plotbunnysyndrome

[plotbunnysyndrome]

More Than Honour

Chapter 39: Everything but Regret

Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Introduction: You laughed. You spiraled. You chose sides. But deep down, you always knew it had to come to this. The bourbon. The confessions. The heartbreak that doesn’t scream — it whispers. Let’s put the triangle to rest, shall we?

You’re still tangled in Anthony’s arms, breathless and stunned. That kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t polite. It was the kind of kiss people write books about and never get over. It left your fingers trembling, your lips burning, and your entire moral compass doing backflips.

But just as he tries to pull you closer, maybe go in for another — you put your hand on his chest to stop him. Your lips still barely parted from his, your breath still uneven. Still so close your noses nearly brushed, your fingertips lingering against the curve of his jaw, unwilling to let go—but your voice, when it came, was clearer than it had been in days.

“We can’t do this… not yet.”

Anthony stilled. His hands were still braced at your waist, grounding him like he feared you’d disappear if he let go.

Your voice dropped, gentler now. “Not when there’s still so much tangled.”

For a moment, you thought he might argue. You saw it—the flash of resistance, of desperation—flare in his eyes like a match about to strike. But it passed. Slowly. With effort.

He nodded slowly.

He nodded slowly. ‘Then what do we do instead?’ The question wasn’t sharp or wounded—just open. Honest. “Because I’m not ready to let you walk away. Not yet. Not even to leave this room right now. Maybe not ever again.”

You exhaled, stepping back just enough to blink some air back into your lungs.

“You know what,” you said slowly, “I think I need a drink.”

He blinked. “A drink?”

You nodded. “Something strong. And then we’re going to talk.”

Anthony didn’t even hesitate.

He crossed to a cabinet near the far bookcase and pulled open a small hidden compartment like a man on a mission. A bottle of aged bourbon appeared, followed by two tumblers—clearly not meant for tonight. He raised the bottle, one brow arched.

You smirked. “Is that bourbon hidden in your study, or are you just always prepared for emotional crises?”

“Do you hide sarcasm in your bloodstream?” he shot back, pouring.

Touché.

He returned, offering you one glass and lowering himself to the carpet with the other like it was the most natural thing in the world. After a beat, you followed suit—sitting down on the floor beside him, your skirts pooling around you in a scandalous, crumpled mess.

“I’m never going to be able to sit in here again without picturing this exact scene,” you murmured, inspecting your drink.

Anthony took a slow sip, eyes still half-lost in you. “That’s rather the idea.”

You rolled your eyes but felt the corners of your mouth twitch. And there it was—that flicker of something old and familiar. Not the yearning or the heartbreak or the almosts that had haunted you both for weeks.

Just him. Just you. Like it used to be.

“You know,” he said after a long moment, “you’re the only person I’ve ever had a drink with on this floor.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Is that meant to be romantic or mildly concerning?”

He shrugged, taking another sip. “Bit of both.”

You tilted your head toward him. “I can’t believe you’re trying to flirt after—” you gestured vaguely between you “—all of that.”

He gave a lazy, lopsided grin. “Darling, I’ve been trying to flirt with you since you pushed me into the fountain when you were twelve.”

You stared at him.

He blinked. “Wait, was that not flirting?”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. Really laughed. The kind that cracked something open, that made your ribs ache and your heart warm all at once.

Anthony was watching you again—like he’d waited years for that sound. Maybe he had.

When your laughter finally faded, you sipped your drink again and leaned back on your hand, eyes still dancing.

“I should warn you,” you said, voice casual, “I’m still very upset with you.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” he replied. “Keeps things exciting.”

“Anthony.”

His smile softened. “I know.”

And just like that, the air shifted again—lighter, but not fragile. Real.

The ghosts of everything unsaid lingered, but for now—they could wait.

Right now, you were just two people on the floor of a Viscount’s study, nursing stolen bourbon and something a little stronger than hope.

Moments later…

The bourbon had burned at first. The kind of slow heat that curled down your throat and made your chest ache — not because of the alcohol, but because Anthony poured the first glass with trembling hands.

Now, a few drinks in, the burn had dulled. Your legs were tucked beneath you on the carpet, the hem of your dress fanned out around you like a misplaced debutante, while Anthony lounged beside the fireplace, collar undone, waistcoat off, cheeks pink.

It felt... weirdly normal.

“I still cannot believe we’re just sitting here,” you murmured, tipping your glass slightly toward him. “Like we didn’t just—”

“Kiss like the world was ending?” Anthony offered dryly, smirking.

You threw him a flat look. “I was going to say blow up our entire lives, but sure. Let’s go with that.”

He chuckled, tipping his head back against the wall. “I don’t suppose you have any thoughts on what we do next?”

“Oh, plenty,” you said. “But most of them involve running away to a foreign country and changing our names.”

Anthony grinned — an unguarded, youthful grin you hadn’t seen in years. “And leave the Bridgertons behind? Gregory would start a revolution.”

You snorted into your drink. “Gregory would follow us with a wooden sword and a three-act monologue.”

“And Hyacinth would write a scathing pamphlet about betrayal.”

“Eloise would edit it,” you added helpfully. “Then publish it under a pseudonym while pretending to be outraged.”

Anthony laughed so hard he choked on his drink. “God, she would.”

There was a lull. Comfortable. Soft.

“I think Benedict might actually be relieved,” you said after a moment. “He’s been giving us those smug little glances for weeks now.”

Anthony groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “He has no right to look that smug when his idea of flirting is throwing paint at women.”

You grinned. “And Colin?”

Anthony blinked. “Colin will pretend he’s shocked. Then make three inappropriate jokes and tell everyone he always knew.”

You tipped your head toward him, arching a brow. “Violet?”

The grin slipped a little. He swallowed. “She’ll say she’s happy. Then cry. Then say she’s fine. And cry again.”

“And Daphne?”

He didn’t answer right away. Then: “She’ll smile. That terrifying Duchess smile that means she’s already planning a wedding. And then she’ll go tell Simon.”

“And Simon?”

Anthony narrowed his eyes. “Simon will say nothing. Just raise an eyebrow like he knows every sordid detail. Which he won’t. And never will.”

You snickered. “Sure, Anthony.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. Warm and a little lost. “What about Francesca?”

You softened. “She’s in Bath, but she’ll write a letter. Something short. Just enough to make us cry.”

Anthony hummed, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “You’ve always known how this family works.”

You took a sip. “I did grow up in this house.”

Another pause. A quieter one.

“About my conversation with Edwina today…”

Your hand froze mid-sip. The moment twisted slightly.

Anthony didn’t look at you. He was staring into his glass like it held answers. “I never meant to hurt her,” he said quietly. “I truly believed she was the right choice. The… safe choice.”

“And I was the dangerous one?” you asked, a bitter edge curling into your voice.

He turned to you, eyes wide. “No. No, never that. You were the real choice. And that terrified me.”

You looked down at your lap. “She’s a good woman.”

“I know.”

“She deserved more.”

“I know.” His voice cracked. “I told her that.”

You nodded, lips pressed tightly together.

“Lucien deserves better, too,” you say quietly.

Anthony’s chest twisted, but he didn't say anything.

“He makes me laugh,” you said. “Not just in passing — really laugh. In that way you forget you’re hurting.”

Anthony stared.

“He never asked me to explain myself. Never made me feel like a puzzle he needed to solve. And when I was around him… I didn’t feel like I was holding my breath.”

Anthony’s throat bobbed. “He’s a good man.”

You nodded. “One of the best.”

There was a silence. Not heavy — not yet.

And then Anthony said it. Like it had just occurred to him:

“Oh wait! Lucien already knows.”

You blinked. “I’m sorry — what?”

Anthony winced. “I may have… told him. At Aubrey Hall.”

Your mouth dropped open. “You what??”

He shrugged helplessly, looking both sheepish and defensive. “He confronted me. Said he could see it written all over my face, and that I should not waste time hiding my feelings for you. He knew, alright? He said that he would step aside if you chose me. And then he thanked me — like a lunatic — for letting him know he had real competition.”

Your face twisted. “You two had an entire moment without me??”

“I wouldn’t call it a moment—”

“You shared feelings and secrets! That is peak best friend behavior!”

Anthony groaned, burying his face in his hands. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re apparently in a bromance with my almost suitor.”

Anthony looked up, cheeks flushed. “Lucien was the only one who actually understood what it was like to be hopelessly — pathetically — enamored with you.”

You stared.

He blinked. “I didn’t mean— I mean, I did, but—”

You burst out laughing. A deep, ridiculous, drunken laugh that sent your head tilting back and your stomach clenching.

Anthony laughed too. Helplessly.

And in that moment — half drunk, the bottle of bourbon much emptier than either of you remembered, wildly in love, and sitting on the carpet like children pretending nothing else existed — it didn’t matter how much had been broken before.

You were putting it back together now.

Anthony was watching you now.

That look again.

The one that felt like gravity.

He leaned in, lazy and warm, his voice a low rumble just above your ear. “So... is this the part where I get to kiss you again?”

You turned to him—eyes still dancing with leftover laughter, but softer now.

“No.”

He blinked. “No?”

You raised a brow. “Not yet.”

He gave you a look that could only be described as betrayed. “But why?”

“Because,” you said, and to your credit, your tone was almost serious, “Lucien still deserves to hear it from me.”

Anthony let out a breath through his nose and dropped his head back with a groan. “Ugh, why are you such a good person?!”

You tilted your head dramatically. “Would you rather I wasn’t?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation, dragging a hand through his hair. “Just for tonight. Just so I don’t have to wait.”

He leaned toward you again, slower this time—more pleading than seductive.

You put a hand on his chest, firm but fond. “Nope.”

He pouted. Actually pouted. “But I don’t want to wait to kiss you.”

“Well,” you said, tapping your chin as if deep in thought, “we could go tell him now.”

Anthony straightened. “Now?”

“Now.”

“It’s—” he looked at the window. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“Yes,” you said, as if that fact were entirely irrelevant. “But you’re not going to stop trying to kiss me, and I’m not going to let you unless this is settled. So… logically speaking—”

“Oh god, not logic.”

“—we should just go and tell Lucien right now.”

Anthony squinted at you. “You’re drunk.”

“So are you.”

He grinned. “Perfect. Let’s do it.”

You stared. “Wait—really?”

“Absolutely. Let’s go.”

“You’re not going to talk me out of this?”

He stood up, wobbled slightly, and offered you his hand with all the confidence of a man who had absolutely no business walking in a straight line. “The sooner you tell him, the sooner I get to kiss you. I’m invested in the timeline.”

You laughed as he hauled you to your feet, the two of you swaying together in a bubble of giddy, half-buzzed logic.

“Okay,” you said, heart hammering. “Let’s go confess to the most dramatic man we know.”

Anthony smirked. “Oh, he’s going to love this.”

And with that, the two of you stumbled out of the study and into the night—drunk on bourbon, bold on love, and very much unprepared for whatever chaos awaited you at Lord Blackbourne’s doorstep.

A short carriage ride later…

The door to Lord Blackbourne’s townhouse opened with a slow, deliberate creak — one that might as well have been signaling the arrival of an impending storm. Midnight had never felt quite so... theatrical.

Lucien blinked once, his face a portrait of elegant indifference as he took in the scene before him: Anthony Bridgerton, looking like he'd just fought an army of drunken demons, standing on his doorstep with that signature grin — all flushed, disheveled, and far too pleased with himself for the state he was in.

And then, there was you. Equally tipsy, a little unsteady on your feet — but the smug glint in your eyes was impossible to miss. Like you had just pulled off some great victory.

Lucien raised a brow, his robe casually tied at his waist. The kind of elegance that could only come with hours of practice in not giving a damn.

“Well,” he drawled, his voice smooth, “If it isn’t chaos incarnate... And her escort.”

You shifted your weight, eyeing him as you crossed your arms. “Lucien.”

Anthony, swaying slightly, took the liberty of answering before you could go on. “She insisted. Wouldn’t even let me kiss her again until—”

“He said you knew,”  you cut in, voice cool and edged with accusation as you looked at Lucien. “About him. About the fact that he's been in love with me.”

Lucien blinked, slow and deliberate this time, taking in the confession as if it were nothing more than another piece of gossip. “Did he now?”

“You didn’t tell me,” you continued, holding his gaze. “Which, by the way, is betrayal.”

Lucien sighed, as though he was summoning patience from the very air around him. Then, with a languid grace, he stepped aside, opening the door wide enough to let both of you through.

“By all means, come in and accuse me on plush carpets instead of the street. Wouldn’t want the neighbors thinking I’m the scandal of the hour.”

Anthony barely managed to make it past him before collapsing onto the chaise, groaning like he'd just been run through with a sword. You followed, a little too dignified for someone clearly in the same state of tipsy disarray.

Lucien shut the door behind you and turned, his arms folding with practiced ease as he regarded you both. The silence was thick, but there was a small, subtle shift in his gaze when it landed on you. Something that felt less like judgment and more like quiet understanding.

You softened slightly, the facade of indignation slipping as you faced him. “I didn’t want you to hear it from a gossip column. Or the ton. Or,”—you waved vaguely at Anthony, who was still struggling with his cravat as if it had become a personal enemy—“that.”

Lucien studied you, taking in the way your eyes flickered from Anthony back to him. There was a light there, a glow that hadn’t been there before. A certainty. You weren’t waiting anymore.

You had chosen.

Lucien exhaled, leaning against the doorframe with a long, drawn-out breath. “Something to drink?”

Both of you answered in unison, your voices betraying how much of the evening had already been drowned in alcohol. “No more.”

He smirked, eyes flickering with that familiar, sharp amusement. “Cowards.”

You took a half-step closer, your voice a little quieter now. “I’m sorry.”

Lucien let the silence linger a moment longer, his gaze shifting from you to Anthony. The latter had somehow managed to unbutton his waistcoat and now lay back on the chaise, looking up at the ceiling like it held the answers to life itself.

Lucien’s throat tightened. He should be devastated. Should feel the world tipping sideways beneath him.

But how could he?

Look at you. Look at how happy you were.

Lucien exhaled deeply. “So, the Viscount finally got there.”

Anthony made a small noise of acknowledgment, still swaying slightly as he propped himself up on one elbow. “Took me long enough.”

Lucien raised a brow. “And here I thought I was your competition. Turns out I was your confessor.”

Anthony winced, a bit sheepish. “You were... better than I deserved.”

Lucien’s gaze flickered to you, watching the way you both exchanged that look — the one that said everything needed to be said in a single glance. “He’s a fool, you know.”

You grinned. “I’ve always known.”

Lucien chuckled under his breath, but there was a quiet ache in his chest. Not jealousy. Just a dull ache for the road not taken.

He should have been angry. But how could he be, when you were radiating this happiness, so certain of what you wanted?

He straightened with a sigh. “I should get you both home before this turns into a scandal worthy of column ink.”

You blinked. “You’re taking us?”

Lucien glanced over at Anthony, who was currently wrestling with his cravat like it was a personal vendetta. Lucien’s tone was dry, his expression unchanging. “Would you trust him to?”

You sighed, resigned. “Fair enough.”

With a small huff, Lucien went for his coat, adjusting it with a nonchalance that belied the way his chest felt heavier now, weighed down by this undeniable truth.

Back at the Bridgerton Estate…

The door swung open, and the poor maid who answered blinked like she wasn’t entirely sure if she was awake or dreaming.

In front of her stood Lord Blackbourne — coat slightly rumpled, expression unreadable — flanked by two disasters masquerading as nobility.

“Would you be so kind,” Lucien said gently, “as to fetch Benedict? I fear the Viscount and Lady Y/N are one spilled drink away from dueling the carpet.”

Behind him, Anthony attempted to hang his coat on the rack. Missed. Tried again. Missed worse. Then whispered something to it like it had betrayed him.

You were leaning against Lucien’s arm with the kind of wide-eyed affection that only came from half a bottle of bourbon and a full-hearted confession. “You smell like expensive sadness.”

Lucien snorted. “It’s bergamot, actually.”

Anthony reached out and patted Lucien’s shoulder like he was knighting him. “You’re a saint. Possibly a prophet. Definitely too good for this world.”

Lucien looked between the two of you and sighed. “Please stop complimenting me. It’s making the heartbreak confusing.”

You gasped, smacking his chest lightly. “You are not heartbroken. You are a glorious marble statue of emotional maturity.”

Anthony nodded sagely. “You’re the best man I’ve ever met.”

Lucien glanced toward the ceiling. “And yet you chose him. Curious.”

You grinned. “I’m clearly a woman of contradictions.”

The maid reappeared, wide-eyed, with Benedict trailing behind her in a robe — looking for all the world like he’d just walked into a fever dream.

He took in the scene: Anthony swaying, your head on Lucien’s shoulder, Lucien holding you up like it was just another Thursday.

Benedict blinked. “How… how did this happen?”

Lucien raised his hand like he was delivering the punchline of a joke. “She picked Anthony.”

Anthony raised both arms in victory. “It’s me. I’m the Anthony.”

You beamed. “And I love him.”

Lucien placed a hand over his heart. “Tragic, isn’t it?”

Benedict looked vaguely delighted. “Honestly? It tracks.”

Lucien nodded solemnly. “Don’t worry, I’ve already called for the violins and drafted my tragic poetry. Act II begins tomorrow.”

You poked him in the side. “You love us.”

Lucien smiled softly. “Unfortunately, I do.”

Benedict clapped his hands. “Alright, romantic gremlins. I’ll take disaster number one.” He nodded toward Anthony. “You,” he said, pointing at Lucien, “get her to bed. Try not to let her flirt with the wallpaper.”

“She flirted with the bannister earlier,” Lucien said thoughtfully. “Said it had excellent posture.”

You pouted. “Don’t betray my secrets.”

Lucien rolled his eyes but adjusted his grip on your waist. “Come on, heartbreak. Let’s get you off the battlefield.”

Benedict was already guiding Anthony away, the Viscount mumbling something about duels and destiny.

Lucien looked at you one more time — your flushed cheeks, your wild grin, the soft gleam of certainty in your eyes.

He was hurting.

But more than that, he was proud.

You were happy.

And somehow, even this ache felt worth it.

Upstairs—Your bedroom…

Lucien opened the door gently, like he might wake something sacred. You were still leaning against him, sleepy now, the edges of your smile blurring under the weight of bourbon and everything that had come after it.

He guided you to the bed without a word — helped you sit, pulled the blanket up over your legs, smoothed the covers with the kind of quiet care that asked for no recognition.

And then he turned to leave.

“Lucien…”

His hand paused on the doorframe.

You swallowed. “All jokes aside, you really are a better man than I deserve. Truly. I am very fond of you, and I would have grown to be in love with you with time. But Anthony—”

“—You’re in love with him now,” Lucien finished, turning back to face you.

His voice was steady. Warm. But underneath, it trembled with something close to reverence.

“I get it. I’m not cross with you over this, angel. I knew that you had fallen for Anthony. I only wanted to give you a soft landing in case he wasn’t there to catch you.”

Your brows lifted slightly. “You knew?”

Lucien’s mouth curved, not into a smirk, but something quieter. “I may be a scoundrel, but I’ve always been good at reading what’s never said aloud. The way you looked at him? That was never mine to touch.”

He stepped forward, just enough for the firelight to catch the edge of his expression — wistful, but not wounded.

“But someone had to push him.”

You didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

Not for a moment.

Then—

“I told myself it was a game,” Lucien said quietly. “That I could handle losing. That I was clever enough to love you in the shadows without it costing anything real.”

Another beat of silence.

“I was wrong.” His voice dipped. “And knowing how it ends—I’d still do it again.”

Your throat tightened.

But no words came.

Lucien smiled then — not with his usual flair or mischief, but with a gentleness that was almost painful.

“Do you know what I envy most about him?” he asked softly. “He gets to stay.”

Your eyes lifted to meet his. “Then why did you—?”

“Because he needed to see it,” Lucien replied. “Because you needed to see it.”

There was a flicker of something more familiar now — that signature spark that never quite left him, even in moments like this.

“And, if I am to be honest,” he added, tone dry, “I do enjoy making your dear Viscount absolutely miserable.”

A breath of laughter escaped you before you could stop it.

“You are insufferable,” you muttered.

Lucien’s smile widened. “That I will not deny.”

Another pause.

But it was a warm one this time. Full of everything that wasn’t lost.

“I do not wish to lose you,” you said quietly. “As a friend. You have become very important to me.”

Lucien straightened slightly, like the weight of those words deserved good posture.

“Then you shall not!”

You blinked. A little surprised.

He tilted his head. “Did you think I would cast you aside?”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t need to.

A slow, knowing smile curved at the corner of his mouth. He stepped closer, reached forward—not to take your hand, but to brush his fingers lightly against yours.

The touch was fleeting.

But it was real.

And it held the weight of everything he wasn’t saying.

“You forget, angel,” Lucien said softly. “I am not Anthony Bridgerton.”

The words hung in the air — mischief and melancholy balanced delicately between them. A reminder. A farewell. A promise.

He moved back toward the door, hand resting on the frame once more.

Then—gently, like a lullaby:

“Now go to sleep. Sweet dreams, angel.”

And with that, he left.

The door clicked shut behind him.

And for a long moment, you just sat there — blanket tucked around you, fingertips still tingling from his touch, heart full of things that would never be spoken again.

Out in the hallway…

Lucien stood there for a second. Breathing. Collecting himself.

Then he turned.

And found Benedict Bridgerton leaning against the wall a few paces away, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

Lucien arched a brow. “Were you lurking?”

“I prefer the term loitering with purpose.”

