agree with Colin. You must visit." He was quick to regain himself, looking at you with intensity only perceptible to you. "But before we go, and forgive me for being so frank, but I do wonder… Have you received my flowers, Miss Y/LN? I had an intention of stopping by for a quick visit—although it seems to me that someone has beat me to it."
Manly glares are exchanged, ones you do not understand, but try your best to interpretate, nevertheless. Colin and Benedict looked between each other, looking as if they knew something you didn't.
Anthony…
He was brooding. Quite heavily.
"I'm afraid so Anthony," Rickard replied, casually. He glanced down at you with his crystal-like eyes, watching you as if he adored you already. "I was graced with the lady's attention for the day."
"And Arabella's," You added, trying to lighten the tension and stop the cringey grimace that threatened to surface due to the uncomfortableness of the situation. You looked over your shoulder, nodding toward your hidden chaperone.
"Of course," The earl agreed with a proud smile. He turned to the brothers, looking more interested in Anthony. "Well, if that is all, I'm afraid we take our leave."
"It was lovely to see you, my lords." You piped in, nodding politely.
"Certainty." Anthony replied curtly, sounding more like he was snarling the word in anger. His grip on the reigns was sure to engrave some patterns into his skin and leave nasty red marks. "Have a lovely day."
***
You walked through the gardens, holding the society papers in your hands. Every time a passing staff brushed by you; the paper would disappear behind your back. It wasn't graceful, but very much obvious. Thankfully, people didn't seem to care as they spared you a bow and a smile.
Taking a seat in the lone part of the garden, you took a deep breath, praying that the gossip you were about to read wasn't about you.
My dearest reader, I feel the need to discuss the oh so charming tangerine Miss Penelope Featherington seemed to be wearing for the biggest part of the season. Surely—
"My Lady," a soft voice called.
It was so subtle and quiet that there wasn't a chance for it to scare you. But it did.
Placing the paper under your dress, you turned around to face the woman who looked like she did a great deal of running before she found you. "Yes?"
"Your mother is looking for you."
You furrowed your brows, confusion coloring your face. "Did she perhaps share why?"
"No, I'm afraid she has not, my Lady." She replied with a light shake of her head.
You huffed, every dream about secretively reading through Whistledown's words going down the river of failure. "Very well. Thank you."
She scurried into the flowers, her dark green dress camouflaging her so she became one with the leaves. There was no point in milking the time you didn't have, and you realized that fairly quickly as you stood up, brushed out the non-existent creases and vanished out of the brimming garden.
Inside the manor, you faced the walls of your temporary home and heaved a sigh. You had always liked the garden better, and now after Anthony shared his knowledge of roses with you, spending time among the greenery became your favorite past time.
As you walked up the stairs, a sudden slam came from beneath you. It was so sudden and strong you knew it wasn't normal.
"Lord Bridgerton you cannot—"
You gasped loudly, widening your eyes until they were round with fear. There were many Lord Bridgertons that could've invaded your home, though you were positive such aggression wouldn't be the product of Colin, nor Benedict for that matter.
"Anthony..." You mumbled, or more like growled, under your breath. Pumping your legs to skate along the stairwell, you pushed until you were safe next to the gold encrusted railings. You could feel the patterns of the gold threads under your palm, but you ignored them, choosing to grip the railing even tighter.
You watched as Anthony barged through the house with his head held up high and no smile gracing his handsome features. In his gloved hand he held his hat, showing just enough of respect to the household.
He didn't look like he was stopping any time soon as poor Simmons, as old as he was, chased after him in a speed-walk.
You pushed yourself from the railing, grabbed fistfuls of your dress and made a dash for your room.
"Grace, Grace, Grace!"
You found your maid in your closet, sorting through your new array of colorful dresses the modiste had dropped off while you spent time with the earl.
"Yes, my Lady?" She asked politely, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. "What seems to be the matter?"
"He is here!" You screeched, slamming the door shut and pacing around the only place you could be yourself.
The room was smartly decorated, and in a way that was luxurious enough to be the room of a marchioness. Themed in a soft pale green, your room for the duration of the season was more than enough. A king-sized bed was stationed against the far wall, framing the room so it fit him in every way. Adorned in matching flowery patterns was your dressing screen, along with your curtains, which were slung back so the natural light of the spring sun could stream inside and your.
