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The Bridgerton salon is in its usual state of disarray. Eloise and Benedict are arguing over the merits of a country weekend versus a simple promenade through Hyde Park. Colin's interjecting with increasingly absurd ideas like bringing the horses to either choice. Gregory and Hyacinth have taken it upon themselves to act out each weekend with dramatic flair. Hyacinth pretends to be a Bridgerton sibling while Gregory neighs like a horse in a Greek tragedy. And through it all, Violet sits in her chair, valiantly attempting to read with a tea cup in her hand.
Meanwhile, Francesca remains quiet, half-listening and half-distracted until a quiet cough from a footman entering draws her attention.
"Miss. Bridgerton," he says with a polite bow. He doesn't speak loud enough for her siblings to notice, but he could even be yelling at the top of his lungs and they wouldn't remark a single word. "Lady Maneson wishes to inform you that the Earl of Kilmartin has arrived and requests an audience."
"Oh…" Francesca says, setting aside her sheet music to the coffee table in front of her. She quickly stands, smoothening her skirt and ignoring the chaos around her.
Francesca doesn't acknowledge them as they silence in her ears. She doesn't have to because she immediately chooses him—over the noise, the easy warmth of her family, over the conversation she didn't see herself a part of in the first place—all of it.
It's barely a decision in her eyes because it just feels right.
She turns to the footman with a small soft smile. "Please, let him in. Thank you, kindly."
The footman bows again and slips out of the room.
Francesca can't return to her seat. Her body is jittery yet excited. She doesn't want to return to a conversation she was barely involved in and they didn't notice. Eloise and Benedict are not competing arguments in raised voices while Gregory and Hyacinth have moved onto eating their way through the snack table. Violet's eyes flicker up to Francesca for a moment, silent but knowing.
Moments later, the door opens again and the footman steps in with a low but formal: "The Earl of Kilmartin."
John follows in quietly and gracefully, composed like a man used to entering drawing rooms full of unfamiliar and much more intimidating people. He offers a polite bow at the threshold yet nobody notices except for her.
Francesca's smile blooms as she steps closer to him.
"Would you—?" Francesca gestures slowly towards the settee at the far end of the room, far from being touched by her siblings' theatrics.
John nods gratefully and they walk together in comparative silence, weaving unnoticed through the fray to settle on the settee by the bookshelves. From there, they have a perfect view of the chaos and can still hear everything, but are still miles away, like watching a stage play from the back row.
And then it's just the two of them.
"I sure hope I wasn't interrupting anything with you and your siblings," John starts.
Francesca shakes her head. "We were merely discussing weekend plans. Or, more accurately, they were deciding what to do and I was in favour for whatever they would choose."
"What are your plans—or their plans?"
"I do not know, actually, I left the conversation when I got notice that you were here to speak with me. I shall find out by the end of calling hours, I'm sure."
John grins a little. "Miss. Bridgerton."
Francesca catches his smitten expression and tries not to blush, but that's not something in her control. "I was organizing sheet music before you arrived and now I'm speaking with you until calling hours end."
"That's very sweet. I'm happy to be able to talk to you before the Bridgerton doors close for the day. Have you received any other visitors for you?"
"Not particularly."
"Really?" His voice rises in surprise. "There are so many eligible and worthy suitors who would love to be in your company."
Francesca is taken aback. "Am I really that beautiful?"
John blinks at her, staring at her with something that lands between wonder and disbelief. Francesca tilts her head slightly, curiosity catching at her question.
"Yes!" He exclaims, yet only she hears him. "God, Miss. Francesca, you're remarkable. I'm very honoured to be by your side, looking into your eyes, and exchanging words as we walk or, at this moment, sit. Believe it or not, I fancy bragging about you."
Francesca can't help but grin at the concept. She can't picture John puffing out his chest at a gentleman's club talking about her. "Brag?"
John sighs in disbelief, a quiet sound full of affection. "Francesca, I have a lot to brag about. To other men, I've found treasure."
The hum of the Bridgerton household carries on in the background—laughter, music, something crashing—but Francesca doesn't hear any of it anymore. Not when he looks at her like that, making a comfortable beat pass by them at a soft yet charging speed.
His words catch her off guard, not because they were grand or sweeping, but simple and earnest. She can't help but just stare at him, all the teasing fading. She doesn't respond right away because she doesn't know what to say. She knows the look in her eyes are wide and stunned, like a deer who is aware of the gun pointed at it from a distance. She can barely find footing in the moment.