Lucien huffed out a breath — something like amusement, something like exhaustion.

“She asleep?” Benedict asked.

“Eventually,” Lucien said. “She tried to argue with the blanket, so I assumed the night had peaked.”

Benedict smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re taking this well.”

Lucien’s gaze dropped, just for a moment. “Am I?”

Benedict pushed off the wall, stepping closer. “You don’t have to lie. Not to me. I have been watching the three of you since all of this started.”

Lucien looked at him then — really looked.

And for once, didn’t dodge the truth.

“I’m not angry,” he said, voice quieter now. “And I’m not surprised. But it hurts more than I thought it would.”

Benedict nodded slowly. “I know.”

Lucien let out a slow exhale, hands tucked into his coat pockets. “The thing is… I never expected to win her. Not really. But for a while, I got to imagine what it would feel like. To be the one she looked at that way.”

“And now?” Benedict asked.

Lucien smiled, soft and crooked. “Now I get to let her go.”

A silence stretched between them. Comfortable. Sad.

“She loves you,” Benedict said eventually. “Not the same way. But she does.”

Lucien nodded once. “I know.”

“And Anthony?”

Lucien rolled his eyes. “Is going to ruin everything by waking up tomorrow and trying to be noble again.”

Benedict snorted. “God, I hope not.”

Lucien tilted his head, something flickering in his expression. “The real chaos begins when the rest of the family finds out.”

Benedict groaned. “Eloise alone could start a mutiny.”

“And Hyacinth will charge interest.”

Benedict grinned. “Are you staying for the fallout?”

Lucien smirked. “Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Author's Note:

Now, for those of you rooting for Lucien — and asking (begging) for a Lucien x Reader — I hear you. Loud and clear. Honestly, I never expected him to get this much love, and I want to take the time to make sure his story is told right.

That being said, I already had a Lucien spin-off idea in the works — one that continues his journey in this universe. It wasn’t originally planned as a prequel, but now… it just might be.

So if you’ve been waiting to see more of him, trust me: you will. Just not all at once. And not without giving him the arc he deserves.

I really hope you can trust my vision for this — and thank you, truly, for loving him the way you have. 🤍

Taglist: @bollzinurmouth @drewstarkeysrightarm @thorins-queen-of-erebor @yearninglustfully @khaleesibeach @ifilwtmfc

[plotbunnysyndrome]

More Than Honour

Chapter 38: It's Not Too Late

Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Introduction: (Read this like the start of 'The Greatest Showman) Woaaaaaah...Ladies and gents, this is the moment you've waited for...😏

Author's Note: I know it’s been a while. Almost a month, in fact. Life got busy, this chapter was intense, and honestly, I didn’t want to post it until it felt worth the wait. So, if you reread the story from the start while waiting — this one’s for you. 💌

I poured everything into this chapter. And I’m so grateful you stayed. Thank you for loving this story — and these characters — enough to come back when it mattered most.

Now go scream. I’ll be right there with you. 😌❤️

Two days had passed since Aubrey Hall — since the waltz, since the silence, since the weight of a hundred unspoken things had been packed away into trunks and tucked behind polite farewells. 

And yet, somehow, it still clung to the air.

The Bridgerton town estate had returned to its usual rhythm — maids polishing silver, butlers coordinating calling cards, footmen opening doors just before the knock — but the pulse of the house had shifted. It beat slower. Or maybe faster. Or maybe… just differently.

The morning sun spilled in golden slants through the breakfast room windows, warming the long table that had hosted meals, arguments, and announcements. The scent of buttered toast, marmalade, and fresh coffee filled the room — but so did something else.

A tension.

Soft. Subtle.

But unmistakable.

You were already seated when Anthony entered.

You didn’t look up.

Neither did he.

But every other Bridgerton in the room noticed.

Violet was seated at the head of the table, her teacup poised in midair as she tracked the non-interaction with a precision honed by years of motherhood. She said nothing — merely raised a brow and took a measured sip.

Benedict, across from you, watched Anthony settle into his seat like one might watch a fox enter a henhouse — with casual amusement and a hint of mischief.

Colin, beside him, looked between the two of you and then narrowed his eyes in mock suspicion, as though mentally rearranging puzzle pieces he didn’t yet have.

Gregory was already piling eggs onto his plate like nothing in the world mattered more than cholesterol.

Hyacinth had clocked the energy the second Anthony walked in. She said nothing. But her elbow on the table was angled just enough to let her chin rest on her fist as she observed.

And Eloise — dear, feral, chaotic Eloise — broke the silence like it owed her money.

“Well. This is fun,” she said brightly, slicing into her scone like it owed her money. “Who died?”

“Must we always start breakfast with a murder accusation?” Colin asked, reaching for the butter.

“Would you rather we ease in with a scandal?” she replied sweetly.

Violet cleared her throat with a matriarchal elegance that immediately silenced the room. “I believe I requested one morning — just one — where scandal is not served with breakfast.”

As if summoned by irony itself, the butler entered at that exact moment with a silver tray.

And on it — the crisp fold of Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers.

The entire table straightened like puppets on strings.

Violet groaned under her breath. “Oh for heaven’s sake.”

Colin perked up. “Is that…?”

“Lady Whistledown,” the butler confirmed, delivering it into Violet’s reluctant hands like a weapon disguised in fine linen.

“I hate her,” Eloise muttered automatically.

“She’s the best part of my week,” Hyacinth said at the same time.

Gregory leaned forward, eyebrows wiggling. “Is it a good one?”

Violet didn’t respond immediately. She opened the sheet with practiced dread, scanning the front until her brow furrowed.

Then rose.

Then furrowed again.

Benedict leaned in. “On a scale from ‘genteel disappointment’ to ‘Eloise accidentally set the parlor curtains on fire,’ how bad is it?”

“Shall I read aloud?”

Anthony cleared his throat. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hyacinth chimed. “We’d have to wait for Gregory to sound out the big words.”

“I can read just fine,” Gregory huffed, though he did glance sideways like the letters might rearrange themselves in protest.

Violet cleared her throat delicately. “If I may…”

And then, with all the decorum of a general announcing wartime strategy, she began:

“Dearest Gentle Reader,

The Hearts and Flowers Ball was intended to bloom with predictability — a garden of eligible matches and perfectly rehearsed waltzes. But it seems the ton’s favorite pastime — speculation — has once again borne unexpected fruit.

While all eyes were meant to rest upon the diamond of the season, one could not help but notice that the Viscount’s attentions wandered… repeatedly. His eyes, his posture, even his dance steps seemed to follow a different rhythm — one that led him not to the season’s brightest debutante… but to a familiar face the ton has long dismissed as merely a friend of the family.

And when said lady left the Viscount mid-waltz — yes, dear reader, mid-waltz — the room did not gasp so much as hold its breath.

So I pose the question: is the Bridgerton courtship we were all anticipating not quite the one unfolding before our eyes? Or has the Viscount, for the first time in his life, allowed his heart to stray from the script?”

Violet lowered the paper slowly.

Silence.

Benedict blinked. “Well.”

Colin coughed pointedly.

Gregory whispered, “Mid-waltz?” like he was trying not to be impressed.

Hyacinth let out a low whistle. “At least when I cause a scene, it involves paint.”

Eloise leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Do tell — was it a dramatic exit or a polite one? Because I need to update my internal ranking of ballroom scandals.”

“I would like,” Anthony said slowly, voice calm and clipped, “to eat my breakfast without commentary.”

“Oh, that ship has sailed,” Benedict said cheerfully. “And crashed. And burst into flames.”

You didn’t speak.

You hadn’t touched your toast.

Anthony hadn’t touched his coffee.

The silence between you was not loud.

It was precise.

Eloise, never one to let a moment go unpunctuated, twisted her expression into mock-thought. “Technically, though… dropping a dance partner mid-waltz does qualify you for something.”

You looked up — just barely — and met her eyes.

She grinned.

Benedict took a slow, theatrical sip of tea and set the cup down with solemn finality. “Never have I ever,” he intoned, “dropped a dance partner mid-waltz.”

A beat.

Then he looked directly at you and raised his eyebrows. “I believe it’s your turn to drink.”

The table snorted.

Even Violet pressed a hand to her mouth to hide a smile.

But you… you didn’t laugh.

Not this time.

You reached for your water glass. Lifted it.

Took a sip.

And set it down.

No one teased you for it.

Because the joke had landed.

But the silence after it? Said everything.

Anthony didn’t look at you.

And you didn’t look at him.

But your hands curled against the edge of the table.

Tension pressed against your spine like a second corset.

The table began to recover — slowly, unevenly — falling back into casual chatter as Violet passed the marmalade and Gregory asked if anyone had seen his cravat from last night. Benedict and Colin resumed whispering about the line in Whistledown’s column, trying to deduce how long the ton had been watching Anthony’s eyes instead of his actions.

But your thoughts had already splintered.

Because even as the laughter resumed and the tension tried to ebb…

You weren’t listening anymore.

You were staring at the paper.

At the words.

His eyes, his posture, even his dance steps seemed to follow a different rhythm…

That wasn’t gossip.

That was precision.

Someone had seen it — all of it. Someone who had noticed every beat of that waltz, every crack in your voice, every moment your body betrayed the chaos inside.

And someone had published it.

Any doubts you had before about the identity of Lady Whistledown turned into confirmation.

You folded the paper carefully — too carefully — as if the controlled motion could disguise the rage beginning to build at the base of your throat.

Across the table, Eloise raised an eyebrow. “You look like you’re trying not to throw that paper into the fireplace.”

You didn’t answer.

Because your mind had already crossed the street.

To a house with yellow curtains and a girl who always had ink smudged on her fingers.

You would go there later today.

Because if Penelope Featherington thought she could publish your pain without consequence?

Then she had sorely misjudged the kind of woman she was writing about.

A while later…

The afternoon light slanted through the window of the Featherington drawing room, casting golden streaks across the floor. The house was unusually quiet—Portia and the girls were out, leaving only Penelope, curled up in her usual chair by the window, a book resting in her lap.

She did not startle when you entered, but you caught the slight tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers curled ever so slightly against the pages. She had been expecting you.

You closed the door behind you with the softest click.

The silence stretched. Heavy. Knowing.

You crossed the room slowly, letting each step carry its own echo, letting her feel the weight of it. A cup of tea sat untouched on the table beside her, the liquid long gone cold. She had been waiting in her own sort of purgatory, hadn’t she?

Finally, she spoke, her voice carefully light. 

“I thought you might visit.”

You hummed, settling onto the settee across from her. 

“Did you?”

Your tone was calm. Not cold—but not kind either. She looked down at her book, running a finger along the worn edge.

“I suppose I should be grateful you are not already throwing accusations.”

“I do not need to throw accusations, Penelope,” you said, voice low. “We both know why I’m here.”

Her throat bobbed in a swallow. “I have always written the truth.”

You gave a bitter little laugh, quiet and sharp.

“Truth,” you repeated. “Is not just what one observes. Nor what one chooses to say. It’s what one dares to leave unsaid.”

She flinched. Just slightly. But it was enough.

Your voice softened—dangerously. “Why did you write about me that way?”

Her fingers clenched around the book. “Because… because I had to.”

“No.”

You leaned forward, elbows resting on your knees. “You chose to.”

She let out a shaky breath, closing her eyes for a moment before meeting your gaze again. There was something raw there, something breaking. “If I didn’t… people would suspect. If I ignored it, they’d wonder why. They’d ask questions. And then… then the mask would slip.”

The mask. 

You exhaled, understanding beginning to root itself—heavy and bitter.

“You think to protect yourself by throwing ink upon others,” you murmured. “But did you consider what it might do to me? What it might do to–”

Your voice faltered. You could not say his name. Not now.

Penelope looked down, shame flickering across her face. “I did not intend to harm you.”

“But you did.” 

The words landed like a blade—clean, final.

She swallowed hard, gripping the book in her lap as if it might keep her upright. “You can’t tell anyone.”

There it was. 

The fear. 

You studied her—the friend you had trusted, the girl who had hidden behind paper and power and played puppeteer to an entire city.

And then, softly, you said, “Then tell me the truth. All of it.”

The silence thickened.

Penelope’s fingers twisted into the fabric of her dress, her knuckles white. You could see the war behind her eyes—shame, pride, fear, the deep, impossible loneliness of someone who’d hidden too well for too long.

And finally—

“I am Lady Whistledown.”

The words were quiet.

But they detonated.

You leaned back slightly, exhaling as the truth settled over you like dust.

She gave a hollow laugh, shaking her head. “At first, it was harmless—gossip no one would miss. But then…it grew. And people listened.”

“And so you made them listen,” you murmured. “You created a voice in a world that would never have given you one.”

She nodded. “I had nothing else. No title. No dowry. No place. But with my words, I had power.”

You nodded slowly, eyes never leaving hers.

“And yet you used that power against me.”

She flinched. “I told myself it was the only way to keep suspicion away. If I ignored your involvement, people would question why. But that is no excuse.” Her voice broke. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

You stayed silent, your gaze locked on her.

A part of you had wanted to be furious, to demand why she had not spared you, why she had thrown your name into the storm. But looking at her now—her hands trembling in her lap, her lips pressed together as if bracing for your rejection—you understood.

She had not done it out of malice.

She had done it because she was afraid.

“I should hate you,” you said quietly.

Her eyes glistened, but she nodded, as if she, too, believed she deserved it.

“But I don’t,” you continued.

And she broke.

The breath she had been holding came out in a choked sound, and she turned her face away, pressing a hand to her lips. Relief and guilt warred in her expression, the weight of years spent hiding finally catching up to her.

“I won’t tell anyone,” you said, voice steady now.

Her eyes snapped to yours, disbelief flashing through them. “You won’t?”

“I should. I could.”

Penelope waited, not breathing.

“But you’re my friend, Pen,” you continued, softer this time. “And I understand what fear can make a girl do.”

A tear slipped down her cheek, and she let out a shaky breath, laughing weakly. “You always were too clever for your own good.”

You smirked, though the ache in your chest had not yet faded. “And you were too reckless for yours.”

She let out a breath, wiping at her eyes. “What now?”

Now, you held her secret in your hands. A secret that could shatter the very foundation of the ton.

But for now, you would keep it.

You rose from your seat, smoothing the fabric of your dress. “Now…you fix what you broke.”

Penelope blinked, her brow furrowing.

“I do not ask for retractions,” you said. “But I will not allow you to wield your pen carelessly where I am concerned.”

She nodded quickly. “I swear it.”

A beat of silence, then—

“Will you ever forgive me?” Her voice was small, uncertain.

You studied her, this girl who had built herself from ink and paper, and exhaled slowly.

“Perhaps,” you said, soft but firm, stepping toward the door. “But not yet.”

And then you left—your back straight, your pace sure—even as your heart pounded beneath your ribs like a drum that would not settle.

Behind you, Penelope sat in silence, drowning in the confession she could never take back.

At the same time—Across the street…

The afternoon sun filtered through the windows of Bridgerton House with a deceptive softness, gilding the edges of the furniture in a quiet that felt anything but peaceful.

The drawing room was still.

Not silent — the clock on the mantle ticked on, and somewhere in the house a door clicked shut — but still, in the way only a sunlit room could be when it was waiting for something to break.

Anthony stood by the window, spine straight, gaze unfocused. He hadn’t meant to linger there. He’d come in for a moment of quiet, perhaps a drink, perhaps a breath, but the air tasted stale in his lungs. 

The morning’s column sat folded on the low table behind him. Unread, technically—but only because he hadn't needed to.

He already knew what it said.

He already knew what it meant.

The door creaked open behind him. Soft footsteps. Deliberate.

He didn’t turn.

"Lord Bridgerton."

Edwina’s voice was quieter than he’d expected. Composed. Like she had practiced it on the walk over.

He stiffened, and slowly pivoted, facing her fully. She stood just inside the doorway, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, the lavender hue of her gown soft against the stark tension in her posture. Her eyes found his, and they did not waver.

“May I speak with you?” she asked quietly.

Anthony nodded. “Of course.”

She stepped into the room — not tentatively, but carefully, as though she knew something sacred was about to splinter. She did not sit. Neither did he.

A long moment passed.

Then she drew a breath.

“Is it true?”

He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

She tilted her head slightly, a strand of hair coming loose from her braid. “Whistledown. This morning. About your courtship. About…” She exhaled. “About me not being the only option you’ve considered.”

Anthony closed his eyes for half a second. It was just enough to feel the weight settle deeper into his chest.

“I never meant to—”

“Is it true?” she repeated, voice sharper now.

He couldn’t lie. Not now. Not anymore.

“Yes.”

A silence stretched. Then: “Is it Y/N?”

Her voice barely wavered on your name, but he still heard it—how it lodged like something bitter at the back of her throat.

He said nothing.

But his head dipped. Just slightly. Just enough.

And that was all it took.

Edwina laughed.

It wasn’t amused.

“Of course,” she said softly. “I always suspected. Or maybe I just refused to look at it clearly. I thought I was imagining it. That maybe I was insecure, or paranoid. But the way you looked at her… Anthony, I saw it. Everyone did.”

“Edwina—”

“You let me believe,” she cut in. “You let me believe I mattered. That I was being courted. And all the while—what? You were just waiting for her to look at you the way you looked at her?”

His stomach twisted.

“It wasn’t like that.”

“No?” she asked, eyes shining now. “Then tell me what it was like, my lord. Because I seem to have missed the chapter where I was something more than… than an obligation.”

Anthony stepped forward, voice low, desperate. “I thought you were the right match. I thought we would suit. And I told myself that was enough. That it should be enough.”

“But it wasn’t,” she whispered. “Because your heart was never mine.”

His throat closed around the truth.

“I spent the whole week at Aubrey Hall waiting,” she said, and now the tears came. Quiet, dignified tears. “I kept telling myself that something was wrong with me. That if I smiled more, spoke less, wore something new… maybe then you'd stop hesitating. But I know now—” her voice cracked, “—you were never hesitating. You just weren’t looking at me at all.”

Anthony felt something collapse inside his chest.

“I replayed every moment,” Edwina said, quieter now. “Every time your eyes wandered across the room. Every time you spoke with me but listened for someone else’s voice. And I told myself not to be foolish. That you were honourable. That you would not string someone along if your heart belonged to another.”

“I didn’t know,” he said, voice barely audible.

“You did know,” she snapped — and finally, the tears fell. Slow. Furious.

“Maybe I did,” he said, voice low and unraveling. “Maybe I just didn’t want to admit it to myself. Because it was easier to convince myself that logic made a good match. Easier to hold onto what I thought I should do, than risk what I felt.”

Edwina exhaled slowly, looking at him now with something closer to sorrow than anger.

“You know what hurts the most?” she whispered. “I think I could have forgiven the indecision. The misstep. But what I can’t forgive is that you knew you were hurting both of us. And you kept going.”

He didn’t argue.

He didn’t defend.

There was nothing to say.

Then—quietly, almost as if it were an afterthought—Edwina said, “She has someone, you know. Lord Blackbourne.”

Anthony blinked.

“He looks at her the way I wanted to be looked at. Like she’s the beginning and end of every sentence. Like he’s grateful just to be near her.” Her voice shook again. “And he doesn’t hesitate. Not once.”

Anthony’s stomach twisted.

“I hope,” Edwina continued, her tone firm now, “that if you truly love her… you give her the courtesy of not wasting time. Like you did with me.”

A silence settled between them. This one final. Clean.

Edwina stepped back, wiping at her cheek with the edge of her sleeve.

“I wish you both happiness,” she said, and she meant it. It was the kindest wound he had ever received.

Then she turned and walked out, her footsteps quiet, her back unshaking.

Anthony didn’t move.

Couldn’t move.

He stood there alone in the drawing room, with sunlight glancing off the edges of the mantle and the words of the man he had been compared to ringing in his ears.

She’s looking for you, you know. Even when she’s not.

And for once, Anthony Bridgerton didn’t know how to follow.

He only knew that he had to.

Later that day…

You were alone again—curled into a corner of the Bridgerton library, knees drawn close, spine pressing into the carved wood of the settee. The air still carried the crisp chill of early evening, though golden light stretched lazily through the tall windows, turning dust motes into suspended stars.

Everything felt quieter after the day’s whirlwind.

Too quiet.

A soft creak of hinges interrupted the stillness.

You didn’t look up until footsteps—familiar, hesitant—tapped toward you on the rug.

“Can I sit with you?”

Hyacinth’s voice was gentler than usual, her usual impish tone smoothed into something careful. Protective, even.

You nodded, shifting slightly as she folded herself beside you, tucking her legs underneath like she used to do when she was small and unsure of the world.

For a while, she says nothing, and you let her have that silence. When she does speak, it’s not what you expect.

“He’s not okay, is he?”

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t pretend not to know who she meant.

“He’s trying to pretend he is,” she went on, gaze fixed out the window, “but it’s like…like his face doesn’t fit properly anymore.”

You glanced sideways. Her expression was pinched with worry—shoulders drawn tight, fingers twisting the hem of her sleeve.

“I saw him today,” she continued. “After Edwina left.”

You stilled.

Hyacinth’s voice dropped further. “His eyes were red. Like he hadn’t blinked in hours. And he kept staring at the carpet like it had something to say.”

Your throat closed. But still, you didn’t interrupt.

“I know it’s not just about Edwina,” she added. “I think… I think it’s about you.”

A beat passed. Then she said it—soft, but unflinching:

“Y/N… did he break your heart?”

It was the first time anyone had asked you that aloud.

“I don’t know,” you whispered.

Because the truth was: not yet. But also… yes. Repeatedly. With silence. With hesitation. With all the things he didn’t say.

