Work Text:
Lord Fernando Alonso was not a young man anymore.
He liked to think he had aged with distinction ... like the wine he so adored ... though certain busybodies in the ton (namely Lady Stroll) would gleefully call him “the last Bridgerton bachelor still standing.”
It wasn’t exactly true. Fernando wasn’t a Bridgerton by blood, but he might as well have been. He had spent decades among them ... dancing at their weddings, attending christenings, holding squirming infants while Mark and Sebastian (forever radiant, annoyingly still besotted with each other) cooed about how “he looked born to be a grandfather.”
He wasn’t.
He was born to be free ... or so he’d told himself.
He had watched the next generation of Bridgertons grow up, fall in love, and multiply like rabbits. Lewis and Carlos had married their husbands in a whirlwind of scandal and passion. Daniel and Alex have hopelessly devoted husbands. Lando and Oscar ... a walking disaster and yet, somehow, disgustingly adorable. Even Kimi, the quietest of the brood, had married that darling Oliver.
And now?
Now Fernando found himself at quiet dinners surrounded by blissful couples and babies with too many curls and too much energy.
It was enough to make him pour another glass of wine and swear off romance entirely.
Until Lord Jenson Button came back.
….
The Button estate had been empty for years after the late Lord Button’s passing. Rumour had it that the heir had gone abroad ... studying medicine, serving in the colonies, learning the ways of healing instead of the ways of the ton.
Fernando hadn’t thought of him in years ... not since the boy had been all long limbs and polite smiles.
But when he saw him again, returning on horseback one late afternoon, dust in his hair and sunlight in his eyes, something in Fernando’s carefully ordered world tilted.
Jenson Button had grown into a man of quiet magnetism ... broad-shouldered, sun-warmed, his tan deeper than any English gentleman’s ought to be. His clothes were simple, his hair shorter, his smile unreasonably disarming.
He had no entourage, no fanfare ... just a few trunks, a horse, and a letter from the Crown confirming his title.
Fernando, who had gone to “greet his new neighbour” out of sheer politeness (and perhaps mild curiosity), nearly forgot how to breathe when Jenson dismounted and offered him that grin ... slow, lazy, and utterly devastating.
“Lord Alonso,” he greeted, his voice still low and velvety, but rougher with age. “You’ve not changed.”
Fernando raised an eyebrow. “Liar.”
Jenson’s smile deepened. “Perhaps. But you’re still the most dangerous thing in Hertfordshire.”
Fernando blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
Jenson shrugged, entirely unbothered. “A man should not be allowed to look like that in daylight. It’s unfair.”
And just like that ... with one audacious comment ... Jenson Button reopened a door in Fernando Alonso’s heart he had long ago locked and bolted.
…
The problem with Jenson Button, Fernando discovered, was that he existed.
He existed in sunlight and laughter, in rolled sleeves and unbuttoned collars, in the way he worked in his garden with hands too sure and muscles too distracting.
Fernando began finding reasons to visit ... reasons that grew flimsier by the day.
“Checking on your boundary fence,” he’d claim.
Or, “Delivering a message from Seb.”
Or his favourite: “I was in the area.”
To which Jenson would reply, not looking up from his work,
“Are you ever not in the area these days, my lord?”
Fernando would scoff, but his pulse always betrayed him.
Sometimes, they’d share tea. Sometimes, they’d bicker ... Fernando mocking Jenson’s “peasant hobbies,” Jenson teasing him for his “noble fussiness.”
And sometimes, there’d be silence. Easy, comfortable silence ... broken only by birdsong and the faint clink of Jenson’s tools.
It was during one such silence that Fernando caught himself staring ... really staring ... at the curve of Jenson’s jaw, the sunlight tracing his skin, the strength in his hands as he poured tea.
“Something wrong?” Jenson asked, meeting his gaze.
Fernando looked away, far too quickly. “No. Nothing. Merely observing your… technique.”
“My technique?” Jenson chuckled. “My lord, are you flirting with me?”
Fernando nearly choked. “Absolutely not.”
Jenson leaned back, that damned grin spreading. “Shame. I rather like it when you do.”
…
“He’s quite the man, isn’t he?” Sebastian had asked a few evenings later at a small gathering, watching Jenson laugh at something Kimi said.
