Chapter Text
You first saw the boy when you were sixteen. He had walked stiffly past the drawing room and into your father’s office, his eyes terrified but his jaw locked with determination. He seemed too young to be taking a meeting with your father, and you asked about it later.
“That is the Viscount Bridgerton.” Your father explained, and told you how the boy’s father had died tragically, too soon.
The Viscount’s meetings were frequent in the first year, and in the glimpses you caught of him, walking through the front hall or approaching the steps, you noticed that his frightened boyish look quickly hardened into something else. He became a man, brow hardened and eyes burning, purposeful with his business, resolute. You felt pity for him. You couldn’t imagine the pressures he was under, in charge of an estate and family and only a few years older than yourself. And you also felt admiration, that he was rising to the challenge, so clearly dutiful, when no one would have blamed him for disappearing into laziness or drink, or traveling away altogether.
But he did have moments when it became too much to bear, and it was in one of these moments that you met properly. It was the dead of night on a cold late summer evening. Your father was away on business and the rest of the household was fast asleep. You, as usual, had stayed up reading in your father’s study. There was a knock at the front door, and muffled shouting. You probably should not have gone to investigate yourself, but your sole footman was old and you didn’t want to wake him. And the sounds didn’t seem threatening, they seemed desperate.
Warily, you opened the door and peered out to find the Viscount, disheveled and wobbling on the doorstep, asking to speak to your father. When you explained that he was away, you could see tears start to build in the man’s eyes. He was clearly drunk, very much so, and stumbled over his own feet when he turned to leave. Something ached in your chest watching him, looking so wretched, and you insisted he come inside and rest for a moment. In his altered state, he didn’t need much convincing, and you kept a steadying hand on his shoulder as you guided him to the study where he collapsed into a chair. You brought him a glass of water which he would only drink after you told him it was gin, and even after he gulped it down, he didn’t seem to find any discrepancy.
“Thank you Miss y/l/n,” he slurred, then looked at you curiously, his eyes glassy. “What is your name?”
You told him. “And you are Anthony Bridgerton. What are you doing here so late, my lord?”
Confusion knotted his features. “I had business… Business I needed to see to before I return to Kent… I…”
The glistening tears returned to his eyes and he seemed to fade away for a moment, lost in his internal world. You saw the boy again, the scared boy he used to be. Then with a heaving breath, he snapped back to himself and looked around the room as if just realizing where he was, his gaze landing on you, frightened and humiliated.
“My god, Miss y/l/n, I am so sorry. So terribly sorry. This is unforgivably inappropriate of me, I should never have disturbed you…” He was still drunk, but had reached a tier of lucidity and rose from the chair to fumble for the door.
“My lord,” you called, making him pause and turn to you. “I am the only one who knows you are here, and it will remain that way.” His dark eyes widened with surprise. “You are in no fit state to go walking through the streets, so please sit and rest until you regain yourself. You are not disturbing me.”
He stood frozen, unsure of how to proceed. “It would be scandalous for us to stay here alone together.”
You arched a brow at him. “More or less scandalous than barging into your solicitor’s home after midnight, drunk as a sailor?”
First he was shocked at your retort, and then deflated with shame. You continued, “My lord, no one is awake. No one will know of this, you have my word. But I cannot in good conscience let you wander out into the street until you’re steady on your feet again. And besides, I am not a debutante and as such, my parents don’t hold with the same level of propriety you may be used to.”
At this, he nodded numbly and sank back into the chair. His eyes immediately wandered to the decanter on your father’s desk, within arm’s reach to him, that had just two fingers of brandy left in it.
“You’re not to drink anymore.” You stated firmly. “Shall I remove temptation?” Then you stood, poured the liquor into a glass and sat in the chair opposite him, sipping it pointedly.
Anthony stared at you, drunk and confused. “Why are you so keen to help a foolish stranger like me?”
“You’re not really a stranger,” you shrugged, taking another sip of brandy, which was making you bold. “I have seen you coming to appointments with my father for years.”
He nodded vaguely, “Ah. Well, I have seen you too and I am sorry I did not introduce myself properly before now.”
“Would this be considered a proper introduction?” You giggled, making him blush with shame. “No, my lord, I’m sorry. It is alright. Why would we have been introduced before? There was no need.”
“Why have you not debuted?” he asked.
The question you always dreaded. You were old enough that you could have debuted the prior spring, but the truth was you did not plan to delay your entrance to society by just one year, but forego it entirely, if you had anything to say about it. Flouncing around through an endless series of uncomfortable social events with the aim of finding a husband sounded like a brand of torture tailored specifically for you. Besides, you would not be considered a desirable match under any circumstances, with your father the third-born son of a minor family who had to establish a profession in order to be financially secure. Could you be considered a part of the ton? Yes, but firmly on its furthest, most meager tier. Fortunately, neither you nor your parents were interested in engaging in the social circus of the upper echelons, and so there was no pressure for you to debut.
You simplified it to Anthony. “I am looking to be financially independent.” He balked somewhat, but you relished the opportunity to show others a new perspective. “My father is educating me in his practice. I will assist him as much as is proper, and will likely move on to be a governess one day. Or perhaps write about the law. Under a man’s pseudonym of course.”
Anthony blinked and continued drinking his water. Whether he was impressed or found you hopelessly idealistic or completely mad, you couldn’t tell, but his lack of a scoff or a lecture set him apart from most men you had spoken to, which counted in his favor.
“Speaking of, what was it you needed to see my father about?” you asked. “Perhaps I could help you?”
He hung his head, ashamed again. “It’s nothing. It’s just something I forgot. I’m going to Kent tomorrow. To Aubrey Hall for the harvest, now that the season is over and I needed copies of some tenant contracts. I can send for them later, you don’t need to…”
But you were already leafing through drawers of papers, intimately familiar with where your father kept each of his documents, and you found the contracts in question. Folding them into an envelope for safekeeping, you handed them to the Viscount.
Speechless, he took the envelope with a grateful nod and tucked it into his breast pocket. “You are uncommonly kind, Miss y/l/n,” he said softly.
His warm brown eyes were wide, full of so many competing emotions, you felt your breath hitch. You could see in them, up close for the first time, the endless dance of the grieving boy, fighting to stay hidden under the cloak of the Viscount’s responsibility. He was at war, with himself and with the bitterness of his circumstances. Perhaps others could not see it. To the rest of the world he probably appeared to be cooly in control, stiff upper lip, pleasing smile and nothing more. But you had seen the pain, when the mantle of his title first came crashing down on him, and now again tonight. You wondered if his family knew, if he talked to them about it, and how they would react. You felt the surge of pity and admiration stronger than ever before.
“I believe you are too, my lord.”
That was the beginning of your relationship, and in the years that followed, he proved you right.