Hyacinth leaned her shoulder gently against yours.

“I don’t get everything the grown-ups are tangled in,” she admitted. “But I do know when someone is lying to themselves. And Anthony—” she paused, swallowing hard, “he’s been doing that for a while now.”

You turned your face toward her.

She gave a tiny shrug, like the words weighed more than her frame should carry. “I just wish he’d stop.”

There was something achingly young in her voice. The kind of young that knew too much. That had watched her eldest brother hold up the sky so long, she forgot he was never built to carry it.

“He’s more than a brother to me, you know.” 

She pauses again. The silence lingers for a breath too long. Then—

“Everyone says Edmund Bridgerton was a wonderful father…but I don’t remember him. I only remember Anthony.”

She swallows hard.

“I remember,” she murmured, eyes glassy, “when I had the flu once and couldn’t sleep. He sat up all night with me—just humming. I thought he was magic. When I think of a father…I think of him.”

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep it from trembling.

“And now he’s hurting. And I think you’re part of it. I don’t say that to blame you. I just—” she hesitates, “I want to understand. Because if you care about him…then maybe you know how to help him.”

The air is thick with emotion. Her eyes are big and earnest, not demanding answers, just offering a truth you weren’t ready to face.

“I don’t like seeing him like this,” she finishes, voice barely audible. “I just want him to be okay.”

You reach for her hand slowly, like one might reach for a thread unraveling.

“I know,” you whisper, thumb brushing across her knuckles. “I know he’s not alright.”

Hyacinth doesn’t respond, just presses her lips together and looks down, like she’s afraid she’s said too much.

“You’re not wrong to see it,” you continue softly. “He’s not always very good at hiding things from the people who really love him.”

Hyacinth blinked back a tear. “Do you still love him?”

You hesitated—but only for a breath. Then: “Yes.”

Her lower lip trembled, but she nodded. “I thought so.”

A long silence stretched between you.

Then—so softly you nearly missed it—she whispered, “But Lucien loves you too.”

You looked at her then, surprised.

She met your gaze, not with accusation, but with clarity. “I see it. He looks at you like you’re the last page of his favorite book.”

Your heart ached.

You smile, soft and honest. “Lucien is someone special. Someone I care about deeply, too. This isn’t about one or the other. It’s…more complicated than that.”

“I hate complicated,” she mutters.

You chuckle, brushing your thumb across her knuckles. “Me too.”

She leans into your side then, small and warm and familiar. “I just want both, you and Anthony, to be happy.”

“I know,” you whisper, placing a kiss to the top of her head. “So do I.”

“Don’t tell anyone I got soft like this,” she mumbled. “I have a reputation to uphold.”

You chuckled, though it caught slightly in your chest. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

The two of you sat like that as the sun slipped behind the rooftops. In the middle of everything broken, everything uncertain—one small, steady place where love didn’t demand decisions, or declarations.

Just presence.

And for now, that was enough.

A few hours later—After dinner…

The hallway was dimly lit, the sconces casting soft pools of light along the walls as you made your way back to your room. The quiet stretched unnaturally, like the house itself was holding its breath.

Dinner had been subdued. Not for lack of food or company — the Bridgertons were never truly quiet — but something had shifted. Anthony had not come downstairs. And someone had mentioned, in a low voice over dessert, that Edwina had stopped by earlier in the afternoon.

No one knew what had passed between them.

Only that she’d left in tears.

No one asked further. No one needed to. The silence that followed had spoken volumes.

You reached your door and paused, fingertips grazing the handle before pushing it open. The familiar comfort of your room welcomed you — the same soft light spilling in from the window, the same faint scent of lavender clinging to the air.

But something was different.

Your gaze dropped to the bed.

A note. Folded. Waiting.

You moved slowly, carefully, like the paper might vanish if you startled it. You picked it up—and forgot how to breathe.

“Can we talk?

Please?

—A”

This time, your eyes didn’t skim past the scrawl. You looked. Closely.

The slant of the letters. The pressure of the pen. The unmistakable way he signed just the initial — like he always had.

It was him.

Not Gregory. Not Colin. Not another attempt at mischief to lift the mood.

Anthony.

Your pulse fluttered in your throat.

There were no instructions. No time. No place.

Just a question.

Just hope.

Your thumb hovered over the ink.

You didn’t want to hope. Not after everything he’d said. After everything you’d said.

But your own words came back to you now—cutting and clear.

“You are  going to let me go.”

And his reply, raw and unraveling:

“Because I’m not sure I can.”

You had told him to stop trying.

“Then perhaps you should stop trying.”

And now—this note.

A simple plea.

But it wasn’t simple. Not when it came from the man who’s all but said he loved you—who hadn’t asked you to stay, but hadn’t known how to let you go.

So despite yourself, you breathed in.

Not with certainty. But with something far more dangerous.

Hope.

A few minutes later…

The hallway outside your room was dim, lit only by the faint flicker of sconces lining the walls. You moved slowly, carefully, as if your footsteps might give you away to your own thoughts.

The house was quiet. Not the stillness of sleep, but something heavier—like everyone was holding their breath without realizing it.

You reached his study.

The door was slightly ajar.

Your hand hesitated on the frame. Just for a moment. Just long enough to remember how it had felt the last time—standing too close, saying too much, hearing too little until it was too late.

Then you pushed it open.

Anthony stood by the fireplace.

Not seated behind the desk. Not pretending this was just another conversation.

No jacket. Shirt sleeves rolled. One hand braced on the mantelpiece like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

He turned at the sound of the door. His eyes met yours.

And whatever rehearsed line he had prepared—died on his tongue.

Because there you were.

Not furious. Not distant.

Just…there.

You closed the door behind you, quietly.

“I got your note,” you said, voice steady.

He nodded once, jaw tight. “Thank you for coming.”

Silence stretched again. The last time you were alone in a room together, you told him to stop trying to let you go. And here you were, standing before him. Waiting.

And he knew it.

“Edwina came by today,” he said at last.

You said nothing.

He took a breath.

“I told her the truth.”

Your breath caught—but you didn’t move.

He watched you carefully. Not pleading. Not defensive.

Just…honest.

“I told her I’m in love with someone else.”

The fire popped once behind him.

Your heart thudded so hard it hurt.

“She asked if it was you,” he added. “And I… I couldn’t lie.”

The silence was thick now, pulsing with every heartbeat in the room.

“And what did she say?” you asked, voice tight.

Anthony exhaled—one hand running through his hair.

“She said I had wasted her time. That she’d spent weeks wondering what was wrong with her. And all the while…” He trailed off.

You could see it in his eyes—that guilt, that weight. He had worn it for days, but now it was seeping through.

“I hurt her,” he whispered.

You nodded once. “Yes. You did.”

He looked away.

“And I almost hurt you.”

His voice cracked on the last word.

You held his gaze.

“Anthony—”

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he said quickly. “I know I have no right. I know I made you believe that I had chosen someone else, and in doing so, I made you believe that you were not it. That you were not enough. When the truth is—”

He stepped forward once.

You didn’t move.

“The truth is, I’ve never been more certain of anything than I am of you.”

The room was too small for this much feeling.

And yet you stood there. Still. Silent.

Because you needed more.

And he knew it.

So when he finally spoke again, it wasn’t with urgency.

It was with surrender.

“I'm not here to ask for your affection. I'm here to tell you that you were right.”

You blinked.

He stepped closer—slow, deliberate.

“You said I was a fool. For not knowing what I felt. For not facing it when it was right in front of me. And you were right.”

He was close now—just out of reach.

“You said I couldn’t have you after I’d given myself to her.” His voice dropped. “But I never gave her what I gave you.”

You couldn’t say anything.

Anthony’s voice was low, unshaken now. “She never had my heart.”

That stopped the world.

You couldn’t breathe.

“And I should’ve said that sooner,” he whispered.

You stared at him.

Not with softness. Not with the aching relief he might’ve hoped for.

Just... stillness.

And then, quietly, you said, “You should have said it sooner.”

His breath caught.

Because there it was—consequence.

“I waited,” you continued, your voice low but unwavering. “I waited while you toyed with logic. While you made choices like a Viscount, not a man. And when you finally said you loved me—finally—you did it after you’d promised yourself to someone else.”

He flinched. No one had ever sliced him open so gently before.

You didn’t stop.

“And you know what’s worse?” you asked, stepping forward now, voice trembling not from fear but control. “I almost let myself fall into that story again. The one where everything I felt was just waiting to be returned. As if my world had paused for you to catch up.”

Anthony swallowed hard, eyes locked to yours.

“But it didn’t,” you said. “My world kept moving.”

And now you smiled—not cruel, not cold. Just truthful.

“I met Lucien.”

You saw it. The flicker. The crack in his composure.

“Lucien, who cares for me without hesitation. Who doesn’t make me question his affections. Who listens when I speak and never once assumes I need protection in place of partnership.”

Anthony looked away, jaw clenched, breathing sharp.

“Lucien,” you went on, quieter now, “who makes me laugh in a way I hadn’t since you started sending mixed signals. Who never makes me feel like I’m asking for too much.”

You could see it now—guilt, yes. But something deeper.

Pain.

And then he spoke—quiet, hoarse.

“I know.”

You stilled.

“I know he’s the better man,” Anthony said, each word like it scraped its way out of his chest. “I see it. Every time he’s near you. Every time he looks at you like you’re it.”

He stepped closer.

“Every time I saw you smile at him, something broke inside me. Because I wanted that smile for myself. And I knew I hadn’t earned it.”

Your throat tightened.

Anthony’s voice cracked now—just once. “I wanted to be the one to make you laugh like that. To make you light. But I didn’t know how. Not without losing control.”

He took another step.

“And I was scared,” he admitted. “Terrified. That if I loved you, if I let it be real… I’d lose you. Like my mother lost everything when my father died. And I told myself it was safer to choose logic over feeling.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

“But then I realized,” Anthony whispered, his eyes locked to yours, bare and broken and whole all at once— “that losing you in life would be worse than anything death could ever do to me.”

That did it.

Neither of you moved.

Because the air between you snapped. Too full of everything—of months of tension, of heartbreak, of longing threaded with fury, of years spent pretending not to see.

Anthony’s voice broke the stillness, soft—at first.

“I love you, Y/N.”

You blinked.

He wasn’t moving. Just standing there. Wrung out and wide open. The words didn’t sound like a declaration—they sounded like a confession. Like they’d clawed their way up his throat after months of being buried alive.

“I love you,” he repeated, and now his voice was frayed, cracked at the edges. “God, I love you so much it’s ruined me.”

You flinched, just slightly—but he saw it.

He took a breath. Then another. Like every second was a war in his chest.

“I have loved you from the moment I realized I was allowed to want something that wasn’t expected of me. And then I hated myself for it. For wanting you. Because I had already promised myself to a future that didn’t have you in it.”

Your chest ached, but you didn’t move.

Anthony stepped forward. Not pleading now—breaking.

“I thought I was being noble. Choosing Edwina. Choosing duty over desire. Logic over love. But I wasn’t noble. I was terrified.”

He exhaled. Shaky. Unsteady. Honest.

Anthony’s eyes were glassy now. His voice shook.

“And maybe Lucien is the better man. Maybe he’s who I should be. But he’s not the one standing here shaking, because I can’t breathe at the thought of you loving someone else.”

He exhaled sharply. One last step. Just a breath away.

“I love you. And I will say it a thousand times, in every way, if it means I get even one more second where you don’t look at me like I broke you.”

And something inside you gave way.

“Tell me it’s not too late,” he whispered. “Please.”

You looked up at him, and his voice nearly broke on the next words—

“Tell me you still love me.”

Silence stretched—one breath, then two.

You stared at him—and finally saw it.

Not the viscount.

Not the mask.

Just Anthony.

Unraveled. Stripped bare. Shaking in front of you with his heart in his hands.

And then—

“I do.”

Your voice was quiet, but the weight of it was earth-shattering. You stepped closer, barely a whisper between you.

“I never stopped.”

Anthony didn’t wait.

He surged forward and you met him halfway—obliterating the space between you that had always felt unbearable.

His lips crashed against yours, desperate and raw and reverent, like a man who had been dying of thirst and finally found water.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was months of longing and ache and unspoken truths, colliding with the force of every held breath.

His hands came to your waist, your shoulders, your face—like he couldn’t decide where to hold you first, only that he had to keep you close.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him deeper, anchoring yourself to the one thing that had felt like a storm for so long—but now felt like home.

The kiss deepened, stuttered,and found rhythm again. Lips parting. Breaths stolen. Noses brushing.

There was no caution left.

Only hunger. Only love. Only finally.

When he pulled back just a fraction, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathless, dazed, trembling.

“I’m here now,” he whispered. “I’m not leaving.”

Your fingers curled in the fabric of his waistcoat.

“I won’t let you.”

And then—then—you kissed him again.

Because nothing else would do.

Because love had waited long enough.

Taglist: @bollzinurmouth @drewstarkeysrightarm @thorins-queen-of-erebor @yearninglustfully @khaleesibeach @ifilwtmfc

[plotbunnysyndrome]

More Than Honour

Chapter 37: What Is Left To Say?

Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Introduction: Some mornings arrive too softly to be kind. The air doesn’t sting, it lingers. The silence doesn’t comfort, it asks questions. And when the guests begin to leave and the ballgowns are put away, the only thing left louder than the stillness… is the weight of everything unsaid.

The morning air was still.

You hadn’t slept much.

Aubrey Hall, once bursting with laughter and lace, now hummed with the soft rustle of carriages being prepared, the occasional echo of footmen exchanging travel times, and the unmistakable hush of things ending. Guests were beginning to leave. Some were already gone.

When you finally rose, there was only one thought pressing in beneath the ache behind your eyes: You hadn’t seen Lucien.

Not since your dance with him. Not since Gregory. Not since Anthony.

And despite the way the night had unraveled, despite the ache still lodged beneath your ribs like a splinter — you hadn’t forgotten.

You’d promised Lucien a second dance.

And you hadn’t returned.

No note. No explanation. Just... absence.

The promise had been real — a soft smile, a quiet squeeze of the hand. You’d meant it when you said it. And then the world shifted — Anthony’s hand, Anthony’s voice, the sting of your own departure like a wound you couldn’t stitch.

And Lucien… he had simply vanished from your awareness, and you hated that.

You dressed quickly, fingers fumbling slightly at the fastenings. You didn’t call for a maid. You didn’t want witnesses to your guilt.

The hallway was still hushed, save for the quiet echo of trunks being wheeled out and doors clicking open across the guest wing. You passed two maids in the corridor who paused to curtsy. You offered a nod, a distracted smile, and continued on toward the east wing — the set of rooms furthest from the family quarters, where Lucien had been placed for privacy.

The light in the hall was soft, diffused through the gauzy curtains that framed the tall windows. You turned a corner, heart hammering a little too fast — and then froze.

Voices.

Two women. Low. Familiar.

You didn’t mean to eavesdrop — but the words stopped you in your tracks.

“I just thought... he might propose during this week.”

Edwina.

There was a pause. Then Kate’s voice, carefully measured:

“He may still, Edwina. We don’t know what today holds.”

Another silence.

Then:

“But he invited us early,” Edwina whispered, “before the rest of the ton. And he was so kind, so attentive. I thought... surely it meant something.”

You pressed your back lightly against the wall — not to hide, but because your knees had gone suddenly weak.

Kate exhaled. “It did mean something. But meaning something is not the same as being certain.”

“But how could I have been so wrong?” Edwina’s voice trembled. “I thought he liked me.”

“He does,” Kate said gently. “But perhaps not... in the way you hoped.”

“I don’t understand,” Edwina said, her voice quiet — but not tearful. Just… tired. “He invited us here early. He sought our company so intentionally. And I truly thought…”

Her words trailed off.

Kate touched her arm. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“But something has changed,” Edwina whispered. “I can feel it. He’s still kind. He still smiles. But it’s like… I’m not enough. Like I never quite reach him.”

There was a silence — long, weighted.

Then Kate’s voice, carefully measured. “Sometimes it isn’t about you at all, Edwina. Sometimes the person we want is already standing in a different story.”

You couldn’t breathe.

Edwina exhaled softly. “It’s silly of me to have hoped. But… I just wanted it to mean something.”

“It did,” Kate said gently. “Even if it doesn’t end where you imagined.”

You stepped back before they could see you, heart twisting.

You had come looking for Lucien.

And now, you carried something else entirely — a different guilt, a different kind of ache.

Edwina didn’t know.

Not really.

She didn’t see the moments in the library. The unspoken. The unforgivable.

She only saw what she was missing — and blamed herself.

And that, more than anything, made you want to disappear all over again.

You backed away slowly, your steps silent over the rug, retreating into another corridor before either of them could emerge and see you there. 

The guilt hit harder than you’d expected.

Not just for disappearing on Lucien.

But for the fallout. For the confusion. For the hurt that none of you had wanted to cause, but somehow had anyway.

You stood for a moment in the quiet, one hand pressed to the hollow of your throat.

And then — because you couldn’t undo any of it — you turned back toward the guest wing.

You had to find Lucien. Before he disappeared, too.

Your footsteps turned without thinking, retracing along the runner toward the other end of the hall—past the stairwell, past your room, toward a door you weren’t sure you had the right to knock on anymore.

Lucien’s.

You paused outside it, hand halfway to the wood. Your reflection shimmered faintly in the polished handle—a girl in last night’s gown, a woman who had danced with too many shadows, and didn’t know where her light belonged anymore. Somewhere downstairs, trunks were being loaded. Horses whinnied. Carriage wheels creaked over the gravel.

Everyone was leaving.

But you were still here.

And you owed him this.

And then the door opened.

“Angel.”

The word came out with a small smile, tinged with surprise. Not sarcasm. Not distance. Just…that gentle Lucien kind of warmth.

Lucien stood there.

Shirt sleeves rolled. Waistcoat half-buttoned. Hair damp from a recent wash. And somehow, he still looked every inch the portrait of ease—except for the fact that he wasn’t surprised to see you.

Not even a little.

You blinked. “How did you—”

“I heard you coming,” he said gently, opening the door a little wider. “Your footsteps are lighter than usual. That usually means guilt or mischief.”

A pause.

Then he smiled. “And you already used up your mischief quota this week.”

You swallowed. “I wasn’t sure you’d still be here.”

His gaze softened.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

That stopped you.

Something about the way he said it—no edge, no bitterness. Just…understanding. Quiet, measured, still.

He stepped aside, silent invitation extended.

You entered.

The room was warm, a fire low in the hearth. A few books stacked on the nightstand. The faintest trace of last night’s cologne still lingering in the air. He hadn’t packed yet. Or maybe he had and undone it. Either way, the space still felt like him.

You didn’t sit. Neither did he.

“I didn’t mean to disappear on you,” you said quietly.

Lucien tilted his head slightly. “I know.”

“I promised you another dance.”

His smile curved, just barely. “I got one with Hyacinth instead. She’s fiercer company.”

You exhaled a laugh—faint, but real. “You deserved more than that.”

A beat.

“I should have said something,” you murmured, fingers curling into your skirts. “I should’ve—”

“Hey.” Lucien’s voice was soft, but it cut cleanly through your spiraling.

When you looked up, he had stepped closer. Not too close. Just enough that you could see the worry in his eyes. The quiet calculation.

“You don’t owe me explanations,” he said. “You owe yourself kindness.”

Your throat tightened.

“I know something’s shifting,” he said, and this time there was a deeper note to his voice—something steadier, older, bracing. “I’m not blind. I saw the way he looked at you last night.”

You said nothing.

Lucien didn’t look angry.

He just looked…like someone bracing for a wave he couldn’t stop.

“I don’t want you to choose me because I’m safe,” he added after a pause. “I want you to choose me because you can’t help it.”

This made your chest ache.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” you confessed.

Lucien smiled gently. “That’s alright. You’re allowed to be uncertain.”

You blinked at him, suddenly unsteady again.

And he stepped forward, arms opening—not demanding, not possessive. Just…waiting.

You stepped into them before you could second-guess it.

His arms wrapped around you, warm and careful and steady.

“I’m here,” he murmured into your hair. “Whatever you need. However you need it.”

You nodded against his shoulder, not trusting your voice.

His hand slid up to the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair.

And then—a kiss.

Soft. Reverent. To your forehead.

He didn’t ask for more.

He didn’t lean away and search your eyes for answers.

He just stayed there, arms around you, like a promise with no expiration.

And when you finally stepped back, he let you go without hesitation.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

Lucien gave a crooked smile. “Just don’t vanish without saying goodbye again. It’s terribly bad for my ego.”

You managed a laugh—quiet, but real.

And then, as the sun climbed higher and the estate braced for goodbyes, you slipped out of the room.

Still torn.

Still aching.

But held, if only for a moment, by someone who never asked you to be anything more than what you were.

A while later—outside the house…

The last of the carriages had disappeared down the winding path.

The gravel was still settling.

Aubrey Hall stood quieter now. Not silent, but changed. As though it had been holding its breath all week, and now finally dared to exhale.

Anthony stood in the garden near the east hedgerow, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hands on his hips, chest rising and falling in deep, uneven intervals. The midday sun caught the edges of his profile, gliding the sharpness of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders.

Behind him, quiet but purposeful, came footsteps.

Lucien.

He didn’t announce himself.

Anthony didn’t turn around.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then Lucien, voice steady and calm. “She was running from you last night.”

Anthony exhaled slowly, but said nothing.

Lucien stopped a few paces behind him, hands in his pockets, gaze distant.