Fernando took a sip of his wine. “He’s... fine.”
Seb smirked. “Fine, indeed. That’s one word for it.”
“Don’t start, Sebastian.”
“Oh, I already have,” Sebastian replied with that mischievous sparkle that meant trouble. “He’s single, you’re single, and I happen to know he finds you rather... ‘intriguing.’ His words, not mine.”
Fernando nearly choked on his drink. “He said that?”
Sebastian leaned closer, lowering his voice dramatically. “He also asked whether you still host those late-night debates about your scandals. Said he wouldn’t mind being persuaded by you sometime.”
“Sebastian!”
Seb only chuckled, patting his shoulder. “You’re welcome, old friend.”
…
Later that week, Sebastian and Mark watched from across the garden as Jenson and Fernando shared wine on the terrace, the tension between them so palpable it could’ve been written into a scandal sheet.
“I think he’s finally smiling again,” Sebastian said softly.
Mark nodded. “You and your meddling might’ve done something right for once.”
…
It had been two days.
Two long, mercilessly quiet days since Fernando had last seen Jenson. The house had never felt this still ... no laughter echoing from the courtyard, no soft knock at the study door asking if he fancied a ride, no reason to linger by the window pretending to admire the weather when, in truth, he was waiting.
Now there was only silence.
He told himself it was for the best. That whatever strange pull existed between them was nothing but foolishness ... a midlife indulgence of a man who should’ve known better.
He’d been here before. He knew how easily affection turned to ruin.
Leaning against the balcony rail, he watched the autumn rain gather on the roses below, droplets glinting like tiny confessions. Jenson would’ve liked that ... would’ve said something poetic about the scent of wet soil and the beauty of imperfection.
Fernando shut his eyes. Stop.
His mother’s voice came to him then, faint but steady, like a prayer whispered across time.
“If it is meant to be yours, Fernando, it will find its way back ... no matter how far you run.”
He used to scoff at that as a boy. But now, at forty-something, with a heart that had learned both pride and loneliness, he clung to it like scripture.
And so he kept away.
When Jenson visited the stables, Fernando took his horse through the woods instead. When Jenson joined their evening card games, Fernando claimed he was unwell. When their friends teased him about it ... oh, Sebastian had noticed, of course ... Fernando simply smiled and changed the subject.
But at night, the ache returned.
He thought of Jenson’s easy laugh, the warmth of his hand brushing his sleeve, the way he listened ... really listened ... like Fernando was the only man in the room who mattered.
It was too much. Too dangerous.
And yet, in the solitude of his study, he caught himself whispering into the empty air ...
“Find your way back to me, if you’re meant to.”
The rain fell harder outside, as if carrying his words somewhere he couldn’t reach.
….
Fernando Alonso had survived wars of wit with Lady Whistledown’s gossip sheets, endured Mark’s rants about decorum, and raised Sebastian’s entire brood of children into capable, scandal–prone adults.
He had not, however, learned how to handle being cornered by four of them at once.
The morning sun streamed through the drawing room windows, catching on silver teapots and the stubborn set of Lord Lewis Bridgerton’s jaw.
Across from him, Carlos leaned lazily against the piano, while Lando and Alex occupied the settee like they’d planned this ambush in advance.
“You’re avoiding him,” Lewis said simply, because of course he would ... direct, dignified, and utterly infuriating.
Fernando arched a brow. “Avoiding whom?”
“Don’t even try that,” Lando cut in, smirking. “You’ve been pacing every time Dr. Button’s name comes up. You blush, Uncle Nando. You. Blush.”
Alex grinned. “For a man who lectured us endlessly about courage and the pursuit of happiness...”
Carlos interrupted, his tone soft but knowing, “...you seem rather afraid of your own advice, mi padrino(godfather).”
Fernando groaned, running a hand through his hair. “You all sound like your Papa. I am not afraid. I am simply… sensible.”
“Ah yes,” Lewis said dryly, “the same ‘sensible’ reasoning that kept you alone all these years?”
The room fell quiet for a heartbeat.
Lando’s smirk softened. “Uncle, you spent half our youth telling us love was worth every risk. That if someone made the world brighter, we should fight for them.”
Alex nodded. “You told me once that regret was the heaviest thing a man could carry. Don’t start collecting it now.”