Beside you was your writing desk, the letters you intended to send nested neatly inside the wooden box. Several of them adressed to the object of your obsession.
"Who is, my—"
"Anthony! Bloody… Anthony!" You said, quite loudly.
Grace visibly flinched at your tone, though not in a way that would give a feeling of fear, more so in a way that looked like a reaction to your yells. She winced, rubbing her ear. "I—"
"I understand, Grace. I am speechless too." You cut her off, marching across the warm carpet. After sitting on your bed, you continued with the same amount of annoyance. "I mean, how dare he?! That chauvinistic— Grace where is my parasol? Quick we must make haste!"
"My Lady, I—"
"Haste Grace! Hurry!"
She didn't have to be told twice, dropping the dress onto your bed and coming back with a pale blue parasol that matched your dress. "You are always so perfect."
"I try my best," she replied modestly, watching as you stood up from your bed, determination setting in your brow.
"Let us go."
***
"What game are you playing?"
Anthony's voice boomed through the study, and you clutched your weapon in your hands, readying yourself to slip a lie of how you were going to take a walk outside should anyone question why you were posted outside the study.
"What is he saying?" You whispered with a fair amount of urgency in your voice,
Grace shook her head, not knowing what to say, she pushed you forward. "A game?" Came your father's reply; you could practically see him in his chair. "Surely you do not think my daughter is a game, son."
With wide eyes, you pointed to yourself with your parasol in shock.
For the first time, Grace had rolled her eyes at your surprise. "Of course, they're talking about you, my Lady!"
You leaned toward the door and pushed it ever so slightly, feeling relief wash over you when it creaked open just enough. You felt her hands grip your dress in fear of you losing your balance and falling face first inside the room.
It happened before.
"I am not—" Anthony began, his hat was discarded on a lone chair as he looked straight at your father.
He has a pretty derriere.
Your cheeks reddened at the thought.
"My son," the marquess finished, "Of that I am well aware, Lord Bridgerton. Indeed, you do not see me prance around London telling everybody that you are my son, do you now?"
You shook your head and turned to Grace, "Sarcasm."
She let out a soft 'Oh.' and nodded to herself, probably connecting the dots and realizing why you had a such witty, snappy and fiery personality.
"I—"
"Forgive me for being so forward. Whiskey?" Your father proposed, changing his words elegantly as if he was diverting the subject to something else. When Anthony didn't reply, only did what you thought was glare broodingly at the liquid, your father heaved a sigh and poured himself a fair amount. "Very well."
He took a sip, like he had all the time in the world. "It is in my best intention— Lord Bridgerton—to marry my daughter to a man for who I know shall cherish her. Lord Thorne has proven to be—"
With guts you didn't know he had, Anthony banged a fist against the dark oak, "You promised her to me!" He barked in anger. "Before the Season I came to you and asked for her hand."
He then spread his arms wide as if asking where is was.
"Oh, heavens! When did that happen?” Grace mumbled, covering her mouth with her palm while she blushed. You could only nod your head at her sudden forwardness, the fact being new to you and very much exciting.
He asked for my hand.
"I break promises, son," Came his reply. Your father sounded casual, not a trace of regret in his voice. "My daughter is the finest example of my deeds. I am not proud of them, however—"
Aristocratic chauvinistic bastard. His every word was true, and you looked back at your Maid with a nod, changing your grip on the baby blue parasol, digging it into the ground and turning it as if doing so would sharpen the tip so it was deadly. "I shall skewer him with my parasol one day, Grace."
"And I shall assist you, my Lady."
This time, you did turn around to grin at the girl. "Great! I'm so excited you'll come along!"
Back in the study, Anthony spoke with a softer tune in his tone. "Why?"
"Come again?"
"What kind of a man are you?!" He was back yelling, "We made a deal! No one courts her save for me."
"You allow yourself too much," Your father said breezily, you could see his eyes harden from where you were peeping inside. "Such questions have no right to leave your mouth… Not after what you did."
"What I did?"
"You tainted my daughter!"