“I told her I’d save her the next dance, after Simon. She never came back,” he continued.

Anthony closed his eyes.

Lucien stepped beside him now, the two of them framed by the arch of trimmed vines and roses.

“I’m not here to start something,” Lucien said. “That would be beneath both of us.”

Anthony let out a humourless breath. “Would it?”

Lucien tilted his head. “She’s not a war to win, Bridgerton. We both know that.”

Silence stretched again.

Then Anthony spoke, quieter this time. “You’re good to her.”

Lucien nodded once. “I try to be.”

Anthony’s jaw flexed. “She laughs around you. I see it. You make it easy for her.”

Lucien didn’t deny it. “She makes it easy to want to.”

A long pause.

Then Lucien asked, almost gently, “Do you love her?”

Anthony didn’t answer at first.

When he did, his voice was stripped bare.

“Yes.”

Lucien looked ahead. Not gloating. Not mourning.

Just listening.

Anthony added, almost to himself, “But I kept trying to be what made sense. And I watched myself become a man who stood still while she walked away.”

Lucien let that settle.

Then—

“She deserves someone who moves with her.”

Anthony turned to him. “And if that’s you?”

Lucien met his gaze.

“Then I’ll be that. Unless you ask me to step aside.”

Anthony blinked. “You would?”

Lucien smiled faintly. “I want her to choose. Not fall into someone’s arms out of timing or obligation.”

Anthony swallowed hard.

Lucien continued, softer now, “She doesn’t need to be protected from you. She needs to be seen by you. All of her. Not the version you think is safest. The version that scares you. The one that sets your world on fire.”

Anthony looked away.

Lucien gave him a moment, then added:

“If you can’t face that version of her, then let her go. And I will be the place she goes when it all gets too heavy.”

He turned then, brushing dust from his cuffs. “But if you can face her—if you really see her—then don’t waste another breath pretending you don’t want to.”

He let that sit.

Then, with a quiet breath, Lucien added, “She’s looking for you, you know. Even when she’s not.”

Lucien walked away without another word.

And Anthony stayed in the garden, staring at the empty space between his feet.

For once, unsure whether he’d just been given a challenge.

Or a gift.

Taglist: @bollzinurmouth @drewstarkeysrightarm @thorins-queen-of-erebor @yearninglustfully @khaleesibeach @ifilwtmfc

[plotbunnysyndrome]

More Than Honour

Chapter 36: Almost, Almost, Always

Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Introduction: The music never stops. Not for heartbreak. Not for almost-confessions. But that doesn’t mean the story isn’t shifting — behind doors, down hallways, in the space where breath returns slower and everything finally hurts the way it’s supposed to. Not with screaming. But with knowing.

The west drawing room—just after the mid-ball confrontation…

The music still hummed faintly through the walls, muffled by distance and thick doors—a ghost of elegance chasing a storm.

You hadn’t meant to walk this far, but your heels carried you down the corridor with sharp, echoing finality. The west drawing room—quiet, untouched—offered shelter from the crush of dancers, suitors, expectations.

Your breath trembled as you stood with your back to the door, your palms pressed flat against the polished wood. You could still feel Anthony’s hand at your waist. Still feel his voice, low and wrecked, brushing against the shell of your ear.

You had walked away.

And for a moment, that had to be enough.

Until—

The door creaked open.

You didn’t turn.

He didn’t speak.

Not at first.

Then, quietly—hoarsely—

“You are going to marry her…”

The words fell from your lips before you could stop them. Raw. Bitter. Not a question—a statement.

Anthony’s footsteps halted, just behind you. You still didn’t turn.

“What?” he said, almost like a curse.

“Edwina,” you repeated, slowly turning to face him now. Your arms were folded tightly across your chest, like they might hold everything else inside. “You are going to marry her. And you are going to let me go.”

A long pause. The tension between you vibrating like a wire pulled taut.

Anthony stepped closer. Just once. Just enough to soften his voice.

“Am I?”

Your heart twisted.

“You tell me, Anthony.”

His jaw clenched. His eyes scanned your face like he was trying to memorize it. Like he already missed it.

“You play a dangerous game, Y/N.”

You stepped forward—smal, deliberate—until there was no room left for pretenses between you.

“You are playing games now, Anthony. I’m done with games.”

His breath caught. Just for a second.

And then—fire.

“Do you think I haven’t noticed?” he said, voice rising just slightly, raw around the edges. “The way you look at me when you think I am not watching? The way you linger when I speak your name?” He exhaled hard, stepping closer, until you could feel the heat of him. “And yet, you’re still with Blackbourne. Smiling at him, holding his hand, laughing at his jokes—as though you’re not aware that I am standing right there, watching.”

Your voice trembled—but not with weakness.

“And what would you have me do?” you said, sharper now. “Wait for you? Hope that you will still decide to love me after you marry someone else?”

Anthony flinched.

“I never said I—”

“No,” you interrupted, eyes flashing. “Because you would rather ruin yourself than admit it.”

He was breathing harder now. His hand twitched at his side—like he wanted to reach for you, but didn’t dare.

“And what if I did?”

You stared.

“If you did what?”

His eyes locked with yours. Steady. Open. Defenseless.

“Love you.”

The air left your lungs like a blow.

You stared at him, frozen. The words hung between you, soft and brutal and undeniable.

“Then I would tell you that you are a fool,” you whispered, voice tight, barely holding together. “Because you cannot have me after you have already given yourself to her.”

Anthony stepped forward again—too close—his voice dropping low.

“And yet you want me.”

The silence crackled.

You said nothing.

Until—

“You are going to let me go,” you said, quieter now. Measured. But each word was carved in stone.

Anthony’s voice broke. “Do not ask me to.”

“And why not?”

He exhaled—shaky, uneven—like the truth cost him everything.

“Because I’m not sure I can.”

You stared at him.

And then—slowly, softly, firmly:

“Then perhaps you should stop trying.”

You stepped back.

One step. Then another.

Anthony didn’t move.

His hands stayed at his sides.

This time he didn’t follow you.

And when the door clicked shut behind you—it sounded like the end of a story you were never meant to survive together.

The corridor was dim and quiet, just far enough from the ballroom to silence the violins and too far for anyone to find you quickly.

You didn’t know where you were going.

Only that you couldn’t return to the ballroom.

Not yet.

You turned left.

Then right.

And eventually — after too many steps and not enough breath — you found the quiet.

An upstairs gallery.

Unused. Unlit. Lined with oil portraits and forgotten silk chairs that had been moved out of fashion but not out of memory. It smelled faintly of rose water and dust — the kind of air that had stories in it.

You stood in the middle of it, frozen.

The silence here was different.

It wasn’t lonely.

It was honest.

Your gloves came off first. Fingers trembling as you tugged them down — one, then the other — letting the satin fall into your lap like a truce. Then the earrings — sharp little stars that had dug into your skin with each sharp turn of your head during that dance.

They were beautiful.

They weren’t welcome anymore.

You set them down on the windowsill.

Your feet carried you forward — to the far end of the gallery where the window overlooked the ballroom terrace below. The chandeliers shimmered in the reflection. So many bodies moving like clockwork. So many smiles pasted into place.

And somewhere beneath that glass and candlelight: Lucien. Edwina. Anthony.

You braced your hands on the window frame and tried to breathe.

The confession hadn’t been a confession. Not really. Not in full.

But it had cracked something open.

Then I would tell you that you are a fool… because you cannot have me after you have already given yourself to her.

You meant that.

You still mean it.

But his eyes…

You closed your own against the memory.

And what if I did…love you.

The air felt thinner up here.

Too many thoughts. Not enough oxygen.

Your mind spun through the dance again — the way Anthony had held your hand like it was already slipping. The way Lucien had smiled at you earlier, unaware. Unafraid.

The way your own name sounded like a lie inside your own chest.

You weren’t grieving. Not exactly.

You were shedding.

Peeling back the layers of a girl who still thought there might be a neat, clean answer waiting in someone else’s mouth.

There wasn’t.

There never had been.

You slid down onto one of the discarded chairs, elbow resting against your knee, forehead pressing to the heel of your palm.

There were no tears.

Not anymore.

Only the echo of a voice that almost said everything.

And the sound of footsteps in the hall.

The door creaked open without ceremony.

Of course it did.

You didn’t even lift your head — just sighed.

“You may as well come in. The dramatic lighting is already ruined.”

Eloise Bridgerton stepped into view like she was inspecting a painting she didn’t remember approving.

She looked—annoyed. Concerned. In her usual state of aggressive observation.

“Did you know,” she began, like she hadn’t just wandered halfway across the house uninvited, “that you’ve been gone for approximately forty-seven minutes?”

You didn’t answer.

She folded her arms.

“That’s enough time for three dances, two gossip rotations, and one very confusing moment where Lady Featherington tried to flirt with a duke and fell into the punch bowl.”

You blinked. “Is she alright?”

“She was thrilled, actually. She thought it made her look helpless.”

You exhaled something that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t caught halfway.

Eloise moved toward the chair opposite yours and sat—perched more than relaxed, knees bouncing.

Silence settled again.

Until:

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” she asked.

You didn’t look at her. “You’d have to know the beginning to understand the ending.”

“Then start with the middle,” she offered. “That’s where all the juicy bits are.”

You finally turned your head. “Why are you really here?”

Eloise tilted hers, considering.

“I thought about leaving you alone,” she admitted. “But then I remembered who you were standing with before you vanished.”

You said nothing.

“Anthony,” she clarified — in case you had, somehow, forgotten.

Still nothing.

She leaned back slightly. “I don’t know the details. And I don’t want them unless you want to tell me. But I have seen how you look at him when you think no one’s watching.”

You opened your mouth to protest.

“I’ve also seen how he looks at you,” she continued before you could speak. “So don’t bother lying.”

You looked away.

Eloise didn’t soften.

“You’re not stupid. You’ve never been someone who needs permission to feel something. But you’re also not careless. So whatever happened… I’m assuming it mattered.”

“It did,” you said quietly.

“And he’s still with Edwina.”

That landed sharp.

You nodded once.

Eloise’s expression finally cracked — gentler now. Not pitying. Just knowing.

“You’re not the kind of girl who begs. And Anthony’s not the kind of man who does anything without a plan. So if he said something tonight, I’m guessing it wasn’t enough.”

You swallowed. “It was almost everything.”

“Almost,” she echoed.

You nodded again.

Eloise leaned forward, her voice steady.

“Here’s what I know,” she said. “You are in a situation where both outcomes hurt. Lucien is brilliant. He lights you up. He treats you like the world is lucky to have you.”

Your lips parted.

“And Anthony… well,” she smirked, “he’s a Bridgerton. Which means his emotional intelligence is delayed, but once he catches up, he loves like it’s a terminal illness.”

You snorted despite yourself.

Eloise grinned. “So. I’m not here to tell you who to choose.”

“Then why are you here?”

Eloise fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve. “Because I wanted you to remember that you don’t have to choose tonight.”

Your breath caught.

“You don’t have to dance with the right man. Or smile for the ton. Or be sure.”

She tilted her head.

“You just have to survive the night with your spine intact.”

You stared at her.

And then, softly: “Thank you.”

Eloise shrugged. “Someone had to say it. Benedict was making a list of metaphors. Gregory was busy knocking over champagne.”

You finally smiled.

A real one.

And for the first time in what felt like hours, you stood.

Eloise stood with you.

Neither of you said anything else.

But as you stepped out of the gallery and into the hall, you didn’t feel quite so heavy anymore.

You weren’t ready to return to the ballroom.

Not just yet.

But you weren’t lost either.

Not anymore.

Back at the ballroom…

The ballroom had shifted.

The music had changed again—lighter, almost frivolous, like it was trying to lift the weight that had settled earlier. But it hadn’t succeeded. Not entirely. Not for everyone.

Lucien stood near the edge of the crowd, half-shadowed beneath the gilded frame of a mirror, a glass of champagne in one hand and a practiced smile on his lips.

But his eyes?

They didn’t smile.

They scanned.

Measured. Methodical.

He had been speaking to Daphne and Simon—some light remark about the third string quartet being inferior to the second—but the words had stopped forming the moment he realized:

You weren’t there.

Not at the refreshments table. Not with Eloise and Penelope. Not with Gregory, who was now dramatically recounting his dance with you to anyone who would listen.

Not on the floor.

Not in the room.

He hadn’t seen you since—

His eyes cut to the far side of the ballroom.

Anthony.

Lucien didn’t react.

Not outwardly.

But he saw it.

The way Anthony’s jaw had tightened with every passing dance.

The way his eyes had been locked on you, even when his hands were dutifully guiding Edwina through each step.

Lucien had noticed the shift after the races. The way Anthony stopped occupying space and started observing it instead.

He had noticed when Anthony avoided the terrace after the letter was found. When he refused to meet your eye at dinner.

And he noticed now—how the air seemed thinner between you, even from a distance.

A strange kind of gravity. 

Lucien sipped his champagne, gaze unwavering.

Then he placed the glass on a passing tray and began to walk.

Not hurried.

Not panicked.

But deliberate.

He moved through the crowd like smoke—greeting people with nods, exchanging pleasantries that didn’t register. His attention was elsewhere.

When he reached the end of the ballroom, he paused beside Violet.

She looked up at him with knowing eyes.

"She stepped away," she said softly, before he could even ask. “Some time ago.”

Lucien nodded once, slow.

Violet studied his face. Her voice was gentle, but firm.

“She’ll come back when she’s ready.”

He didn’t respond. Not right away.

Instead, his eyes scanned the ballroom again.

Anthony had returned to Edwina’s side. Lucien watched the way he stood now—not stiff, but quieter. Like a man who had lost something and didn’t yet know what to do with the ache.

Lucien exhaled slowly. Not out of defeat.

But out of clarity.

He wasn’t here to fight Anthony.

He had never needed to. That was never the point.

That had never been the game.

Because it wasn’t a game at all.

It was a story.

And Lucien had always known he wasn’t the villain in it.

Nor the hero.

He was the chapter that reminded her she didn’t need rescuing.

The interlude that reminded her she could choose.

He turned slightly—back toward the ballroom, back toward the lights—and let the music wash over him.

No anger.

No jealousy.

Just a quiet recalibration.

And when he saw Gregory dancing with Hyacinth again—awkward and joyful and entirely unbothered by consequence—Lucien smiled.

Not bitterly.

Not wistfully.

But fondly.

Because no matter where tonight ended…

He knew one thing with certainty.

He would never be the reason you stayed small.

And whatever came next?

He would meet it with open eyes. And open hands.

Even if they were empty.

Taglist: @bollzinurmouth @drewstarkeysrightarm @thorins-queen-of-erebor @yearninglustfully @khaleesibeach @ifilwtmfc

[plotbunnysyndrome]

More Than Honour

Chapter 35: A Dress Made of No

Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Introduction: Sometimes survival looks like silk. Sometimes it sounds like laughter you thought you’d lost. And sometimes — heartbreakingly, powerfully — it means dancing with the boy who reminds you who you were before all the ache. Tonight, you chose not to look away. Not from the pain. Not from the truth. Not from the men who watched you like you were fire they were too late to catch.

The room was hushed.

You sat before the mirror.

You couldn’t stop trembling.

It was the pins.

Tiny, harmless pins — silver and delicate — sliding into your hair, one after another. But your fingers wouldn’t cooperate. Each one slipped. Each one missed. You let out a frustrated breath and dropped them onto the vanity with a soft clatter.

The sound echoed too loudly.

Everything did.

The music downstairs. The laughter in the hallway. The thrum of carriage wheels arriving like a countdown.

And above it all — the letter.

That stupid letter.

Still folded neatly on your desk like it hadn’t detonated the last 24 hours of your life.

You pressed a hand to your chest, trying to steady the erratic beat behind your ribs.

It wasn’t just the letter.

It was what you let it mean.

What you wanted it to mean.

What you almost acted on.

Anthony’s breath against yours in the library.

Lucien’s kiss on the back of your hand just hours before.

And now you were here — in satin and perfume — pretending you hadn’t come undone like a poorly stitched seam.

You gripped the edge of the vanity, knuckles white.

What have I done?

Lucien had been nothing but kind. Thoughtful. Patient. He had looked at you like you were something carved out of myth.

And you—?

You had chased a phantom into the dark and almost begged it to kiss you.

Your throat tightened.

Your reflection stared back. Pale. Flushed. Furious.

You looked like a girl caught between chapters. Like someone trying to be the heroine in a story she no longer recognized.

You looked…

Lost.

Your fingers drifted to your necklace — the one Lucien had helped you fasten days ago. It suddenly felt too heavy. You unclasped it. Let it fall.

It wasn’t right.

Not anymore.

You sat.

And for a long time, you didn’t move.

You let the guilt lap over you.

You let the shame breathe.

And then—very quietly—you let yourself ask it:

Why did you want it to be Anthony?

Because even now — even knowing the letter was a prank — some foolish part of you still wished it had come from him.

Still longed for him to step forward.

Still wanted him to say your name like a confession.

And that?

That’s what scared you the most.

Because you were not supposed to be this girl. You were not a woman defined by longing.

You were a force.

You were the choice.

And tonight? You were done mourning the fantasy of being chosen.

You would choose yourself.

You met your reflection again. And this time, something steadied.

Your hand moved with purpose now — pinning back your hair with clean, graceful precision.

You dusted the powder from your cheeks.

You reached for your perfume — dabbed it low at your throat, one wrist, then the other.

And then came the gown.

You stood slowly, allowing the fabric to fall around your body like armor. The color was bold. The silhouette unforgiving. It didn’t whisper.

It announced.

This wasn’t a gown for beauty. This was a breastplate disguised in satin.

You stepped closer to the mirror.

And finally — finally — you smiled.

Not out of joy.

But out of recognition.

She was back.

The woman who survived the library. The letter. The guilt.

The one who would not beg for answers anymore.

Tonight, you would dance.

You would drink.

You would dazzle.

And no man — not the one who loved you too gently, nor the one who looked at you too late — would define your place in this story again.

There was a knock at the door.

“Miss?” a maid’s voice called. “The ball is starting.”

You gave the mirror one last glance.

And then — with a slow, deliberate step — you turned toward the door and whispered:

“Let them wait.”

A few minutes later…

The light found you first.

Just past the threshold of the ballroom, the chandelier blazed overhead — a constellation of candles and crystal so bright it threatened to sear away doubt entirely. The Hearts and Flowers Ball was in full swing. Music shimmered like honey in the air, skirts swished in polished rhythm, and the scent of garden roses clung to every moving shadow.

You stepped inside — a queen at court, a storm in silk.

Your gown was nothing short of war paint. Fitted where it mattered, fluid where it needed to be, it glinted with gold-threaded embroidery and the subtle shimmer of defiance. Your hair was swept up, not for elegance, but for control. The kind that let your neck remain unguarded — on purpose. And your eyes?

Your eyes burned.

Let them whisper.

Let them guess.

Let them write stories in corners about the girl in the golden dress who had smiled at two men in two nights and hadn’t broken over either.

You spotted your girls before they saw you.

Near one of the flower-wrapped columns, just outside the reach of the dance floor, stood Eloise, gesturing wildly with a glass of lemonade and a hairpin that looked moments from being repurposed as a weapon. Beside her, Penelope Featherington stood in patient, practiced grace — lips pressed together in a way that barely masked her amusement.

Eloise was clearly in the middle of a passionate retelling.

“And THEN,” she declared dramatically, “he sang. And not just any song. It was emotive. It was devastating. There was a pause. There was a look—”

Penelope raised an eyebrow. “You’re telling me Anthony Bridgerton performed an emotional serenade like a tortured Shakespearean hero… in public?”

Eloise nodded, stabbing the air. “Yes! And that’s not even the real scandal.”

Penelope, voice smooth: “Do tell.”

“That someone else may have nearly been kissed by him during a game the other day. While already being adored by a different someone who wears nothing but midnight silk and perpetual mystery.”

You cleared your throat.

Both girls froze.

Eloise slowly turned, eyes widening like a child caught mid-crime. “Oh no.”

Penelope blinked, startled, then lit up like sunrise. “You’re here.”

You smiled — not just because it was time, but because it was good to see them.

“Careful, Eloise,” you murmured as you joined them. “If Penelope writes any more of that down, you’ll accidentally turn my life into a gothic novella.”

Eloise groaned. “It’s not my fault you live a life full of scandal and chaos. I’m merely an enthusiastic witness.”

You leaned closer to Penelope, lowering your voice just slightly. “And she’s prone to exaggeration. I swear half of that was imagined.”

Penelope tilted her head, smiling in that gentle, unreadable way. “Of course. I know you.”

You held her gaze for half a second longer — just enough for the tension beneath the words to shimmer.

Of course she knew.

Whether she’d write it or not? That was her choice. But you trusted her. Always had.

The three of you drifted slightly from the crowd, forming your usual crescent of soft rebellion — just far enough from propriety to feel like your own island.

Eloise crossed her arms. “I’ve missed this. It’s been four days of being surrounded by men posturing and threatening to duel over their feelings, and frankly, I need a reprieve.”

You snorted. “You sound like you’re the one being courted.”

“I might as well be. Do you know how exhausting it is to keep secrets you don’t even want to know?”

Penelope laughed, covering her mouth. “You do tend to collect other people’s secrets like a magpie.”

“And yours,” Eloise shot back playfully. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed the glances between you and that dreadful new poet.”

Penelope turned pink. “He’s not dreadful.”

“Not to you,” you added with a wink.

Eloise gestured at the both of you with theatrical despair. “Traitors. Surrounded by traitors.”