Something in her heart was touched and left glowing in its wake.
Francesca looks down, cheeks flushed, but her smile remains. She never tries to hide it since her emotions move so smoothly through her life wind through a willow tree.
"I think I'm very lucky too," Francesca mutters.
John lowers his head a little to try and meet her hidden eyes. "We are both very lucky."
-o-
Hyde Park is alive with the carefully curated leisure that defines the social season: ladies in pastel muslins with feathered bonnets and parasols drifting beneath the trees like petals on a breeze, gentlemen in tailored coats offering arms and empty flattery, and carriages passing slowly enough to be seen and fast enough to look unintentional.
Francesca never liked the park promenades as much as her siblings did. She always found them more performative and exhausting than relaxing.
But today's difference because she's walking with John.
She doesn't have to perform with John. She doesn't have to look at her mother for her approval nor does she want it. He never asked her to sparkle or feign delight to a crowd. He never saw the Diamond of the Season or another one of the Bridgerton girls, but only as Francesca.
Somehow, whenever they walk side-by-side, even with chaperones far enough to see them but give them privacy, she felt still. Steady. Calm. She could hear her thoughts and trust them, even share them.
John matches her stride without even thinking. He carries his hat in one hand, the other is tucked neatly behind his back, as though the idea of offering his arm crossed his mind but he talked himself out of it. The sound of gravel crunching underfoot and distant carriage wheels fill up the space between them. A breeze tugs gently at Francesca's curls, and she reaches up to steady her bonnet.
"Aside from my estate being all the way in Scotland, I would rather not live far from family," John says, glancing sideways at her with his voice calm and low.
Francesca turns to him, curious.
"Seeing how close you are with yours," John continues, "would being far from home bother you?"
"Not at all," Francesca responds, smiling in certainty.
She sees the flicker of surprise in his expression, and her heart softens towards it. John doesn't challenge her answer, but nods.
"What do you want out of life?" He asks, not like an interview but as if he really wanted to know.
Francesca pauses. Her gaze drifts towards the tree line beyond the path, where the world seems quieter—still part of society, but removed enough to breathe … to exist simply.
"I want a place," Francesca begins softly, "not terribly large but comfortably big enough for my family. I imagine it a little out of the way, somewhere peaceful. Away from all this."
Francesca gestures loosely to the promenade, to the eyes and pomp and circumstance of everyone.
"But not so far that people wonder where we've gone," she adds with a smile. "Close enough to be in the world but not consumed by it."
John remains quiet, watching her, as if he's studying every word she's said and will continue to say.
"I love my family," she finally says. "Truly. But I only began to know myself when I wasn't surrounded by them. I want to build and have something of my own. Not a grand life but a good one." Her voice dips a little, almost shyly. "And, of course, I do want to be married. But not for what it brings like convenience or expectation. I want to spend the rest of my life with someone I choose and who chooses me."
A long quiet beat passes as she looks at him, waiting for a response. Her steps slow slightly and the noise of the promenade feels distant now, muffled by the strength of her dreams. There's nothing performative of it at all as she holds his gaze. She makes no attempt to dress her feelings with wit or polish because she means it.
And then, it's quiet.
Francesca holds John's gaze as they stop in the middle of the path. She tries not to let herself imagine too much, not to wonder too deeply if she was picturing the same life as her.
"I will make sure you get all that, Francesca," he tells her, simply and with certainty.
Francesca's cheeks flush, not out of embarrassment or because of the cool breeze, but out of recognition. He didn't say that like it was a platitude or a fairytale. He wasn't offering her vague promises like a lot of the men on the market, but as a man who had seen her, heard her, and believed her vision.
He wasn't offering her anything, but telling her that the future she wanted was plausible.
-o-
The garden had been set not for an elaborate guest list, but for something simpler and more deliberate.
A white-clothed table stands beneath the shade of a blossoming dogwood tree, glanced by two chairs that far one another more than the view. A tray of tea accruements has already been arranged: delicate porcelain cups, lemon slices nestled beside the sugar, and a plate of shortbread that looked too perfect to have been made by hand.
Francesca arrived first, guided by the footman but hardly needing him since she chose this spot herself this morning. It's quiet, slightly tucked away from the house, and shielded just enough by some climbing ivy and hedge to feel private without being improper.