Silence overcame the whole room. Time seemed to stop.
"My Lady?" Grace asked hurriedly, coming to your side after she saw you slump against the wall.
Oh no.
"No, no, no..." You found yourself mumbling, though shaking her helping hands off. The wish to stay was winning over every other need. You were overwhelmed with emotions, your blood having ran cold the moment those words left his mouth.
He knows.
"You foolish boy," The marquess tsked, anger evident in his eyes. "Should you really think I would let my only daughter into the world without men tailing behind her at all times? Before the marchioness of Cambridge, Y/N is a Y/LN. And I take good care of my family."
"Though apparently not good enough," he continued, sipping his drink before letting the glass fall to the desk. "Allowing her to—"
"She returned it."
Y/FN jumped to his feet, "How dare you speak of my daughter in such way?!"
"I kissed her, and I deeply apologize for what I did, but I stand behind my actions." Said the viscount. A sense of pride swell up in your chest, the tiniest bit of light giving you hope for the future.
Did your father really know all this time? You shuddered at the thought of dining with him, not knowing that he was aware of events that took place a year ago.
"Then why didn't you take her hand?! You tainted my daughter's innocence and refused to marry her!" He was yelling, his voice booming with such force that you took a step back. For a second, you feared the possibility of a duel taking place the next dawn, but it diminished quickly when you remembered that your father would never get his hands bloody.
He had others to do it for him.
"I could not! Not then at least." Anthony replied, his voice getting quieter the more he neared the end of the sentence. He looked at the his shiny riding boots for several long moments before his gaze went to your father again.
After being momentarily silent, your father chuckled.
"Circling back to Edmond, are we not?"
"Certainty, my Lord."
"Very well then." Said your father calmly, whatever storm brew between them diminishing with the words. You furrowed your brows, not understanding a thing the two were suddenly on about.
"Men." You muttered.
"You should be thankful no one caught you in such compromising position. But son—" the older man began, "—my daughter will not be on the firing end of your demons. Should you not marry her and prove to me that you indeed do love and care for her, I shall marry her to Lord Thorne whose father I too was very close to."
"You ca—"
"I believe that I have the last word in my home, Lord Bridgerton."
Those were the last words you caught, as Anthony's reply was much quieter. Neither one of you heard what he whispered about, but the shuffling of papers was enough to let you know what they were currently doing.
You would've stayed longer had Grace not pulled you by your wrist, maneuvering your body around the manor until you were situated in a lone hall.
"I shall ring for a coachman immediately if you wish to flee the country, my Lady."
"There will not be a need for such measures, Grace."
"Are you certain?"
"No."
***
Something in the air was different. You watched as your father wore a pleased smile on his face, thinking you were oblivious to what had occurred mere hours ago. "Father."
"Ah, Y/N," he replied, a soft sing-like tune under his tone. "My darling daughter, how may I be of assistance?"
"I couldn't help but notice," you started, quickening your pace until you were walking through the gardens with him. Staff would step aside, watching in awe as the marquess walked with his only daughter. "That Lord Bridgerton paid you a visit."
His smile didn't falter, "Indeed."
You frowned, "And? Whatever did he say?"
"Nothing that is of interest to you."
"Dang it," you mumbled, noticing how he wasn't going to waver.
Best get this over with.
"Father, I know you know."
"Come again?" Your father turned around once you stopped in your tracks, the creases in his face evidence that he indeed knew what you were talking about.
"I—" You began, trembling with fear. Many things could go wrong, you realized. His relationship with you could take a drastic turn and you realized that you didn’t want that. "Will you marry me to Lord Thorne, Father?"
The older man watched you carefully, something clearly clouding his mind. He looked as if he swallowed whatever words he initially wanted to say, "There will be a caller for you at four."
Then, the marquess did what he hadn’t done since you were a child.
Your father leaned in and kissed your forehead. He looked regretful as he looked down on you, his warm hands on your arms. You felt warm inside, though not the same kind of warm when you were with Anthony. His warmth was burning, passionate and lustful. Sinful even, in some cases. But the tenderness of this kiss was loving, protective. Only a daughter could share this with her father. You felt safe. "Forgive me."
And with that, your father left you to your own thoughts.