But there was affection there, and familiarity. The kind only forged by years of stolen sweets and stolen moments, by unspoken loyalties and the quiet promise that no matter what else unraveled… this wouldn’t.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

This was what you needed.

The music shifted — a waltz now, slow and shimmering. You watched the crowd move as one — dancers turning like stars caught in orbit, lace trailing behind laughter.

“Angel…”

The voice slipped through the hum of violins and laughter like silk over skin — low, familiar, and unmistakably his.

You turned just as Lucien stepped into view, all dark satin and feline grace, his hand already extended in invitation. The room behind him blurred instantly — because that smile?

That smile was carved just for you.

“Am I interrupting a sacred council?” he asked, eyes flicking over Eloise and Penelope with mock reverence.

Penelope smiled politely, the corner of her mouth twitching like she was already writing this down in her head. Eloise just groaned.

“You’re lucky she likes you,” Eloise said flatly. “Because I do not like being ignored mid-monologue.”

Lucien bowed his head toward her with dramatic flourish. “My sincerest apologies, my lady. I’ll bribe you later with a scandal and a fruit tart.”

Eloise sniffed. “Acceptable.”

Lucien turned back to you, palm still offered, but voice softer now. “Shall we?”

You didn’t hesitate.

Not because it was expected.

Not because it was the polite thing to do.

But because Lucien had earned it — this moment, this smile, this first dance of the night.

Your fingers slid into his hand, and he closed over them gently.

“Try not to step on my toes, Lord Blackbourne,” you murmured as he led you toward the dance floor.

He chuckled, guiding you effortlessly into position. “I make no promises. But I do promise to be charming enough that you’ll forgive me.”

And then—

The music swelled.

And you danced.

The first time you'd danced with Lucien, the room had felt like a dare.

It had been just after he’d arrived in town, cloaked in mystery and mischief. The ton had whispered about his lineage. You had whispered about his audacity. He had smiled like sin dipped in sugar and asked you to dance with all the gall of a man who knew exactly how fine he looked in black.

That night, you’d danced as if each step were part of a negotiation. Banter tossed like coins. Flirtation masked as strategy.

The spark had been undeniable.

But this?

This was different.

Tonight, there was no need for masks.

Lucien held you with practiced ease, his palm resting just at your waist, his other hand cradling yours like a secret.

You let him guide — not because you needed to be led, but because he moved with the kind of ease that made surrender feel like a choice instead of a loss.

The music spun around you. The chandeliers glittered above. The crowd blurred at the edges, but he never looked away from you.

“You look like power incarnate tonight,” he said softly.

You tilted your head. “Trying to flatter me?”

“Trying to survive you,” he murmured, voice like honey. “You looked positively dangerous holding that lemonade earlier.”

You laughed — really laughed — and he drank in the sound.

“I needed this,” you admitted. “A moment that’s mine. With someone who makes me feel like I haven’t completely lost myself.”

Lucien’s fingers pressed just slightly at your back — not pulling, just anchoring.

“You haven’t lost yourself,” he said. “You’ve just been carrying too much.”

You looked away — not because you didn’t believe him, but because you did.

He guided you through the next turn in silence.

Then, in that usual, cheeky Lucien fashion: “You should know, by the way... if any more men try to duel for your affection tonight, I’m claiming first blood.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I thought you weren’t the jealous type.”

“I’m not,” he said, grin sliding in like a secret. “But I am the theatrical type. And I’d look excellent in a scandal.”

You rolled your eyes and smiled anyway. “You’re incorrigible.”

And when the music drew to its close — that soft, delicate pause before applause — Lucien didn’t let go immediately.

Instead, he stepped in close enough for only you to hear.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “For choosing me for your first dance. For letting me be your ease tonight.”

You smiled up at him, one brow arched. “Who said this is my only dance with you?”

Lucien blinked.

Then — slowly — his smile curled like smoke.

“Angel,” he murmured. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

You stepped back just enough to take his hand and offer a playful curtsey. “Keep up, Blackbourne.”

The music shifted into something sprightly — a reel that tugged at hems and tempted smiles. The kind of dance that didn’t demand scandal or spectacle. Just joy.

You had barely stepped away from Lucien when someone appeared beside you in a whirl of elbows and nerves.

“May I have this dance?” came a voice — cracking slightly, far too serious for a boy his age.

You turned.

And there he was.

Gregory,  all flushed cheeks and stiff shoulders, hair slightly askew from some earlier hallway mischief. His cravat was crooked, and he’d clearly rehearsed that line far too many times.

You softened immediately.

“You do realize,” you said, mock-whispering as you leaned in slightly, “that if I accept this offer, I become the talk of the ballroom.”

Gregory blinked. “Really?”

You nodded gravely. “Dancing with a younger man? One of the Bridgertons, no less? I can already hear the gasps.” You pretended to scan the room. “Lady Whistledown is probably plotting the article already.”

Gregory straightened, chest puffing. “Good. Let them write. I’ll be famous.”

You laughed, offering your hand.

“Oh, you already are, my dear Gregory. This is simply your next scandal.”

He led you onto the dance floor with exaggerated gallantry, bowing deeply as if you were a duchess of terrifying renown. Several guests looked on with polite curiosity — others with indulgent smiles. But you caught the real look you’d been waiting for:

Anthony.

Across the ballroom, a tall, dark silhouette turned slowly from where Edwina Sharma stood beside him. His hand hovered just behind her back, but his eyes…

His eyes were fixed on you.

Watching.

Taking in every smile. Every spin.

Gregory, meanwhile, was absolutely thriving.

“This counts toward my heroic arc, doesn’t it?” he asked, nearly tripping as he tried to mirror a step you hadn’t taught him. “Dashing younger brother saves beautiful family friend from brooding romantic doom?”

You snorted. “Gregory, you are the doom.”

He looked mock-offended. “You wound me.”

“I’m simply helping you prepare for your future memoirs. You’ll thank me when you’re famous.”

He grinned. “I am keeping a log, you know. Working title: The Gregory Bridgerton Experience — How To Survive With Six Older Siblings and A Very Overbearing Tree.”

You blinked. “A tree?”

“Anthony.”

You burst out laughing mid-twirl, drawing a few glances as you tried (and failed) to stifle the sound.

“I adore you,” you muttered.

Gregory preened. “Well, naturally.”

This is what safety looked like. Messy, ridiculous, real.

The song twirled you through more nonsense and laughter than proper choreography. And yet it was perfect — grounding. The kind of dance that reminded you of who you were before all the ache and almosts. Before letters and lies and unspoken things.

And when the final note hit — Gregory spun you with a flair so dramatic it knocked over a passing champagne tray.

You caught your balance.

He caught the tray.

You both bowed like royalty amid the small burst of laughter that followed.

“Well done, my lord,” you said, breathless.

He winked. “Don’t forget to write about me in your memoirs.”

As he scampered off toward Eloise (probably to brag), you felt it again.

The stare.

Anthony, still in the corner of the room, now in mid-dance with Edwina. He was saying the right things, smiling at the right moments. But his eyes…

His eyes were still on you.

And you?

You simply turned away.

Because tonight — for once — you weren’t his to watch.

“Now that,” came a familiar, wry voice just behind your shoulder, “was the most dramatic display I’ve seen since Hyacinth pretended to faint to get out of needlepoint.”

You turned — not surprised in the slightest to find Colin, one brow arched, already halfway through a smug grin.

“Did she actually faint?” you asked.

Colin stepped forward, offering his arm. “She draped herself over a chaise like a Grecian widow and declared she was overcome by artistic melancholy.”

You took his arm with a smirk. “Sounds like you taught her that.”

“I inspired her, I believe. There’s a difference.”

He led you out toward the edge of the dance floor, fingers adjusting his cuffs with far too much nonchalance.

“Now,” he said, tilting his head, “before we’re seen and it becomes a matter of public record, I must ask — are you truly willing to tarnish your reputation by dancing with me in front of half the ton?”

You gave him an amused look. “What reputation?”

Colin grinned wider. “Ah, yes. I forgot. You lost that the moment you laughed at Benedict’s poem about a lovesick goose.”

“It rhymed with juice, Colin.”

“And I haven’t recovered since.”

The music began — a slow, rolling waltz — and you stepped into his arms without hesitation. The movement came naturally. Familiar. Almost nostalgic.

Because dancing with Colin was always a little like trying to keep your balance during a windstorm — exhilarating, slightly unpredictable, and far too much fun to stop.

“Tell me,” you said lightly as he spun you around another couple, “what’s the real reason you asked me to dance?”

Colin blinked, mock-offended. “Can’t a charming gentleman ask a beautiful lady to dance without motives being questioned?”

You tilted your head. “You’re a Bridgerton. That is suspicious.”

He laughed — that easy, disarming sound — and then dipped you so suddenly you let out a yelp.

“You’ve had quite the week,” he said softly, no longer teasing.

Your breath caught for a moment.

“You’ve seen too much,” you murmured.

“I’ve seen enough,” Colin said, straightening you again, his hand steady at your back. “Enough to know you’ve been trying to carry things that don’t belong to you.”

Your throat tightened.

But Colin — ever intuitive when it mattered — didn’t press.

He only added, voice light but laced with real affection: “Tonight, you don’t owe anyone anything. Not their feelings. Not their confusion. Not even their poorly worded, anonymously delivered letters.”

You laughed — for real this time.

“You know?”

“Please,” he scoffed. “I knew the moment Gregory looked smug at breakfast. It’s his only tell.”

You shook your head in disbelief. “You’re all mad.”

He leaned in conspiratorially. “True. But we’re mad in your corner.”

That stopped you.

Just for a moment.

Because there it was — unspoken, but loud.

You weren’t alone.

Not in this house.

Not in this ballroom.

Not tonight.

You hadn’t realized how much you needed to hear that.

The music wound to a close, and Colin gave you a gallant bow.

“I believe I’ve rescued your evening. Feel free to name your first child after me as thanks.”

You curtsied. “If I do, the child will be banned from literature and travel.”

“Then you’ve doomed them,” he called over his shoulder, already striding back toward the drinks table with that signature Bridgerton swagger.

You exhaled slowly.

And turned.

And again — across the ballroom, through the crowd and the chandeliers — Anthony was watching.

Expression unreadable.

But the weight of it?

Unmistakable.

You didn't look away this time.

You held it.

Just long enough to make it clear.

You were done waiting.

You were barely two steps away from Colin when a voice drawled behind you with all the grace of someone who had not just crashed into an easel that morning.

“Well, if it isn’t the most popular lady at the ball.”

You turned slowly, arching a brow. “Benedict Bridgerton. Let me guess — sent by your siblings to keep me distracted?”

He gave a half-bow, hand extended. “What gave me away?”

“This feels like a conspiracy,” you murmured, slipping your hand into his.

He grinned. “Oh, it absolutely is. We all thought you had enough on your plate already and didn’t need the added responsibility of entertaining any more eligible bachelors tonight.”

“And yet you couldn’t let me have an empty dance card either?” you asked, letting him lead you onto the floor.

He spun you easily into the steps of the dance, his tone light. “You’re a Bridgerton by proximity. An empty dance card would cause scandal.”

You smirked. “So this is charity, then?”

“No, no,” Benedict said with a grin. “This is self-preservation. I’ve already endured Hyacinth’s wrath once this week — I will not do it again.”

You laughed, the tension in your chest loosening a little.

He glanced down at you, more thoughtful now. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You hesitated, but he didn’t press.

He just said, gently, “I saw you leave the library last night.”

You met his gaze — startled. “You did?”

“I also saw Anthony storm out of it five minutes later looking like he’d argued with a thunderstorm and lost.”

Your smile faltered, but you stayed in step.

“I told you to ask for clarity, didn’t I?” Benedict added, quieter now.

You nodded. “I did. It was… a messy sort of clarity.”

He looked at you, understanding flickering in those familiar eyes. “He sang that bloody song like a man who had one foot on a cliff. And then he stood there all week like someone dared him to survive it.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t, really.

Benedict didn’t need you to.

He just held your hand a little tighter. “Whatever happened in that library… it didn’t break you. And that’s all that matters tonight.”

You looked at him then — really looked — and for a moment, the knot in your chest eased.

“You always know what to say,” you said softly.

He gave you a crooked smile. “It’s a curse. The charm. The bone structure. The ability to pick up on emotional carnage at fifty paces.”

You laughed — helpless and full.

“See?” he said triumphantly. “That’s the real you. I knew she was still in there, somewhere under all the letters and dueling Viscounts.”

The music drew to a close, and Benedict released your hand with a bow that was all flair and no formality.

“Now,” he said, tucking your hand into the crook of his arm, “shall we go get you some lemonade before another brother of mine swoops in with a tragic monologue?”

You smiled, slipping back into the safety of banter. “Only if you promise not to write me a poem about it afterward.”

“No promises,” he said smugly, leading you off the floor. “But if I do, it will rhyme perfectly with ‘scandal.’”

And from somewhere across the ballroom…

Anthony was still watching.

Still waiting.

And still… just a little too late.

A few minutes later…

You and Benedict lingered near the refreshment table, your fingers curled around a cold glass of lemonade that sparkled like sunshine. The music had shifted to a sprightlier tune now, one suited for the younger crowd — and sure enough, Gregory was attempting to convince a reluctant debutante to waltz like a pirate while Eloise stood nearby, clearly narrating the scene for Penelope’s enjoyment.

And across the floor—

Hyacinth.

Standing squarely atop Lucien’s polished shoes, her gloved hands perched on his sleeves, chin high like a little general directing a battalion.

He moved slowly, carefully, matching her tiny steps with exaggerated grandeur.

You couldn’t help but smile, the warmth curling into your chest like a ribbon.

Benedict followed your gaze.

“You know,” he said, his voice softer now, “I know I’m supposed to root for my older brother. And I do. I really do.”

You turned your head slightly, watching him as he watched them.

“But Lucien…” Benedict sighed, tilting his head toward the scene unfolding across the floor — Hyacinth beaming like she'd won a crown, and Lucien giving her all the attention in the world without a trace of condescension. “He’s chaos. He’s cheek. He’s trouble.”

You laughed gently. “He’s also kindness. And patience. And poetry in very bad handwriting.”

Benedict smiled faintly. “Exactly. That’s why I get it. Why you’re torn.”

Your smile faded to something quieter.

“I didn’t expect it to get this complicated,” you murmured.

“Love usually is,” Benedict said. “But when it’s good… even the complicated parts feel like chapters you’ll want to reread someday.”

You looked down into your lemonade, the bubbles rising quietly to the surface.

Across the room, Hyacinth curtsied with exaggerated flourish, and Lucien bowed low in return, nearly tripping over her trailing ribbon on purpose just to make her giggle.

Benedict bumped your shoulder lightly. “Whatever happens… just don’t forget that you get to choose. Not them. You.”

And somehow… that helped.

Because even when the music changed again… and even when the next set was announced…

You were already standing a little taller.

The song shifted to something slower — violins soft and low, brushing through the candlelit air like sighs. Couples filtered toward the floor in easy pairs, laughter bubbling like champagne around the room.

And then—

A familiar voice from behind you.

“May I steal you for this one?”

You turned, already smiling.

Simon.

Tall, calm, crisp in his deep navy coat, offering his hand with a charm that didn’t demand, but invited.

“I’m flattered,” you said, placing your gloved fingers in his with a small curtsy. “Should I warn Daphne?”

He chuckled as he led you to the center of the floor. “She encouraged it. Told me you looked like you could use a break from the parade of suitors.”

“I’ve mostly danced with Bridgertons,” you teased.

He gave a dry grin. “Even more reason.”

The music began.

And you moved together — fluid, easy, practiced.

Simon was a steady partner. No chaos. No aching undertones. Just someone who had seen a war you hadn’t spoken about… and offered a quiet seat beside the fire anyway.

“About the letter…,” he said after a beat.

You didn’t speak.

He waited.

And then—

“The library,” he said softly. “Anthony hasn’t been the same since.”

Your breath caught.

“Neither have you,” he added. “I’ve known you long enough to see it. You’re... folding pieces of yourself away.”

You met his eyes then — calm and knowing.

Simon’s gaze held none of the scrutiny you feared. Only truth.

“It’s easier,” you murmured.

“Is it?” he asked gently.

A beat.

“No,” you admitted.

He nodded once. Then, more softly:

“You know, when I fell in love with Daphne... I spent a great deal of time convincing myself I couldn’t be what she needed.”

You looked up, surprised by the honesty.

“But in the end, love isn’t about whether you arrive already complete. It’s about whether you’re willing to become what the other person needs — even if it scares the hell out of you.”

Your throat tightened.

Simon smiled faintly. “I think you already know how he feels. I think you’re the only one he ever let get close enough to break him.”

You glanced toward the side of the ballroom — and sure enough, Anthony stood there, still. Focused. Watching.

Simon followed your gaze.

“And if he’s smart,” Simon added, stepping back just slightly as the music neared its final notes, “he won’t waste another second.”

The waltz ended.

The applause came soft and polite.

And then—another voice.

“I believe it’s my turn now.”

You turned.

Anthony.

Close,

Controlled.

But his eyes—

They weren’t careful anymore.

They were full.

Simon bowed slightly. Not to Anthony, but to you.

“Take your time,” he murmured.

And then he was gone.

Leaving you standing in front of the one man who had shattered everything without ever meaning to.

Anthony extended his hand.

He said nothing.

He didn’t need to.

You placed your hand in his.

And the world tilted again.

The violins picked up once more — this time slower, darker. A melody wrapped in longing.

Anthony’s hand was warm as it closed around yours.

You didn’t speak as he led you to the floor.

You didn’t need to.

Not with the way his grip lingered longer than necessary. Not with the way his palm settled at your waist — too close, too sure — pulling you nearer than any proper distance allowed.

You heard the silence around you shift.

Eyes watching.

But Anthony didn’t care.

He never even glanced away.

“I need to ask again,” he said softly. “Last night… the letter.”

You looked up at him, jaw tight. “We’ve already established it wasn’t from you.”

“Yes,” he said, “but you thought it was.”

You didn’t answer.

His voice lowered. “Did you want it to be me?”

You inhaled sharply.

“Does it matter?” you asked quietly.

“It matters to me.”

Your steps didn’t falter, but your heart did.

You held his gaze, chin lifted. “You’re here with Edwina.”

A pause.

He swallowed. “And you’re with Lucien.”

You nodded once, curt.

Anthony exhaled. “Maybe… maybe she’s safer for me. And maybe he’s safer for you.”

A pause.

He didn’t stop moving.

But something inside him was shaking loose.

He looked down at you — really looked. All the walls gone.

“What if,” he said quietly, “we weren’t tied to anyone? No Edwina. No Lucien. No responsibilities. No duties. What if it was just you and me?” 

His grip tightened around your palm.

You stared at him.

“Would we be honest then?” he asked.

You blinked. Once.

Then twice.

And when you finally spoke, your voice was low. Steady.

“Anthony... I’ve been around long before Edwina. Before Lucien. We’ve had time to be honest.”

That landed hard.

His jaw clenched. His breath caught.

“I wasn’t ready,” he murmured.

Your expression cracked — just slightly. And then you pulled back enough to look at him fully, fire now flashing behind your gaze.

“And I cannot run my life on your time.”

He froze.

You didn’t let him speak again.

You stepped back. Clean. Swift.

The music kept playing.

The dance went on.

But you walked away — leaving Anthony Bridgerton alone on the ballroom floor.

Left with the ache of every moment he hadn’t taken.

And the echo of your absence burned hotter than any truth ever could.

Taglist: @bollzinurmouth @drewstarkeysrightarm @thorins-queen-of-erebor @yearninglustfully @khaleesibeach @ifilwtmfc

[plotbunnysyndrome]

More Than Honour

Chapter 34: In the Wake of Almost

Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Introduction: The sun had barely risen before the cracks began to show. A confession was spoken to stone, a truth buried for years finally unearthed. Upstairs, chaos brewed over croissants and jam as a love letter unraveled not hearts — but egos. And in the quiet that followed, one question echoed louder than the music yet to play: what do you do when the thing you feared the most turns out to be nothing… but still ruins everything?

The morning sun cut low across the grounds, soft and gold, gilding the dew-laced grass in silence. Aubrey Hall was behind Anthony, its stone silhouette softened by distance, the murmured sounds of siblings and laughter drifting faintly across the grounds. Preparations for the Hearts and Flowers Ball had already begun to hum through the halls—footsteps rushing, ribbons unfurling, nerves fraying.

But not here.

Here, under the ancient oak where the earth stayed undisturbed, where the world still remembered him—Anthony stood alone before his father’s gravestone.

He hadn’t come here in years.

He hadn’t brought flowers.

He hadn’t come to mourn.

He had come to confess.

He had come because last night nearly ruined him.

Not because of what happened in the library—but because of what didn’t.

Because even with you standing inches away, demanding answers, holding his gaze like you could see through every wall he’d built... he still hadn’t said the one thing that mattered.

Not that he loved you.

Not that it was always you.

But that he was terrified.

“Anthony.”

The voice was soft. Familiar.

He turned slightly.

Violet stood a few paces behind, her expression unreadable, though her presence, as always, was inevitable. She had a knack for appearing when he least wanted her to and most needed her.

“I wondered if I’d find you here,” she said gently.

Anthony looked back at the gravestone. “You always do.”

She stood beside him in silence for a moment, her eyes flicking to the sky, then to her son’s face.

“You’ve barely spoken all morning,” she said, not unkindly.

Anthony’s lips tightened. “There’s been little worth saying.”

A beat passed. Then another.

“You didn’t bring flowers,” Violet observed softly.

