Work Text:
“Thank you, Michael. For letting my son love
her first.”
-From Janet, the Dowager Countess of Kilmartin,
to her nephew, Michael, the Earl of Kilmartin
In all truth, Michael did wish to show up to his cousin's wedding - had put the highest of efforts in making it happen. Because what is one's wedding, truly, if held without their most beloved, most charming, and undoubtedly - favorite cousin to keep the festivities going.
Janet would have most easily accused him of missing such an affair for no more than the pleasure of throwing himself beneath a lady and enjoying the company of, oh so many more gratifying activities, than observing John in some type of marital bliss he seems to have trapped himself into, if not for the circumstances the family has found themselves amidst of.
It is simply not one's fault that John has decided to announce such a sudden engagement, during the one single moment Michael has chosen to leave the exasperating beauty of London's city walls, and visit his family on the far outskirts of Scotland, where they usually keep hidden.
Yet, whenever Michael seeked to think about the unnatural order of these events, he couldn't have helped thinking that this was the way John wished for it to be. He must have taken the very opportunity to do such a thing, in secret no less, fussing mamas and their expectations be damned.
Unless he had compromised this young lady, of course. Though Michael knew, with the utmost certainty, that this simply was not the case. He knew his cousin well enough.
Michael himself truly never wished to deal with such feasts in the first place. He was more of a…free man, if one could say. A right he had been bestowed since birth, and had always been more than grateful for. He feels almost sorry for John, yet is simply thankful to not have to ever give up the liberty he so enjoys.
The Finch-Dankworth ball being no exception whatsoever. It is a rather strange name for a ball, is it not?
No more than five minutes had passed, yet the amount of mamas and eligible daughters running in his way for the very prospect of marriage has been sickening.
This, certainly, was not a place for Michael Stirling, of all people. Not unless he were to catch sight of an eager widow, for instance. Those could pass. And to think he couldn't catch sight of his cousin at all, his deepest efforts passing in vain, infuriated him to no end. He must be here somewhere, his new wife on his arm.
Michael did not quite know what to expect of this mystery girl, per say. The only aspect he is aware of is that she seems to be one of the Bridgertons, and he did have a few, brief, albeit polite and nice encounters with at least two of the gentlemen of the respected family. It does not get any deeper than that.
There also seemed to be quite a fuss at this ball, which made him fidget in his own skin, strangely. Was that the queen? What damning scandal has the ton found themselves within now? Surely nothing he was interested in. Just as he was not even slightly interested in these flying bugs that seemed to be a show for the attendees. Had the ton truly grown that bored? Since when are bugs such an interesting spectacle?
He shall never understand such things. And he certainly doesn't plan to. What was important now was locating John and introducing himself to his new sister in law. His cousin shall slander him if he weren't to show up.
And for that very reason, he grabbed a glass of whatever the liquor was passed in between the gentlemen, took a sip that was not even slightly mannered, and started his stroll about the abuzz ballroom in search of John. He must be here somewhere.
It took no more than a minute before he spotted the back of his head, John's back turned as he stood between two young ladies.
He couldn't gather much from afar, yet the one thing that caught his attention first was a glimmer of light, chestnut hair. And as he pushed himself closer, for no other reason than to call out to his favorite person, he stopped in his tracks, a sound of the most unique laughter he had ever heard filling his ears.
It was like a melody. A melody adorned with the brightest of smiles. A smile so big, so bright. And the light, chestnut hair…
He snapped himself out of it, not knowing what it is that happened a mere second ago, and continued his stroll forward.
Must be the excitement. Surely. Or the liquor. Who knows what they sneak into the rich wines of polite society.
“...my cousin is about to arrive.” Michael could hear John's voice, now closer to his brother than he had been in weeks, and so he strolled into the conversation with ease, opting for the element of surprise. One thing that hasn't ever failed Michael in his life, was the simple power of charm. And he knew, oh he knew, how to use it well.
“I apologize for the delay, brother! It is simply that you wished for me to miss your wedding oh so very much.”
“Michael!” John exclaimed, opting for a brotherly hug.
And once the two stepped away, and Michael got the chance to look around him and focus on the one standing firmly next to his cousin, it is as if the earth has swallowed him whole.
There stood a pair of the brightest brown eyes, and that same, breathtaking smile that he had noticed from afar.
“Good evening.” The two ladies eagerly exclaimed, yet he could barely acknowledge the second one, too awestruck by the sound of a delicate voice, and the softest, most gorgeous pair of lips he had ever laid his eyes upon.
It is as if the mere air he breathes had been taken away. As if every star in the sky had disappeared, and as if the ballroom had turned utterly silent at his command.
As if there were only two people in this room. Him and the captivating young lady standing before him, gazing upon him with those, oh so wonderful, eyes…
He had never been intrigued by eyes. Never in his entire three and twenty years of life. And he stood here, amidst the chaos of rich violin and overlapping of voices, and could not distinguish the mere difference between one gazing glance and the paintings kept in the museums across all of London, Paris and Athens combined.
“Michael-” His cousin called, “I wish to introduce you to someone.” he took a hold of the young lady’s hand - the young lady’s hand - and spoke “This is Francesca Bridgerton-”
Somehow, Michael had understood what was about to come next. The very words John was about to say. Yet for that one split second -one single moment in time, in which not much had existed, except his very own bundle of thoughts - he pretended that it was not real.
It had felt as if one was dreaming, and this was about to become that one climaxing moment after which one wakes up from such a dream.
It simply couldn't be real life. Real life was not made for such things. Was not made for such feelings, for such moments where one's breath is lost as if all life had started to dim. It could not, it was not…
…real.
“My wife.”
In every life there is a turning point. A moment so tremendous, so sharp and clear that one feels as if one's been hit in the chest, all the breath knocked out, and one knows, absolutely knows without the merest hint of a shadow of a doubt that one's life will never be the same.
For Michael Stirling, that moment came the first time he laid eyes on Francesca Bridgerton.
After a lifetime of chasing women, of smiling slyly as they chased him, of allowing himself to be caught and then turning the tables until he was the victor, of caressing and kissing and making love to them but never actually allowing his heart to become engaged, he took one look at Francesca Bridgerton and fell so fast and so hard into love it was a wonder he managed to remain standing.