Carlos stepped forward, gently setting a hand on his shoulder. “You taught us what it means to love ... truly love. Why deny yourself the same?”
For once, Fernando had no clever reply.
He looked around at them ... his boys, his family. All of them happy, married, building lives filled with laughter and chaos. And in the midst of it, he felt the faint ache of something he’d buried long ago: want.
Sebastian had been meddling, of course. He always did.
But this ... this quiet rebellion led by his sons ... struck far deeper.
He sighed, resigned. “You are all insufferable,” he muttered.
Lando grinned. “We learned from the best.”
And as laughter filled the room, Fernando thought ... perhaps ... they were right.
Perhaps love did not belong only to the young.
Perhaps it was time to stop watching life pass him by, and to finally reach out his hand.
….
And then, on that stormy night, it finally happened.
Jenson came rushing through the rain, soaked to the bone, eyes wild. “You weren’t at the dinner,” he said breathlessly. “I... I thought something had happened.”
Fernando blinked, startled. “You came all this way... just to check on me?”
“Of course I did!” Jenson snapped, then softened, stepping closer. “Because, damn it, Fernando, I care.”
Thunder rolled as their eyes met. The years of restraint, of pretending they were too old, too clever for love, shattered in that moment.
Fernando let out a shaky breath. “You’re a fool, Jenson Button.”
Jenson smiled faintly. “Only if you are too.”
Rain poured through the open doorway, wind howling. Jenson reached for the latch, but Fernando caught his hand ... without thinking.
Their eyes met. Lightning flashed.
And Fernando, breathless, muttered, “You drive me mad.”
Jenson’s voice was low. “Good. You’ve been driving me mad for weeks.”
“Do you ever think before you speak?”
“Not when I’m with you.”
The distance between them vanished. It wasn’t a gentle kiss ... it was hungry, messy, too long in the making. Fernando’s hands tangled in Jenson’s damp hair; Jenson’s arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer until there was no air left between them.
When they broke apart, breathless, Fernando whispered, “I swore I was done with this.”
Jenson smiled, forehead resting against his. “Then perhaps it’s time you start again.”
…
Naturally, the Bridgertons found out within the week.
Lewis’s children had apparently spotted Grandpa Fernando “snogging a man in the rain” and told everyone at dinner.
Seb had clapped with unholy delight. Mark had smirked for hours.
Carlos had toasted.
Lando had fallen off his chair laughing.
Fernando had buried his face in his hands. “I’m never showing my face again.”
“Too late,” Seb had said cheerfully. “Lady Whistledown’s already published it.”
Indeed, the latest column read:
Dearest readers,
It seems that miracles do occur...even in the most barren of gardens.
After years of drought, Lord Fernando Alonso’s once withered estate appears to have… come alive. One might even say the good lord himself has rediscovered his own fertile season. And the cause of this unexpected bloom? None other than the scandalously handsome Dr. Jenson Button...whose hands, it seems, work wonders both in and out of the sickroom.
Sources whisper that the doctor’s daily visits are of a most… vigorous nature. A consultation here, a check-up there...until dusk finds them strolling too close, speaking too softly, laughing far too sweetly for propriety’s comfort.
And last Tuesday, when Lord Alonso’s roses began to flower out of season, one could not help but wonder...was it the weather that changed… or the man himself?
The ton has always said Lord Alonso’s passion burned too hot to ever die out completely. Perhaps it merely waited...for the right hands to tend it.
So, dear readers, take heed: even the driest of gardens may bloom again… when given proper attention.
Yours, with a knowing smile,
Lord Whistledown
Fernando had torn up the paper, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him ... just a little.
….
Months later, in the Alonso-Button estate, Lord Fernando sat by the fire with a glass of wine, Jenson reading nearby.
The house was loud ... the grandkids from SebMark’s side visiting again, Lewis’s eldest running through the halls with Carlos’s twins, laughter echoing everywhere.
Fernando sighed, feigning exasperation. “They never stop, do they?”
Jenson chuckled. “You love it.”
“I do not.”
“You do,” Jenson murmured, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “And admit it, you love me too.”
Fernando’s lips twitched into a warm smile.
“Yes. Damn you, I do.”
Outside, rain began to fall again ... gentle, steady.
And Fernando thought that perhaps love had not passed him by after all.
It had merely waited for him to be ready.