“I didn’t come to mourn,” he said, voice low. “I came to ask forgiveness.”

Violet looked at him carefully.

“For what?” she asked.

Anthony exhaled, gaze fixed on the stone.

“For already letting her go.”

Violet’s throat moved, but she said nothing.

“I watched her the other night,” he said, voice raw. “On the terrace. She was laughing again by the end of it all. I realized I had never given her that. Not truly. Not freely. And he—Blackbourne—he does. With ease. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t doubt.”

Violet’s eyes softened. “And you think that makes him better for her?”

Anthony turned to face her fully, jaw clenched, expression tight.

“No,” he whispered. “I think it makes him safer.”

Violet tilted her head.

Anthony ran a hand through his hair, pacing a step. “I watched you after Father dies,” he said, quieter now. “You disappeared. You smiled. You hosted teas. You taught Eloise to curtsy and Gregory to read and kept everything running. But you were gone.”

Violet closed her eyes.

“I lost him too,” Anthony said. “But I lost you at the same time. And no one ever talked about that. Not once.”

Violet’s voice was barely audible. “I did not mean to disappear.”

“I know,” Anthony said. “But you did. And I told myself that if I could just keep control—of the estate, of the title, of myself—I’d never be the reason someone else had to survive that kind of love.”

HIs voice cracked slightly, and he forced it steady.

“I never let myself love her because I knew if I did—truly did—I’d never survive it if something happened. And worse…she wouldn’t survive it either.”

He turned away, breath shaking.

“I couldn’t be the cause of that kind of ruin.”

Violet stepped closer, placing a hand gently on his arm.

“And do you truly believe,” she asked softly, “that love ruined me?”

Anthony didn’t answer.

Violet continued, “Yes, I grieved. Yes, I shattered. But Anthony—I was not broken by love. I was broken by loss. There is a difference.”

He looked down, the ground suddenly the only thing he could bear to face.

“If I hadn’t loved him,” Violet said, “there would have been nothing to mourn. No beauty. No warmth. No legacy.”

She turned toward the stone, her gaze tender. “Do you think I regret loving him? Even knowing what it cost me?” Anthony swallowed hard.

“Do you think she would regret it?” Violet asked, turning back to him.

His jaw clenched. “If something happened—if I left her behind—she would carry that pain forever.”

“And if you walk away,” Violet said gently, “she may carry a different pain. One that lingers just as long. One you placed there yourself.”

Anthony closed his eyes.

“She looks happy with him,” he said finally. “Freer. Lighter. I don’t want to be the reason that changes. I don’t want her to become like you…after.”

Violet’s voice was firm, loving.

“Then don’t become like me…before.”

That landed like thunder. 

“You still have a chance,” she whispered. “Don’t let it slip away just to protect her from something that hasn’t happened. If she loves you—even still—she is not asking you for guarantees. She is asking you to try.”

Silence stretched between them.

“She thinks I sent her a love letter,” he continued, voice low. “She asked me about it. Brought it to me like a blade and demanded the truth. And for one terrifying moment… she believed I wrote it. That I could feel those things. Say those things.”

He ran a hand down his face. “And then I didn’t correct her quickly enough.”

“You didn’t lie either,” Violet said.

“No,” he agreed. “But I wanted to.”

He looked up at her then, vulnerable in a way she hadn’t seen since he was a boy.

“What if I can’t be what she needs?” he asked.

Violet reached up and touched his face gently.

“Then she will be glad you tried.”

She stepped back, gave his hand a soft squeeze, and began to walk away. 

“Anthony.”

He looked up.

“She is still yours…until the moment you decide she isn’t.”

Then she was gone.

And Anthony was left standing in the morning light, alone with his father’s name, his mother’s truth—and the weight of a future he was still too afraid to claim.

Meanwhile, at the breakfast table…

The morning sun spilled through the tall windows of Aubrey Hall’s dining room, casting warm golden light over a table already half-emptied of scones and scandal.

Hyacinth was buttering her toast like it owed her money. Eloise was absently reading the back of the jam jar. Daphne was pouring herself a second cup of tea, while Simon appeared to be nursing a subtle headache—likely the lingering effects of last night’s truth-fueled drinkathon. Edwina and Kate sat quietly near the middle, discussing the upcoming Hearts and Flowers Ball in hushed tones. Lucien was stirring his coffee lazily, looking entirely too smug for someone who had barely slept. And you were trying very hard to focus on your breakfast and not on the fact that Anthony still hadn’t shown up.

Then Gregory, with all the casual chaos of a thunderclap, tilted his head and said:

“Did anyone find a letter yesterday? We seemed to have lost one.”

You froze.

“…What do you mean we lost one?” you asked, the words sharper than you meant, a little too fast, your fork still halfway to your mouth.

Simon blinked. Daphne’s cup paused midair. Lucien, across the table, raised a brow in slow curiosity.

Gregory, oblivious, shrugged. “Benedict and I wrote a love letter.”

“A very dramatic one. It was an artistic experiment,” Benedict said proudly.

“We were bored and figured we’d mess with Eloise,” Gregory clarified.

“I’m sorry—what? I was meant to receive a fake love confession?” Eloise deadpanned.

“You were supposed to read it aloud!” Benedict added, reaching for the jam. “Dramatic. Anonymous. Dripping with poetic torment. It was going to be hilarious.”

“I didn’t get any letter,” Eloise said flatly.

“Well, the footman swore he slipped it under your door,” Gregory argued.

Gregory frowned. “Then where did it go?”

“Oh dear,” Hyacinth chimed in sweetly, “has your prank collapsed under the weight of its own idiocy?”

Gregory ignored her. “It’s gone. Vanished.”

“Maybe Newton ate it,” Eloise offered.

“Newton has better taste,” Kate murmured, sipping her tea.

Hyacinth narrowed her eyes. “Well then. Where did it go? It couldn’t have disappeared into thin air.”

There was a flicker of movement across from you—Lucien lowering his cup slowly, eyes narrowing just slightly. He was still smiling, still relaxed, but there was something new behind his gaze now. Sharp. Curious.

“I don’t suppose you wrote it under your name?” he asked dryly, glancing between Gregory and Benedict. “Because I’ll be honest, it’s terribly misleading. Someone might take it seriously.”

Benedict looked far too pleased with himself. “That was the point.”

Lucien chuckled—but his gaze didn’t leave you for a second. You were staring hard at your plate, suddenly too warm, too aware.

Simon and Daphne were both silent. Entirely too silent. Their expressions said everything.

Simon: Oh no.

Daphne: Of course it was a prank. Of course.

You: A fucking joke. I spiraled for twelve hours over a prank letter from GREGORY?!

Kate, ever practical, offered, “Perhaps it was delivered to the wrong room?”

Edwina nodded politely. “Or one of the maids might have picked it up, thinking it was for someone else.”

Lucien leaned forward a fraction, resting his elbows on the table, chin in hand.

“You alright, Angel?” he asked you lightly. “You’ve gone very quiet.”

Your smile was brittle. “Just… marveling at how much chaos a single letter can cause.”

Hyacinth let out a delighted gasp. “Wait—you got the letter?!”

You, Simon, and Daphne, in perfect synchronization: “No.”

Lucien kept watching you. A beat passed.

Then he reached for the marmalade.

He didn’t know what had happened, but the curve of your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes this morning. And Lucien Blackbourne was not a man who missed things like that.

Gregory shrugged and reached for another croissant. “Well, if it turns up, let us know. It was quite a masterpiece, if I may say so.”

“I swear, if you rhymed ‘passion’ with ‘ashen’ again—” Eloise began.

“—She never even got to read it!” Gregory protested.

Benedict laughed. “A true tragedy. Our finest work… lost to history.”

It wasn’t lost though.

It had detonated a series of emotional implosions last night that almost destroyed two people.

And it was supposed to be a joke.

You met Simon’s gaze. He raised his brows.

Daphne looked ready to strangle both her younger brothers.

You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

The letter hadn’t been from Anthony.

It hadn’t been from Lucien.

It hadn’t been from anyone.

Just Gregory. And Benedict. Bored and ridiculous. And somehow, they’d set fire to an entire week’s worth of emotional turmoil without even knowing.

You would absolutely kill them.

Later.

With something dull.

A while later…

Breakfast had ended in chaos. Emotional devastation, delivered courtesy of Benedict and Gregory’s creative idiocy, still lingered in the air like the scent of too-strong tea.

Now, the house shifted.

The hum of conversation gave way to purpose. Servants hurried through the halls with garlands of fresh flowers draped over their arms. Candles were trimmed and lit, flickering to life one by one in the chandelier above the ballroom. Long tables were extended beneath gleaming windows. A quartet rehearsed in the music room, tentative notes rising and falling as sunlight spilled through the lace-curtained glass.

Aubrey Hall was being transformed.

And its inhabitants were scattering accordingly.

Colin and Hyacinth had vanished—presumably to snoop through the drawing rooms and spy on the earliest arriving guests. Eloise was seen dragging Gregory by the collar toward the stables, likely under the guise of threatening him into silence before he caused any more emotional carnage. Benedict retreated with a sketchbook and a very smug expression.

You, however, quietly slipped away.

No fanfare. No dramatic exits. Just the soft excuse of “a short rest before the festivities.”

No one questioned it.

But rest was the last thing on your mind.

Your room was cool and dim. A breeze stirred the curtains. But your pulse had not slowed since the letter reveal.

It still sat on your desk—creased now, handled too many times. You stared at it from across the room, as if the paper itself might explain how it had unravelled so much in so little time. You didn’t know what disturbed you more: that it had been a prank, or that you had let it mean something.

Lucien had made you laugh that night. He had walked you to your door, and he had kissed your hand with honest affection. You didn’t regret that.

But you regretted what came after.

What happened in the library.

What almost happened in the library.

And now… you weren’t sure what you wanted anymore.

A knock at your door pulled you back into the moment.

“Angel?” Lucien’s voice was soft. “Just checking in.”

“I’m alright,” you called back after a beat. Too fast. Too bright.

A pause.

“Alright,” he said eventually. And then, “I’ll see you tonight.”

You closed your eyes after the sound of his footsteps faded. You weren’t sure if you were grateful or disappointed that he didn’t push.

Downstairs, the doors opened.

Anthony stepped through the threshold of the house just as the first carriage turned onto the drive.

His jaw was tight, the lines of his face carved deep from a morning spent breaking open truths beneath the oak tree that still held his father’s name. His cravat was barely re-tied. His boots tracked in a faint dust from the field.

He barely noticed.

Because he saw the carriages.

The guests.

The impending performance.

And the one woman he hadn’t been able to forget.

He straightened his jacket.

A servant passed him with a vase of roses.

Another carried a silver tray of wine glasses.

He barely moved.

And just like that, the estate was no longer just a home — it was a stage.

The curtains were drawn.

The players had arrived.

And by tonight, every mask would be tested.

Taglist: @bollzinurmouth @drewstarkeysrightarm @thorins-queen-of-erebor @yearninglustfully @khaleesibeach @ifilwtmfc

[plotbunnysyndrome]

More Than Honour

Chapter 33: In the Silence, You Answered

Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Introduction: One love letter. One assumption. One quiet meeting that nearly became a catastrophe. You were supposed to clear the air — instead, it added fire to an already smoldering battlefield. You came for closure — you left with confusion, guilt, and a heartbeat you couldn’t quiet.

The hum of conversation around you was little more than a blur now, a soft static behind the roaring inside your own head. Silverware clinked against porcelain. A candle guttered in the draft. Somewhere to your left, Daphne laughed at something Simon said.

You didn't move.

Your dessert — something delicate and sugared — sat untouched in front of you.

You gripped your fork tightly, knuckles whitening slightly as your thoughts spun wildly out of control:

It has to be him.

Anthony.

It couldn’t be anyone else.

You had ruled out Lucien. You had watched him laugh, lounge, charm — but when you had asked him, point-blank, about love letters, his answer had been too casual, too honest to be a lie.

Then it’s Anthony. It’s Anthony.

Your heart hammered painfully against your ribs.

Why would he send a letter? Why now, when everyone was under one roof? When Edwina was here, Lucien was here, and the ton was set to descend tomorrow?

He’s courting Edwina. He has been courting Edwina for weeks.

And you had Lucien. You had Lucien's steady hand, his teasing smiles, his unwavering gaze when the world tipped sideways.

Why is this affecting me so much?

Why does it feel like breathing through glass?

You picked up your spoon, set it down again.

Across the table, Anthony was laughing stiffly at something Colin said, but there was tension in his shoulders — the kind you knew too well, the kind he used to carry as a boy when he was trying too hard to appear unaffected.

Your gaze snagged on him again.

When did Anthony get so good with his words?

When did he become a man who could write something like that — soft and desperate and brave?

You swallowed hard. Your mouth felt too dry for the champagne you hadn’t touched.

Do I talk to him about this? Or do I pretend it never happened?

Would it change anything?

Would it break you both apart, or stitch something new together?

Would it even matter?

Do I want it to matter?

You pressed your palms against your skirts, willing yourself to calm. To think.

But there was only one answer, blinking to life inside you like a flare:

I have to know.

Otherwise, you would drive yourself mad wondering.

Otherwise, this letter — this trembling, anonymous hope — would rot and fester between you.

You force yourself to finish your dessert, tasting absolutely none of it.

You force yourself to laugh when someone says something funny, to speak when someone speaks to you.

All the while, your mind races ahead, already plotting.

You’ll send a note after dinner.

After everyone has gone to their rooms, after the house has settled into its evening hush — then you’ll act.

Quiet. Careful.

No one would know but the two of you.

The silverware had long since stilled. Only the clink of the last wine glasses and the soft shuffle of chairs disturbed the comfortable lull that had settled over the dining room. Faces were flushed from the warmth, the laughter, the lingering effects of a day too long and emotions too large.

Violet Bridgerton rose from her seat, a vision of poised benevolence in dusky blue silk. She lifted her wineglass lightly, commanding the room with nothing more than presence.

"My dear ones," she said, her voice the familiar balm that had soothed—and wrangled—this family for decades, "as delightful as tonight has been... and however many glasses have mysteriously emptied themselves..."

A ripple of soft laughter met her smile.

"I must remind you all that tomorrow brings the arrival of the ton. I would urge each of you to get some reasonable rest tonight—"

Her eyes twinkled mischievously.

"—before your reputations face the true onslaught."

Another chorus of chuckles rumbled through the table. Even Anthony managed a wry twitch of his mouth. Daphne outright snorted into her goblet. Somewhere down the table, Colin muttered something about being "irredeemable already," earning a smack on the arm from Eloise.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, the gathering began to rise.

You stood too, smoothing your skirts with hands that trembled just slightly — only slightly — from nerves no corsetry could contain.

Lucien was immediately at your side. As he had been all evening. As he had been every day since this madness began.

He offered his arm without a word, and you took it—grateful, guilty.

The corridor outside the dining room was dimly lit, the candelabras flickering soft gold across the polished wood floors. For a moment, it felt easy to simply exist beside him. To pretend that there was nothing caged and rattling inside your chest.

At the stairs, he paused.

"Sleep well, Angel," Lucien said, his voice a velvet murmur meant only for you. His smile was boyish, devastatingly earnest. "We’ve got a storm coming tomorrow."

Before you could reply, his thumb brushed along the back of your hand in a quiet, familiar touch — reverent, absentminded, natural. It carved a hollow ache into your ribs.

You managed a smile.

"Good night, Lucien," you whispered. "Thank you for today. It meant more than you know."

He smiled again, that same open, guileless way he always did with you.

He didn't suspect a thing.

That made it worse.

You watched him disappear down the hall toward his wing, his silhouette framed briefly in candlelight before vanishing around a corner.

Only then did you allow yourself to breathe.

You entered your room, shutting the door with a soft snick. The candles had been lit here too, bathing the room in a low, honeyed glow. The fire in the hearth had been banked low, crackling gently.

The letter — that damned, lovely, treacherous letter — lay tucked beneath your pillow like a secret waiting to ignite.

You sat on the edge of the bed and buried your face in your hands for a long moment.

This is madness.

But I have to know.

You rose, moving to your writing desk with deliberate care.

Your hand hovered over the parchment for a moment. Then, with trembling fingers, you picked up the quill.

The words came fast. Simple. Heavy.

“Meet me in the library. Tonight.

—(Your Initial)”

You folded the note once. Pressed it closed. And stood there, clutching it like it might burn you.

A soft knock came at the door.

It was one of the housemaids—young, trustworthy, used to Bridgerton antics but not yet jaded enough to question them.

You opened the door only a crack and slipped the note into her hand.

"Please," you whispered, voice barely audible. "Deliver this discreetly to Anthony. It’s...a private matter."

The maid nodded solemnly, her eyes wide but obedient.

No questions asked.

Bless her.

The door closed again with a sigh.

And you stood there, in the hush of the room, listening to the frantic pounding of your heart.

There is no turning back now.

Anthony’s Quarters…

The house had quieted into a hush.

Somewhere below, the last embers of the drawing room fires crackled. But here, in his private chamber, Anthony Bridgerton stood rigid by the tall window, half-lit by moonlight, unable — or unwilling — to move.

His coat hung off his shoulders, abandoned mid-motion. His brandy sat untouched on the sideboard, the glass sweating against the polished wood.

But it wasn’t the drink he was craving.

It was answers.

It was understanding.

Because all evening — through the clatter of forks against china, through the easy laughter and casual conversation that he forced himself to endure — he had felt it.

You.

Your glances.

Your gaze, cutting across the table like a secret he wasn’t supposed to know.

It had rattled him more than he dared admit.

What did I do? Why was she looking at me like that?

Did I give something away last night? Did I say something when I was drunk?

He had been careful.

Hadn't he?

The questions battered at him like a relentless tide.

Anthony clenched his fists, pacing a tight circle by the hearth, jaw tight enough to ache.

He didn’t notice the soft knock until it came again — firmer this time.

He straightened, voice rough.

"Come."

A maid entered, head bowed, and held out a folded parchment.

"A note for you, my lord. Delivered with urgency."

He took it automatically, fingers brushing the sealed edge — no crest, no embellishment.

Simple.

Unassuming.

But when he unfolded it, the breath he didn’t realize he was holding caught sharply in his chest.

Your handwriting.

Steady. Clean. Impossible to mistake.

One line.

Meet me in the library. Tonight.

For a moment, he simply stared at it, the words blurring against the pounding in his skull.

Confusion twisted cold through him. Followed by suspicion. Then a tighter, deeper pull he couldn’t name — something that had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with you.

Why now?

After everything?

He closed his eyes, inhaling slow, measured breaths.

Then a sharp, instinctive surge of restraint.

He wasn’t a boy anymore.

He knew better than to think—

No.

He folded the letter sharply, spine straightening like he was bracing for battle.

Don’t be foolish. Don’t read into this.

You’ve seen her. You’ve seen how she smiles at him. How she leans into him. As if the universe itself bent to keep her in his orbit. How she laughs like she’s free in a way she never was with you.

He pressed the bridge of his nose between his fingers, grounding himself.

You were happy.

This note — this sudden summons — couldn’t mean anything. It was probably a courtesy, or worse — a necessary cruelty. A final severance.

And yet — he tucked the parchment into his coat pocket.

Because if it’s war, I’ll survive it.

If it's goodbye, I will endure it.

If it’s nothing… then at least I’ll know.

And with a final, almost imperceptible exhale, Anthony turned on his heel without another word, striding into the hall like a man walking to the scaffold.

The door swung shut behind him with a soft, inevitable click.

In the library…

The clock ticked like it might betray you.

You stood near the bookshelf in the dimly lit library, arms folded tightly across your chest as your pacing slowed. The scent of old paper and smoke-tinged candle wax clung to the quiet like breath held too long.

Then—

The door opened.

Soft. Deliberate.

Anthony.

You turned.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Neither of you moved.

He closed the door behind him and took one step in.

Your voice was low. Steady.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Anthony blinked. His jaw set.

“I have not.”

You tilted your head. “You and I haven’t spoken since the races.”

“That’s not true. We spoke during that stupid Olympics the other day.”

You scoffed. “That game required us to speak to each other. It doesn’t count. We’ve never gone this long without truly talking.”

Anthony’s gaze flicked toward the window. “I do not recall you initiating conversation either.”

“Because I didn’t know what to say,” you replied. Your voice softer now. Wounded. “Not after the evening of the races, when you—”

He cut you off. “We do not have to discuss that. It was a mistake.”

You took a step closer. Not too close. Not yet.

“Oh, but I think you owe me an explanation for your confusing behaviour. First that song, then your complete avoidance of my existence, and now—”

You reached into your pocket and pulled it out, holding it up like evidence.

“This letter.”

Anthony’s brows knit. His shoulders stiffened.

You didn’t lower your hand.

“I do not think I deserve to be played with like this.”

He stepped forward and gently took the letter from your fingers. His eyes scanned the page quickly, then again more slowly.

“I didn’t write this, Y/N.”

You inhaled sharply. “Don’t lie to me, Anthony.”

“I’m not lying.” His voice edged with frustration, quiet but firm. “I truly didn’t write this. Look at the words. It must be Lucien.”

You shook your head, exasperated now. “It wasn’t Lucien. I confirmed that. Anthony, please. Just be honest about this letter.”

He looked at you — truly looked.

“In all the years you’ve known me… have I ever lied to you?”

You faltered.

Anthony held the letter up again. “This is not me. It’s not my handwriting, not my words.”

You swallowed.

“Then who...?”

Silence.

A breath passed. Maybe two.

Then he asked, quietly—

“Why did you think it was me?”