***
At four in the afternoon sharp, Anthony Bridgerton found himself at your doorstep. His gloved hand merely knocked against the door twice before he was let in, shielded from the eager eyes of the ton that kept glancing toward the manor in passing. Perhaps not even in passing, some were there to see whether Lady Whistledown’s column was true.
Simmons didn't utter a word in his way, having been informed of your engagement to the viscount beforehand.
Yes, your engagement.
***
2 HOURS AGO
"I believe that I have the last word in my home, Lord Bridgerton."
The viscount wasn't fazed; he placed his palms against the desk, looking as regal as the 6th Marquess of Cambridge, if not even more. There seemed to be a fiery flame around him, a glow of young determination. "My demons will not touch a hair on her head."
He lowered his voice further, "I am only asking for her hand. I assure you… Lord Thorne will not make her happy."
"What are you suggesting?" Your father replied, "That you will?"
"I already did." He informed, "At the ball. At my home. She is at her happiest when she is with me, as I am when I’m with her."
Anthony glanced behind him, feeling a sense of privacy invasion wash over him. He pushed himself from the desk and walked toward the door, noticing how it was opened just barely. But beyond that, no one seemed to be lurking behind. "I shall be back at four."
"Wait!"
The viscount smirked, lips curling devilishly. His hand still gripped the doorknob, "Yes?"
Your father's face was hard and aloof, but his eyes danced with emotion. Fear. "Are you certain that she will be happy with you?"
"If you knew your daughter," said Anthony. "Then you wouldn't have to ask me that."
***
Anthony found you sitting in the drawing room, alone.
His lips curved into a pleased smile. Perfect.
You were looking into space, seemingly lost in your thoughts. The world around you was quieter, he noticed, almost as if you took everything in slowly. There didn't seem to be a wish for a witty remark, as you looked worried.
Upon hearing the door close behind him, you looked up, the tea on your lap shaking dangerously in its cup. You were startled by Anthony, but he swooped in to grasp the handle of the teacup as a measure to apologize. "You frightened me."
He couldn't help but smile as he set the cup on the table, "I did?"
The rebellious light in you dimmed for the first time, urging you to stand up in a spectacle of dresses and apprehension. "We mustn't be alone."
"There will be no need for a chaperone, Y/N."
Your breathing hitched when you felt his eyes on your back. His name on your lips was reserved for only the night. Never beyond the night.
"I believe—"
The viscount's brows bunched together in subtle worry; he stood up and came to your alarmed side immediately. "Why do you look so frightened, Y/N?"
An onset of tears was threatening to spill, "My father knows about us and I—I think he is going to marry me to Lord Thorne."
Anthony shook his head, "That is not possible."
"Of course, it is Anthony!" You fumed, "I spoke to him merely an hour ago. He didn't explicitly say it, but he must've—"
"He will not."
"What are you on about?" You asked him, his conversation with your father lingering in the back of your mind, "You haven't proven yourself yet."
It took a second to realize what words had left your mouth. You prayed he didn’t catch on.
Luckily he did not.
Anthony grabbed your arm in his, pulling you to his chest with a simple tug. By the look on his face, it felt as though he was going to be giving a speech very soon. "You will not marry Rickard. Or any man for that matter."
Your heart did a sad flip, "I wish it was that easy Anthony."
"But what if it was?" He asked, looking at you expectantly through long dark eyeslashes. "Would you marry me then?"
"Of course I would,” you replied sternly, placing your cold hand on his cheek.
The viscount leaned into your touch, “Then marry me.”
“But my father—”
“Your father already gave me your hand,” the rake whispered, and like he couldn’t help his desires, ran his hands down your arms, leaving shivers on his wake. “There is no other man for you but me. You are mine.”
The word was so simple that it came to surprise you with the amount of power it held. Even with the layers of clothing that acted as a protective shield, you felt every bit unclothed, your body itching for his talented mouth on every part. You didn’t dare to stop him when he explored you in a way you weren’t explored before. His mouth trailing kisses on your exposed shoulder, the sleeve of your dress having slipped down your arm with a simple tug of his elegant finger. “Perfect.”