Birdsong fills the air as the afternoon sun hangs overhead, warm but softened by the cool breeze.
Francesca smooths her skirts as she sits, anticipation rising in a certain familiarity.
When John appears, announced softly by the rustle of footsteps on the path, Francesca's already smiling. He didn't greet her with a bow or practised compliment, just a glint in his eye and that familiar warmth in his voice as he crossed the garden.
"My mother has been constantly pestering me on when you would arrive in Scotland with me," he says, lowering himself into the seat across from her. "Now, mind you, I would never want to rush you. I want you to be ready to join me. I keep writing her to explain sentimental courtship, but she persists that I haven't been trying hard enough."
Francesca let out a quiet laugh, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. "Well, you should try harder."
John looks at her, jokingly appalled at her comment and she laughs. Truly laughs. Francesca slightly tilts her head as her laugh carries off with the breeze. She feels lighter yet emboldened. When she looks back at him, she catches him watching her, not like he was memorizing her but as if he already had.
"I enjoy hearing you laugh," John tells her earnestly. "Talking to you is such a reprieve. It's like a weight is being lifted from my shoulders."
"Are you stressed about something?" Francesca asks, pouring him some tea.
"No, no. I only say that because conversing with you feels natural, like it's something I have to do and I enjoy it."
Francesca raises a brow as she looks at him. She can tell that something is on his mind by how tense he is in his seat. "Are you sure? You can talk to me about anything that worries you cause it now worries me."
John looks at her and shakes his head. "The last thing I want is for you to be worried."
Their tea starts to cool, but neither seem to mind. The shortbread remains untouched. Francesca watches him closely and she catches the way his jaw tightens, not in anger but thought. There's something unspoken behind his eyes today.
He reaches for his cup and let it be. His fingers hover for a bit before dropping them to his lap.
"Before I came out to join you, I spoke to your mother and your brother, the Viscount," he says, low and certain.
Francesca's eyes widen, lips parting in surprise.
"I wanted their blessing," John continues, more quietly but with the same conviction as he looks into her eyes. "I told them that my true intention while courting you are to pamper you and, hopefully, build a life together." He looks at her as if she's the only person in the world. "I would like to keep this going for as long as possible."
Francesca's voice barely comes out as a breath. "This."
John nods. "This, indeed. I've been praying."
Her brows furrow in curiosity. "Are you a religious man?"
"It only makes sense. I have an angel right before me."
Francesca's breath catches in her throat. It's not just the words, though they've been beautiful, but the intention behind them. John was always so certain yet so careful with how he walked into her life, taking the time to understand her and her life before finding how to make a place for himself in it. He had gone into her home numerous times to court her, see her family as they are, and now sought out a blessing to join the Bridgerton household.
Her fingers brush the edge of her teacup's saucer. "That means more to me than you'd ever know. All of it. Thank you, my lord."
John gives a small bashful smile. His hand twitches slightly before he reaches for a handkerchief, as if he had to find something to distract him. Then, his eyes lock onto hers again.
"What if I got you a ring?"
Francesca's eyes freeze yet her cheeks instantly burn. "Are—are you asking?"
John blinks. "Apologies, Francesca, was that too forward?"
A smile curls at the edge of her lips. "No, not at all. I'm only jesting with you."
"I'm not."
And just like that, their quiet world falls more silent, yet suspended. Something unspoken settles between them, waiting to be answered yet asked at the same time.
Francesca straightens slightly, though her fondness for this man never wavers. "I trust your judgment in picking a ring. You have remarkable taste."
John doesn't take his eyes off her, his voice in a low murmur. "I do. You're a wonderful woman to court."
She flushes again, this time with more certainty than surprise. He tilts his head with a boyish grin returning.
"So," he starts again, "what ring size are you?"
Francesca arches a brow, amused. "Are you asking again? So persistent."
John raises his hand in mock defence. "Sorry!"
She lets out a soft laugh. "Do not fret. I only continue to jest with you."
A breeze full of unsaid yet understood things passes.
"So," Francesca continues a little quieter, "you will be asking."
John grins knowingly. "You'd fancy that, wouldn't you?"
Francesca doesn't hesitate. "One day."
Although nothing more was said, they both feel the truth of the love they share settle warmly: a quiet promise.