Your brows lifted. “What?”

Anthony stepped closer. Not dramatically, but with the calm of a man following an invisible thread.

“You read a letter filled with confessions. And you thought of me.”

You looked away. “I asked Lucien first.”

“But you still thought of me,” he pushed, just slightly.

Your voice dropped. “You’ve been so strange with me. Distant. And then the song…”

His eyes searched yours. “You read a letter that said ‘If you feel the same, say nothing. Just meet me in silence.’ And what did you do, Y/N?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

“You sent a note,” he continued, voice low. “To meet you. Here. In the library. No other explanation.”

He was in front of you now. Close enough to feel the warmth between you. The tension stretched, pulled taut across your skin.

His next words were nearly a whisper.

“Why would you do that… unless a part of you wanted it to be me?”

You opened your mouth to reply—but nothing came out.

So you asked instead, heart racing:

“Why would you sing that song to me, Anthony?”

He blinked.

“Why would you sing such a heartfelt song looking at me and then disappear the next morning?”

His lips parted. “Why would you think I’ve disappeared?”

“Because you haven’t looked at me once,” you said, fierce now, “like you used to.”

Anthony stepped even closer. His hand nearly lifted—almost touched yours.

“I haven’t looked at you… because if I do, I won’t stop.”

That hit something. Somewhere deep.

Your breath caught.

“But you’re with Edwina.”

He stilled. Just for a moment.

“No,” he said. “I’m courting Edwina.”

You whispered, “And I’m with Lucien.”

He nodded. “I know.”

Neither of you moved.

Neither of you pulled back.

There was only the sound of your breathing.

Then—

A step.

Your noses nearly brushed.

And just as your lips might’ve—

The door opened.

You and Anthony sprang apart as if the very air between you had caught fire.

Your heart was hammering in your ears as you turned — just in time to see Simon leaning lazily against the doorframe, arms crossed, one brow arched in infuriating amusement.

He looked between you and Anthony — the space that had been entirely too close — and smirked.

“Daphne sent me to get a book before bed,” Simon said, voice low and drawling. “But clearly, the only worthwhile story is happening right here.”

Anthony immediately straightened, his voice brisk and clipped. “Nothing is happening here.”

Simon’s grin widened, slow and wicked.

“Oh no, Bridgerton,” he said lightly. “If I had been a second later, I would have walked into a situation suspiciously similar to the one you walked in on with your sister and me.”

Anthony stiffened like he had been shot.

Simon stepped casually into the room, each step deliberate — predatory, almost — as he continued:

“And you know what that means, right?”

A long, lazy pause.

“You and I duel at dawn.”

Anthony — Viscount Anthony Bridgerton, known terror of the ton, proud and unflinching — visibly blanched.

“That is ridiculous,” he barked, a little too loudly.

Simon, to his everlasting credit, looked deadly serious for one glorious moment.

“No, it’s not. Y/N is like a sister to me.” His gaze shifted to you briefly, warm but protective, before pinning Anthony again.

Anthony let out a hiss of disbelief, one hand already half-raised as if to plead for sanity.

Simon cut him off with a single raised brow. “You know the rules. Compromise demands satisfaction.”

You opened your mouth — because this was spiraling faster than a Bridgerton snowball fight — but Simon lifted a single hand to silence you, still utterly composed.

“I must say,” Simon mused, almost thoughtfully, “I’m not even surprised it happened.” His mouth twisted into a dry smile. “But I am surprised you two were so callous about it. No locked door? No caution? If it had been anyone but me who walked in...”

His voice softened slightly, but the censure landed anyway:

“Reputations are fragile things. Yours more than anyone’s, Y/N.”

Anthony looked like he wanted to protest — violently — but no words came.

And you — heat prickling the back of your neck — knew Simon was right. Even if nothing had technically happened, the optics could ruin you.

Simon turned fully to you then, his voice losing all teasing edge.

“Y/N,” he said quietly, kindly. “I think you should go back to your room now. You need your rest for tomorrow. The ball is going to be exhausting enough without...complications.”

You swallowed hard, nodding once.

You didn’t look at Anthony.

You couldn’t.

You moved past Simon without another word — your skirts whispering over the floor, your heart a tangle of regret and adrenaline and something far more dangerous.

At the threshold, Simon touched your arm briefly — a reassuring squeeze. A promise.

And when you disappeared down the hall, Simon turned back to Anthony — who still stood frozen, fists clenched at his sides, looking like a man who had no idea how he ended up here.

Simon, ever the bastard, just smiled and said,

“Sleep well, Bridgerton. Big day tomorrow.”

Then he plucked a book off the nearest shelf — utterly unconcerned — and sauntered out, leaving Anthony alone in the wreckage of everything he hadn’t said.

The Aftershock…

The hallway outside the library was dark, the sconces burning low — but you barely noticed them.

You were too busy walking.

One foot in front of the other.

One breath at a time.

The door to your room closed with a soft click behind you.

For a moment — just a moment — you stood there, hand still on the knob, forehead resting lightly against the wood. Letting the silence wrap around you like a shroud. Letting the echoes of the last ten minutes chase themselves in circles inside your head.

Anthony's voice.

Your voice.

Simon’s interruption.

The unbearable closeness.

The almost.

You exhaled shakily, stepping back. Your skirts rustled faintly in the dark. You made it two steps toward the bed before the adrenaline finally left your body all at once, leaving your knees weak and your heart hammering in your chest.

You slid to the floor.

Right there, in the middle of your room, you sat. Knees pulled up, arms wrapped around them. Head tipped back against the bedframe.

It was too much.

Too much to feel.

Too much to understand.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

Anthony’s face burned behind your eyelids. The way his breath had hitched when you stepped closer. The way his hand had curled into a fist at his side, as though fighting himself with every ounce of strength he possessed.

The way he had asked—

"Why did you think it was me?"

You pressed your forehead against your arms, willing the thoughts away.

It wasn’t supposed to matter.

Not now.

Not when Lucien had been nothing but good to you.

Not when the entire ton was arriving tomorrow.

Not when Edwina was still standing there, hopeful, bright-eyed, and trusting.

You shouldn’t have called him to the library.

You shouldn’t have asked.

You shouldn’t have wanted—

Your throat tightened.

You had wanted him to kiss you.

God help you, a part of you had wanted it.

And that — more than anything — shattered you a little inside.

The letter still sat, clutched in your hand.

Mocking you.

You wanted to laugh.

You wanted to scream.

You wanted to rewind the entire day and stop yourself before you ever opened that cursed piece of parchment.

You stayed like that for a long moment — folded in on yourself, trying to breathe past the wreckage inside your chest.

Eventually, when your heart stopped trying to beat its way out of your ribcage, you lifted your head.

Swallowed.

Forced yourself upright, hands bracing against the mattress.

Tomorrow, you would have to pretend.

Tomorrow, you would have to be polished and smiling and untouched.

But tonight—

Tonight, you were allowed to break a little.

You climbed into bed, not bothering with the lamp, not bothering with the lace wrap draped at the footboard.

You slid under the covers.

Closed your eyes.

And tried — God, you tried — not to dream of a library, a confession that never happened, and a man you could no longer afford to love.

Taglist: @bollzinurmouth @drewstarkeysrightarm @thorins-queen-of-erebor @yearninglustfully @khaleesibeach @ifilwtmfc

[plotbunnysyndrome]

More Than Honour

Chapter 32: Love Letters and Other Accidents

Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Introduction: It began, as many minor disasters do in large country estates, with far too much time, far too little supervision, and at least one dramatic sibling armed with ink. A letter was written — extravagantly, anonymously, and with absolutely no sense of scale. Written as a joke, delivered by mistake, and read by exactly the wrong person.  In most households, the misdelivery of a letter might cause mild inconvenience. In the Bridgerton household, it causes existential panic. Widespread confusion, emotional misfires, and one girl trying very hard not to lose her composure while plotting dinner conversation like a spy. In unrelated news, Gregory and Benedict are not allowed near ink for the rest of the season.

The morning sun had no mercy.

It spilled through the Aubrey Hall breakfast room like an overzealous guest, illuminating every groan, wince, and questionable decision made the night before.

Colin shuffled in first, sunglasses on indoors, clutching a carafe of orange juice like it was a religious artifact. “If anyone speaks above a whisper,” he muttered, “I will bite them.”

Eloise followed, hair aggressively braided to hide the chaos of her hangover. “That was not wine. That was witchcraft.”

“I told you,” Benedict said, dragging his feet behind her, “that Lucien’s bottle of brandy had a death wish.”

Daphne, already seated with a perfectly arranged plate of fruit and a suspiciously smug look, sipped her tea. “I feel fine.”

Simon, beside her, deadpan: “She drank water between each glass. Like a monster.”

Then—storm clouds.

A pair of furious younger siblings exploded into the room like a comedic wrath of God.

Hyacinth, arms folded, eyebrow raised, voice sharp. “Excuse me. Is this the breakfast for people who deliberately excluded minors from emotional carnage and poor decisions?”

Gregory, trailing behind, flailing. “You left us out. Of drinking games. And a secret terrace party. AND BENEDICT READ SHAKESPEARE TO A FOOT.”

Benedict, sitting down slowly: “...I wasn’t proud of that moment.”

“You weren’t there, Hyacinth,” Eloise croaked, forehead on the table. “You didn’t see Colin try to waltz with a tree.”

Colin, not lifting his head from his folded arms: “The tree asked me first.”

Hyacinth narrowed her eyes. “I would have thrived.”

Gregory collapsed into a chair. “Did anyone at least duel?”

Simon, expression perfectly deadpan: “Verbally. Through poetry. And disappointment.”

Anthony entered next, late, composed, and wearing the expression of a man who had almost avoided being dragged into emotional warfare but was pulled into it anyway like a stubborn shipwreck.

Hyacinth spotted him instantly. “Ah, the brooder has arrived.”

Anthony poured coffee without comment.

Daphne grinned. “He laughed last night.”

Everyone looked at her.

Anthony sighed. “We were all drunk.”

“You laughed,” Benedict echoed, like he’d spotted a unicorn. “Like… a real laugh. With teeth.”

Hyacinth narrowed her eyes. “This is why we should be invited. History was made.”

From the hallway, the sound of two more arrivals.

You and Lucien walked in together, mid-conversation. You looked half-hungover, half-luminous, hair a bit tousled from sleep, eyes bright with mischief and exhaustion.

Lucien looked insufferably composed.

“Good morning,” he greeted, with just enough smugness to be slapped.

“Absolutely not,” Eloise mumbled into her toast.

Daphne’s eyes sparkled. “You two look well rested.”

You arched an eyebrow. “I can assure you, we were not.”

Anthony choked slightly on his coffee.

Hyacinth looked between the two of you, narrowed her eyes dramatically, then shoved a piece of toast in her mouth like it was popcorn and said, “Do go on.”

Lucien smirked and took the only empty seat left — next to Anthony.

You, traitorous creature that you are, sat beside Hyacinth, leaned into her, and whispered, “We did nothing scandalous.”

Hyacinth narrowed her eyes again. “That’s even worse. Because now I know something happened. You had a DRINKING GAME,” she hissed. “WITHOUT US.”

“You’re children,” Simon muttered.

Gregory gestured grandly. “I am fifteen years old. In many cultures, I would be married by now.”

Eloise peeked from under her cucumber slices. “In many cultures, you would also be beaten with a stick for trying to flirt with Lady Danbury’s niece last year.”

“That was one time!”

“And a terrible time,” Benedict groaned, massaging his temples. “I still have secondhand trauma.”

Lucien, ever smooth, sipped his coffee. “It was for your own good,” he said lightly. “Alcohol and Hyacinth is a combination no society is ready for.”

Hyacinth narrowed her eyes. “One day you will regret excluding me.”

“Is that a promise?” Daphne asked, grinning.

Hyacinth held up her fork like a dagger. “It is a prophecy.”

Gregory, sipping juice like it was wine, said, “I want a recount of every event I missed. Chronologically. With footnotes.”

Simon leaned across the table. “Did you not climb through the dumbwaiter last night?”

“I was locked out,” Gregory said, indignant. “And abandoned.”

Hyacinth raised her glass of juice. “To justice.”

Anthony groaned. “To silence.”

Lucien raised his teacup. “To encore performances.”

Colin, face still in his arms: “To someone removing the sun from the sky, permanently.”

You couldn’t help it. You laughed. Genuinely. Loudly. And just a little bit guiltily.

There was a lull in the laughter as Violet entered.

Poised. Regal. Entirely too awake for someone over forty who raised eight children.

She paused just inside the room, one eyebrow raised, surveying the scene like a general taking stock of casualties.

“Oh good,” she said brightly. “You’re all alive.”

A collective groan.

She moved to the head of the table, picked up a scone, and gestured vaguely at Colin’s collapsed form. “How is he still horizontal?”

“Guilt,” Eloise muttered. “And gin.”

“I’m never drinking again,” Colin whimpered from the depths of his cushion prison.

“You say that every time,” Violet replied, breaking her scone in half.

She glanced around. “I trust the adults-only escapades did not end with any broken bones, ruined reputations, or unplanned engagements?”

Anthony muttered, “Not for lack of effort.”

“Good,” Violet replied smoothly. “Then you’ll all be perfectly ready for tomorrow evening.”

There was a beat of silence.

A slow shift.

The words landed.

Tomorrow.

The Hearts and Flowers Ball.

You felt it first — that strange, queasy drop in the stomach. Not from the alcohol. From the weight of things left unsaid.

Simon sat up straighter. Daphne’s fingers stilled around her teacup. Lucien didn’t move, but his expression softened. Anthony’s jaw shifted.

Violet, noticing the shift, gave a serene little smile and stood.

“Do remember,” she said, brushing a crumb from her skirt, “we may host the event, but once the ton arrives… the show must begin.”

And then, like a queen bestowing a final warning, she swept from the room.

Silence lingered.

Then—

“Will there be weapons?” Hyacinth asked suddenly.

Every head turned.

“I mean,” she continued innocently, “if it’s a real Bridgerton event—shouldn’t there be, like…emotional dueling? Swordplay? Flaming scandal? I’d like to prepare.”

Gregory raised a glass. “To chaos.”

Benedict saluted with a butter knife.

And just like that, the mood cracked open again — laughter rolling over tension like a tide trying to delay the inevitable.

But the stillness remained, somewhere underneath.

Because tomorrow?

Tomorrow, the world will be watching.

Late Afternoon, Aubrey Hall Gardens

The garden behind Aubrey Hall was caught in that golden lull between hours — when sunlight felt slower, shadows stretched languidly across the gravel paths, and the roses looked like they were eavesdropping on secrets.

Lucien was walking beside you.

Not in the way men did when they were trying to impress.

No.

In the way men walked beside old friends, or favorite books, or unspoken prayers.

The two of you had wandered away from the main house after a midday meal that involved Colin attempting to teach Newton to fetch a scone (he failed), and Hyacinth challenging Gregory to a duel using butter knives (she won).

Lucien glanced at you, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. "You know, if we keep walking in circles, people might think we're lost."

You chuckled, nudging him lightly. "Perhaps we are. Lost in thought, maybe."

He raised an eyebrow, feigning offense. "Are you suggesting I'm not a man of profound contemplation?"

"Profoundly mischievous, perhaps," you teased, your eyes twinkling.

Lucien laughed, the sound rich and warm. "Guilty as charged."

As you continued your walk, the comfortable silence between you spoke volumes, a testament to the growing bond forged amidst the chaos of the past days.

Meanwhile, in the Drawing Room

Gregory lounged on the settee, a quill twirling between his fingers, eyes gleaming with mischief. Benedict sat opposite him, a parchment spread out on the table, ink bottle at the ready.

"I still think this is a terrible idea," Benedict remarked, though the amused glint in his eyes betrayed his words.

"Nonsense," Gregory replied, dipping the quill into the ink. "Eloise has been far too serious lately. A little levity will do her good."

Benedict sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Alright, let's hear it."

Gregory cleared his throat dramatically and began to dictate:

"My Dearest—"

"To say your presence lingers is to imply that it ever left me."

"There is no hour in the day where your name does not sit in the quiet of my chest, tucked behind every breath like a secret begging to be discovered."

Benedict raised an eyebrow. "You're laying it on a bit thick, don't you think?"

Gregory grinned. "That's the point. It's supposed to be over-the-top romantic. She'll read it aloud and realize it's a jest."

Benedict chuckled, shaking his head. "Very well. Let's finish it."

They continued crafting the letter, each line more dramatic than the last, until finally, Gregory signed it with a flourish:

"Yours. Always. In thought, if not in name."

He folded the parchment carefully, sealing it with wax. "Now, to deliver it."

In the Corridor…

A young footman, Thomas, passed by, and Gregory called out to him.

"Thomas! Could you do me a favor and deliver this letter to Miss Eloise's room?"

Thomas nodded, taking the letter. "Of course, Master Gregory."

As Thomas made his way upstairs, he paused, uncertain. The hallway was dimly lit, and the doors to the guest rooms looked remarkably similar. He hesitated before slipping the letter under the door to the left, unaware that he had chosen the wrong room.

Back at the garden…

The world had narrowed to this — gravel crunching beneath your boots, the slow flick of breeze through wisteria, Lucien occasionally tapping your shoulder with a leaf and claiming he’d “knighted” you.

“Sir Y/N of Minor Emotional Inconveniences,” he declared as he tucked a daisy behind your ear. “Defender of fainting debutantes and slayer of awkward silences.”

You swatted him. “You’re drunk on fresh air. It’s unsettling.”

Lucien just grinned, unbothered. “Or maybe I’m finally being myself.”

There it was — the unguarded charm. The mischief. The maddening ability to tilt the world slightly off-axis just by existing in it.

You nudged his shoulder. “You’ve been good for me, you know.”

Lucien blinked.

“Truly,” you said, more softly now. “You’ve made me laugh when I forgot I still could. You’ve reminded me that I don’t have to survive all of this with silence and stoicism. Sometimes... I can just be.”

He smiled then. Really smiled.

You didn’t say anything else, because it didn’t need saying.

And somewhere deep in your chest, beneath the lingering sun and the daisy behind your ear, bloomed something soft. Something you hadn’t dared name.

Not yet.

The walk ended just before the sun began its slow descent. You touched his hand lightly at the door to your corridor, offered a parting glance laced with warmth, and slipped inside.

Still smiling.

Which is why the letter on your pillow caught you off guard.

Folded with precision. Sealed with wax. 

You frowned.

Curious, you picked it up, noting the lack of a name on the front. Breaking the seal, you unfolded the parchment and began to read:

“My Dearest—

To say your presence lingers is to imply that it ever left me.

There is no hour in the day where your name does not sit in the quiet of my chest, tucked behind every breath like a secret begging to be discovered.

You are the thunder in a world of whispers. You are the place my gaze always lands—even when I try to look away.

I cannot sleep for fear I will dream of you and be forced to wake without you. I cannot speak your name without tasting regret that it is not followed by mine.

If love is real, it would arrive not gently, but like a flame that refused to be extinguished. That is what you are to me — fire, even in the dark.

Tell me—do you feel it too? That hush before we speak. That pause where the world holds its breath. That treacherous, delicious edge between what we want and what we dare?

If you do…say nothing. Just meet me in silence.

Yours. Always. In thought, if not in name.”

With each line, your heart pounded louder. The words were deeply romantic, echoing sentiments that felt all too familiar. One phrase, in particular, caught your breath:

“If love is real, it would arrive not gently, but like a flame that refused to be extinguished.”

You closed your eyes, that memory clawing at you.

Anthony.

The only other person you’d ever said that to. Whispered it once, reckless and private, during a rare, honest moment in the Bridgerton town estate library. So many months ago. Before the mess. Before Lucien.

Could this letter be from him?

A whirlwind of emotions surged within you—confusion, hope, fear. The possibility that Anthony harbored feelings for you, feelings he had kept hidden, was both exhilarating and terrifying.

The letter trembled slightly in your fingers.

It wasn’t fear, exactly.

It was the ache of possibility.

You sat at the edge of your bed, the pale parchment held like something sacred, something dangerous. The ink was elegant. Anonymous. The wording—flamboyant, theatrical, almost laughable in its excess—and yet…

A turn of words that felt like him.

Could it be him?

But Anthony wasn’t exactly the poetic type. And he certainly wasn’t the “anonymous confession” sort.

Unless…

Last night.

The drinking game.

The things he said. The look on his face when he surrendered his glass. When he didn’t fight the silence.

He was drunk. He had sung to you once when he was drunk.

Could this letter be another one of those slips?

You folded the page carefully, your thoughts a tangle of panic and fragile hope.

Unless… it wasn’t him.

The only other possibility—the only man who had the access, the drama, the sheer nerve—was Lucien.

But he’d been with you all afternoon. Every second accounted for.

Unless… he had someone deliver it. A scheme within a scheme.

He was sneaky like that.

You pressed your hand to your temple.

You’d have to ask. At dinner. But subtly.

Lucien couldn’t know you suspected Anthony—not if it was Anthony.

And if it wasn’t?

Well.

You weren’t ready for the answer either way.

Dinner — The Great Hall

You entered the dining room like a woman possessed.

Not that anyone would know.

Your posture was perfect. Your smile polite. But inside, your mind still burned with the letter, with that damn phrase, and the weight of who it could have come from.

You took your place at the long table, beside Lucien, across and diagonal from Anthony.

He didn’t meet your eyes at first.

But you kept glancing at him anyway, checking for any sign—any twitch of guilt, any tell.

He finally looked up—and caught you watching.

His brow furrowed slightly. Not with annoyance.

With confusion.