His voice was warm against your skin, so low and primal you had mistaken it for a purr. “Absolutely perfect.”
Before a soft groan could escape, he cupped your chin and brought you to him. The fire that had ingnited a year ago used to be an ember, though right at that moment — it was a flame. Scorching hot and breathtaking.
Anthony was demanding, his lips gliding with yours in the rhythm of your hearts. He explored your mouth throughoutly, leaving you breathless. “We mustn’t—”
He was far too strong, teasing and playing until he was satisfied. His words didn’t hold much meaning, not while your body responded in the way it did.
After pulling away, the viscount watched as you fumbled with your dress, flushed from your cheeks to your neck. A smirk played on his lips, continuing to dance on his face even when he helped you with the disobeying chemise.
The sight of you like that — unruly and disoriented, all because of his touch.
It was very pleasing.
“What if I told you,” he started. “We are to be married in five days from now. “
You mulled over the thought in your head. “I would not be surprised. “
“How so?”
Slowly, you sat back down on the pale couch. “You were very, er, loud when you arrived to speak with my father.”
Your words were a mess that did not make sense to him. At least until he thought them over in his head.
Then it dawned him. “You were there? Listening?”
Letting out a sound that sounded more like a huff, you shook your head proudly. “Not at all! I was merely just observing...”
Anthony laughed.
Laughed.
It diminished once you graced him with a glare, “Of course. A perfectly reasonable observation. I too would do the same were I in your place.”
You nodded, mind darting back to his previous words. “What were you saying about us getting married again?”
“Right!” He exclaimed, as if he had forgotten the object of his own obsession. “Given that you heard the majority of the conversation, I ought to just get on with it.”
“I agree.”
“We will marry in five days.”
“Marry?”
Silence.
“In five days?!”
“I hope that is—”
“That is not nearly enough time!”
“I believe our mothers will find the time to be—”
“Short. Not thought through. Awfully anti—”
As you continued to list every noun and adjective to describe the date of your wedding, Anthony had realized a simple thing.
Life with you in it wasn’t going to be dull.
“Are you certain, Anthony?”
He didn’t hear your question, but whatever you had asked him, he thought, he will answer with a yes. That’s just how much he loved you. “Of course I am certain.”
“You will spend a fortune on the wedding,” you reminded. “All of my dresses, and gloves and parasols.”
“Not an issue.” He replied honestly.
“Really?”
“For you,” Anthony said with a smile. “Anything.”
Just as you were about to respond, Grace rushed into the room, for the first time not announcing herself. “My Lady! Your mother is back and since you decided against fleeing the country—”
Anthony watched as you hissed at your Maid in an attempt to keep her quiet. Your words worked only after a waterfall of thoughts and exclemations gushed out of Garce’s mouth.
Anthony clapped his hands, nodding toward your friend in a greeting. “Let us announce our engagement to the world.”
The viscount smiled, extending his arm for you to take.
It was going to happen sooner or later— your wedding — and while it might have been a marriage forced to be seen through by compromising circumstances of your past relations with the viscount, it was certainly the fruit of love too.
Whatever happened with the two of you and however many suitors that were on your tail, followed by a dozen more of women from his past life as a rake had been pushed aside. Only after doing so did did the future seem bright.
And Lady Whistledown was going to recognize that.
ONE WEEK LATER
Finally my dear reader, the Bridgerton family have welcomed their Viscountess. Y/N has gracefully jumped from one title to another, showing the ton just how ready she is to be a Viscountess. Having reigned in a rake, she has set an example other girls can only dream of and as the Author of this very column you are currently reading, I must say —Congratulations.
We must all congratulate her on such fine handlement of the deed. Even This Author must say just how pleased she is with the result. Despite the differences with the Viscountess, This Author is happy to point out that her early predictions for this Seasons were in fact, correct.
Ambitious Lady Bridgerton has been successful in marrying off her eldest son and daughter in a span of a single Season. Now were those unions the consequence of scandals... This Author shall find out.
But until that moment, let us enjoy the knowledge This Author has obtained.
The first ball Anthony Bridgerton and Y/N Bridgerton will hold as Viscount and Viscountess Bridgerton will be…
Red.
Just like their marriage, This Author presumes.
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