Alarm.

"Why does she keep looking at me tonight?"

"Did I accidentally say something last night? Did I confess something while drunk? No… I don’t think I did."

"THEN WHY DOES SHE KEEP LOOKING AT ME?!"

Lucien, beside you, leaned in slightly, voice low enough to escape all other ears.

"Angel," he murmured, soft and curious, "you’ve been staring into the void all evening. Have I done something terribly right?"

You blinked.

Right.

This was your chance.

Casual. Natural. Inconspicuous.

You turned to him, tilting your head slightly, letting your voice carry that same teasing warmth.

“Lord Blackbourne...do you think love letters are a good way to say what someone feels?”

Lucien paused, smile tugging at his lips, eyes dancing with something unreadable.

“Oh, Angel,” he said softly, voice like a secret, “where is the fun in that?”

You raised an eyebrow.

He leaned just a touch closer, his tone velvet.

“I much prefer declaring my love in person. So I can see the reaction. Feel it.” A pause, then with the slow grin of a man who always knows how close he is to danger. “But if you want one…I could write you a letter.”

Your breath caught—not from the flirtation, but the confirmation.

He hadn’t written it.

Then it had to be—

You turned your gaze, slowly, back across the table.

And then you laughed—too quickly, too nervously.

“I was just curious,” you said, trying to wave it off. “Not asking for one in particular.”

Lucien gave a slow, satisfied nod, turning back to his food.

And you?

You knew.

It had to be Anthony.

You glanced at him again. 

He was already watching you.

There was no anger there. No smugness. Just that raw, searching look — the one that had undone you more than once.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t look away.

He held your gaze.

Steady.

Searching.

Almost…wondering.

“Why is she still looking at me? What does she know?”

You blinked, looked down at your plate.

Your heart was beating entirely too fast.

Meanwhile—On the other side of the table.

Benedict took a sip of his wine, leaning back in his chair, posture relaxed.

Gregory nudged him under the table, eyes wide with anticipation.

“Did you see her face all through dinner?” Gregory whispered. “Do you think it worked?”

Benedict raised an eyebrow. “What worked?”

Gregory rolled his eyes. “The letter.”

Eloise, sitting on the other side of Gregory, turned sharply. “What letter?”

Gregory blinked.

Benedict froze mid-sip.

“The one we wrote,” Gregory said slowly, as if she should already know. “You were supposed to get it this afternoon, and we were expecting you to read it out loud. For laughs. Remember?”

Eloise frowned. “I didn’t receive any letter.”

Gregory paled.

Benedict groaned. “Well… shit.”

Gregory turned even paler. “Then… where did it go?”

Benedict winced and shrugged.

Taglist: @bollzinurmouth @drewstarkeysrightarm @thorins-queen-of-erebor @yearninglustfully @khaleesibeach @ifilwtmfc

[plotbunnysyndrome]

More Than Honour

Chapter 31: The Night That Defied The Morning

Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Introduction: Not every storm ends in destruction. Some leave behind only the softened hush of survivors — hearts still beating, laughter still echoing, love still stubbornly, impossibly alive.

The door shut with a soft click, sealing the remnants of chaos behind it.

The music room was silent now. Heavy with the ghosts of too many confessions, too many nearly-said things.

Only two figures remained.

Anthony crossed to the drinks cart, his boots making a low thud against the polished floor.

He poured a measure of brandy into a crystal tumbler—the motion practiced, almost mechanical.

Behind him, still sprawled lazily against the arm of a settee like a lord surveying his conquered kingdom, Lucien tilted his head.

"Pour one for me too, will you?" he said casually, voice light enough to be mistaken for teasing if one wasn’t listening closely.

Anthony’s hand stilled for half a second.

Then—without a word—he poured a second glass, setting it down with a soft clink on the table beside Lucien.

Lucien didn’t thank him. Anthony didn’t expect him to.

For a moment, they drank in silence.

The fire crackled low in the hearth. Somewhere in the house, muted laughter drifted from another room—the others shaking off the night the best they could.

Anthony glanced sidelong at Lucien.

Lucien, for his part, seemed perfectly at ease—twirling the glass in his hand, gaze flickering lazily across the room’s paintings and discarded glasses and half-drunken decanters.

Anthony cleared his throat.

“You don’t seem weighed down by it,” he said gruffly, more accusation than observation.

Lucien lifted an eyebrow. “By what?”

Anthony gestured vaguely. “Being a Viscount. The title. The expectations. The…damned legacy of it all.”

A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of Lucien’s mouth.

“Ah,” he said. He took a sip, savouring it. “I wear it differently, perhaps.”

Anthony snorted, low and rough. “You make it look easy.”

Lucien set his glass down, stretching his legs out. "It isn’t," he said, softer now. "It never is. But… you either carry the burden like a banner, or you hide it under a smile. Either way, it’s still heavy."

Anthony looked down at his drink, thumb running along the rim.

"Sometimes," he muttered, "I wonder if I’ll ever be good enough to outrun it."

He didn’t even know why he admitted that. To Lucien, of all people.

Lucien's voice was almost gentle. "Maybe you're not meant to outrun it."

Anthony looked up sharply.

Lucien shrugged, casual and careless on the surface, but there was something sharper underneath.

"Maybe you’re meant to reshape it," he said simply. "Into something only you could leave behind."

Anthony didn’t answer.

The fire crackled between them, eating away at the brittle edges of pride and silence.

And then—without warning—it shifted.

Lucien leaned back, studying Anthony like one might study an opponent across a chessboard. Not hostile. Not even challenging.

Just…curious.

"You love hard," Lucien said, the words easy and devastating all at once. "Whether it’s your family. Your duty. Your promises."

Anthony stiffened slightly. His jaw flexed once. "It’s what’s expected."

Lucien gave a low laugh. "No. It’s who you are."

The silence that followed was thick enough to cut.

And then—naturally, inevitably—the air twisted.

Anthony swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "She brings it out in people."

Lucien’s fingers drummed lightly against his own tumbler. "She does."

No name. No need.

They both knew.

Anthony didn’t look at him. Didn’t dare.

Lucien, for once, didn’t press. Didn’t provoke.

He simply said, voice low:

"She makes you want to be better."

Anthony finally lifted his head. Their eyes met.

A long beat.

"You think you can give her that?" Anthony asked, quiet. Uncertain if it was a challenge, or a genuine question.

Lucien smiled, slow and wrecked and unbearably soft.

"I think," he said, "she already has it. From herself. She doesn’t need saving."

Another pause.

Anthony exhaled, a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

"And you?" he asked, voice rougher now. "What do you need from her?"

Lucien tipped his head back against the settee, staring up at the ornate plasterwork on the ceiling.

"Nothing she doesn’t already give," he said, voice so soft it barely disturbed the air between them.

Anthony said nothing.

Lucien didn’t elaborate.

Two men, in the wreckage of a night too sharp for armor, sat drinking in a room full of things they couldn’t say — and the woman they could never quite let go of.

But for now — for this fragile, flickering moment — they simply existed.

Anthony leaned back in his chair, cradling his drink, staring at the fire like it might offer answers he didn’t have the strength to voice.

Lucien watched him for a moment longer — then, with a sigh as dramatic as it was deliberate, he set his own glass down and stretched like a cat uncurling after a long nap.

"You know," Lucien mused lazily, "I was fully prepared for tonight to end with one of us bleeding on the carpet."

Anthony, still staring at the fire, gave a low snort. "You would've deserved it."

Lucien clutched his chest theatrically. "Wounded, truly."

Anthony shook his head — and to Lucien’s everlasting shock — he laughed.

A rough, genuine sound.

Short. Unpolished. Startling in its realness.

Lucien blinked.

Anthony laughed.

It wasn’t a loud laugh. It wasn’t even a long one.

But it was real.

And it was enough.

Lucien grinned — slow, pleased, triumphant in the way only a man who had won something intangible could be.

"Well," Lucien said brightly, straightening his cuffs as if nothing monumental had just happened, "since I have achieved the impossible and made the Viscount Bridgerton laugh without resorting to blunt force trauma… I shall take my leave before I push my luck."

Anthony huffed, still half-smiling against his better judgement. "Get out before I change my mind."

Lucien bowed — an elegant, mocking little dip that somehow felt like genuine respect underneath the mischief.

"As you wish, my lord," he said.

And with that, he strode out of the music room, the soft creak of the door punctuating his exit — leaving Anthony alone with the fire, the silence, and the thousand things neither of them had dared say aloud.

But somehow…

It was enough.

For now.

Just seconds later—maybe ten…

Lucien, after leaving Anthony still chuckling in the music room, decides to take the long way back to his quarters.

The house is quiet.

The halls are dark, lit only by a few scattered candles.

He hears it first.

A burst of laughter.

Muted...but not enough.

Coming from the terrace that overlooks the garden.

Lucien, curiosity piqued (and maybe slightly amused), follows the sound.

When he reaches the terrace archway, he leans casually against the stone pillar — and sees:

Daphne perched up on the low balustrade, swinging her legs, still clutching a half-empty wine glass.

Simon sitting on the steps with his cravat undone and his jacket discarded, looking like a disheveled Greek statue, grinning ear-to-ear.

Colin, of course, lying flat on the grass below the terrace with a bottle balanced on his stomach, looking up at the stars like they might owe him money.

Eloise halfway through climbing the ivy trellis (because drunk Eloise is still an agent of chaos), while Benedict is halfheartedly trying to coax her down with another glass of champagne.

And you — sprawled lazily on a stone bench, head tilted back, laughing so hard that tears sparkle in your eyes.

Lucien catches it — the brightness of you, unburdened for once — and something softens violently in his chest.

Kate and Edwina, notably, are not there — probably the only ones responsible enough to actually go to bed like sensible adults.

The night was supposed to be over.

He was supposed to be heading toward his guest room, to sleep off the residue of wine and confessions that had marred the evening like ink spills on a love letter.

And yet…

Lucien stood just inside the archway of the west terrace, arms folded, watching with the faintest, rarest smile tugging at his mouth.

The sight before him was ridiculous.

It was glorious.

It was alive.

And then—

You spotted him.

You tipped your head back, eyes glinting under the stars, and pointed dramatically with a wobbly finger.

"What are you, a Viscount or a coward?!" you shouted, grinning wide.

The others erupted into cheers and whistles.

Lucien chuckled — an honest, helpless sound — and pushed off the pillar with a slow, theatrical bow.

Colin, lying flat on the grass like a victorious corpse, waved a hand. "If he's here," Colin slurred, "then Anthony must be summoned! Solidarity, you fool!"

"Solidarity!" Eloise echoed, hanging halfway off the ivy trellis like a drunken pirate demanding tribute.

Simon, swaying to his feet with the gravitas of a man preparing for war, declared, "Fear not! I shall retrieve the beast!"

Benedict lifted his champagne glass solemnly. "Godspeed, brave soldier."

Simon saluted, nearly lost his balance, caught himself, and staggered off toward the house muttering something about ‘dragging old men back to the light.’

Minutes Later…

Anthony appeared.

Dragged bodily onto the terrace by Simon, who was laughing so hard he nearly dropped him.

Anthony stumbled out with a scowl deep enough to frighten the ivy, dragging his heels like a man being marched to execution.

His cravat was askew. His jacket missing. His glass still in his hand like a weapon.

"What the hell is this?!" he barked.

Simon patted him companionably on the shoulder. "It's your intervention."

Anthony glared at him.

Then glared at all of you.

Then sighed — long, suffering — and muttered, "If I'm already damned, I might as well sit down."

He dropped into a random chair with the kind of heavy resignation usually reserved for condemned men.

You shrieked with laughter and raised your glass. "Victory!"

Lucien moved easily, sinking down next to you on the cold stone bench, his leg brushing yours.

And just like that—

The night exploded.

It began with Colin launching into an extremely drunk, extremely off-key rendition of a sailor's ballad he swore he'd heard in a tavern once.

It somehow turned into a contest of "who can sing the worst."

Daphne sang. (It was terrifying.)

Simon tried to harmonize. (It made it worse.)

Benedict added interpretive dance. (Someone would have to bleach the stone later.)

Eloise — God bless her — started reading dramatically from a random pamphlet she’d stolen from somewhere ("The Agricultural Benefits of Turnips") like it was Shakespeare. 

You were laughing so hard you fell sideways off the bench.

Lucien caught you effortlessly — arms sliding around your waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"You," he murmured against your temple, "are going to be the death of me."

You just giggled, shameless, and stayed exactly where you were.

Anthony watched.

Quietly.

Tightly.

His knuckles white around his glass.

Then came the dares.

Eloise dared Simon to proclaim his undying love for Daphne at full volume. (He did. Violet’s bedroom window lit up.)

Benedict dared Colin to climb the statue of the falcon. (He tried. Failed. Swore revenge.)

Daphne dared you to recite the alphabet backwards. (You got as far as "Z-Y-X... lemon?")

Colin slurred, lying dramatically back on the grass: "Never have I ever... pretended to like poetry to impress someone."

Three people drank immediately.

(You did. You blamed Benedict.)

Eloise challenged everyone to compliment the person they secretly liked least in the room.

(You refused. Lucien winked at you.)

Simon insisted the stars were spinning.

Lucien leaned over to whisper, "No, darling. That's just us."

Anthony sat stiffly for a long time.

Arms crossed.

Back rigid.

But little by little — one smirk, one huff of laughter, one begrudging sip of his drink at a particularly terrible pun from Colin — he cracked.

Just a little.

And when Benedict fell off the balustrade trying to "gracefully leap like a gazelle," Anthony actually, audibly, laughed.

Everyone froze.

Simon gasped dramatically. "He's alive!"

Colin pumped a fist into the air. "He's one of us now!"

Anthony, red in the face, just muttered, "You're all idiots," and took another long swig.

But he was smiling.

And the tension that had wrapped around all of you — thick, suffocating, invisible — eased.

Not gone.

Not yet.

But eased.

As the moon slid higher and the stars blinked lazily overhead, the chaos slowed.

Daphne curled against Simon’s side, wine glass forgotten, whispering sleepy stories.

Benedict ended up lying on the terrace stone next to Colin, both of them pointing at constellations and arguing whether one was a dog or a duck.

Eloise fell asleep on the bottom step, mumbling about revolution.

You sat tucked against Lucien’s side, your head on his shoulder, his hand tracing lazy circles on your back.

Anthony sat nearby.

Silent.

Watching.

Guarding.

Maybe — just maybe — letting himself be guarded too, tonight.

For once.

By you.

By all of you.

By something bigger than pride or duty or heartbreak.

By family.

By belonging.

A while later—as you make your way to your room.

The hallways of Aubrey Hall were soaked in soft candlelight and the faint hush of a house finally succumbing to sleep.

Except for you.

And for Lucien.

You giggled again — breathless and barely upright — as you stumbled over a runner in the hallway. Lucien caught your elbow easily, steadying you like he had been all evening without so much as blinking.

"Careful, Angel," he murmured, voice low and amused. "I’d hate to explain to Lady Bridgerton how her favorite troublemaker broke an ankle at half past two in the morning."

You leaned into him instinctively, head against the warm, steady plane of his arm. “You'd think after the emotional trauma and public drinking, she'd forgive one sprained limb,” you mumbled.

Lucien laughed — that rare, low laugh that always felt like velvet slipping loose from its bindings. "Tempting fate, are we?"

"I specialize in it," you said loftily, waving your free hand before it nearly smacked a priceless vase.

Lucien caught that too — your wrist this time — a little firmer, a little closer.

You looked up at him then.

And God, even drunk, you could see it.

The tenderness.

The way his smile softened when it was just for you.

The way he had been orbiting you all day without ever asking for more.

The way he caught you every time.

The walk back to your room wasn’t far. But it stretched long, filled with laughter and little half-steps and half-held breaths. And when you finally reached your door, still half-holding onto his coat for balance, you didn’t let go.

Not yet.

Instead, you turned to him — chest brushing chest — your hand still clutching the soft fabric over his heart.

Lucien stilled.

"Lucien," you whispered, words slipping from your lips before you could tame them, "you’re…"

You shook your head, frustrated by the smallness of words.

"You’re good."

He blinked. Once. Slowly.

You barreled on, tipsy and unstoppable.

"You are..."

You pressed your palm against his chest.

"...steady. And ridiculous. And kind in ways no one expects."

You felt him breathe in, sharply, but he didn’t interrupt.

"You make people laugh. You make me laugh."

A softer smile touched your lips.

"And when everything was messy — when everything was falling apart — you were the only one who made it feel like it could be fun again."

Lucien stared at you like he didn’t quite know what universe he had woken up in.

"And you deserve," you said fiercely, voice wobbling with a sudden swell of everything you couldn’t say sober, "everything good in this world, Lucien Blackbourne. You deserve someone who sees you."

Silence wrapped around you like silk.

Lucien's hands lifted — hesitating — before one rested carefully at your waist, the other feather-light against your cheek. Not pulling. Not demanding.

Just... there.

Your laugh hiccupped into a shiver.

His eyes dropped to your mouth.

Yours to his.

Slow.

Unhurried.

A lean-in that wasn’t a demand but a question.

And just before it could tip into something irreversible —

You shifted.

Turned your head slightly.

Pressed your lips gently against his cheek.

Warm. Lasting. Devastating.

Lucien froze — his eyes slipping shut, his fingers twitching against your waist — but he didn’t pull you closer.

When you drew back, you smiled, blurry and fond, the weight of it almost too much to bear.

"I meant it," you whispered.

Lucien opened his eyes — and God, if you had been sober, it would have broken you.

Because in that look was every battlefield he had ever crossed, every mask he had ever worn, and something deeper still:

Hope.

Fragile and stubborn.

Hope, even when he knew better.

He stepped back — slowly, deliberately — bowing his head once like you were something holy.

And with a smile that was half mischief, half reverence, he murmured:

"Goodnight, Angel."

And turned away before either of you could destroy the moment by staying a second longer.

You watched him go — the steady sound of his boots retreating down the hall — before finally, finally slipping into your room and closing the door with a soft click.

Your heart was still racing.

Your palm still tingled from where it had rested against his chest.

And as you leaned back against the door, eyes fluttering closed, a small, secret smile bloomed on your lips.

Because drunk or not...you had meant every single word.

And tomorrow?

Tomorrow would be waiting.

But for now—

Tonight was yours.

In the quiet, without expectation, where hearts whispered truths braver than daylight could bear.

Lucien—The Walk Back.

He didn't remember the exact moment the wine had stopped numbing him.

Maybe it was when you laughed — truly laughed — at something utterly stupid he had said.

Maybe it was when you had clutched his coat like a lifeline without even realizing it.

Maybe it was when your lips — soft, warm, impossibly gentle — had pressed against his cheek with a reverence he wasn’t sure he had ever deserved.

Lucien walked slowly down the darkened corridor, past the flickering candles and the distant sounds of the house settling into sleep.

Every step felt too heavy.

And too light.

Like he might sink through the floor, or float away altogether.

His cheek still burned where you had kissed him.

Not from passion.

Not from possession.

But from something infinitely rarer:

Affection.

You had meant it.

That was the part that undid him most.

You had meant it.

He reached the landing that overlooked the gardens, where earlier madness had erupted into laughter and terrible singing, and he paused — hand resting on the cool stone of the banister.

The night air brushed his face, sobering and sweet.

Lucien closed his eyes.

For a moment, he let himself have it.

Not the dream of winning you.

Not the desperate fantasy of keeping you.

Just this:

That for one perfect night, you had looked at him like he was good.

That you had chosen — freely, fearlessly — to offer him a piece of your heart, even if it wasn’t the piece that could stay.

A slow, rueful smile tugged at his mouth.

He hadn't needed more than that.

He could live on less.

Had lived on less for most of his life.

But this?

This quiet, aching joy?

He would carry it until the day he died.

Lucien tipped his head back, staring up at the stars — drunken little diamonds scattered across the sky — and let out a long, shaky breath.

"You're trouble, Angel," he murmured into the night.

"But you are the best kind of trouble I've ever known."

And with a small, quiet laugh — almost disbelieving — Lucien pushed off the railing and disappeared into the shadows of the hallway, carrying your laugh in his pocket like a stolen jewel.

He didn't look back. He didn't have to.

You would stay with him anyway.

Long after the night faded. Long after the laughter died down. Long after the world moved on.

You were already written into the spaces between his heartbeats.

And Lucien Blackbourne had never been a man who forgot the important things. 

Not ever.

Taglist: @bollzinurmouth @drewstarkeysrightarm @thorins-queen-of-erebor @yearninglustfully @khaleesibeach @ifilwtmfc

[plotbunnysyndrome]

More Than Honour

Chapter 30: Wounds We Drink Like Wine

Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Introduction: Not all battles are fought with swords. Some are fought with glasses raised, with smiles too wide, with silences too heavy. And by the time you realize you are bleeding — you are already laughing too hard to stop. It began with a game. It ended with confessions poured like brandy. And somewhere in between, the brave ones forgot to hide their wounds.

Aubrey Hall – Music Room, Post-Dinner

The music room at Aubrey Hall had been many things over the years — a place for sonatas, scandalous whispered gossip, the occasional swordfight between Gregory and Hyacinth — but tonight, it had transformed into something far rarer.

A battlefield.

Of liquor.

Of loyalty.

Of spectacularly bad decisions.

The siblings (plus a few carefully chosen extras) had thrown open the windows to let in the soft night breeze. The scent of roses and mischief clung to the air. A crackling fire was lit in the hearth, casting a warm glow over the room.

Pillows had been dragged onto the carpet. Coats shrugged off. Slippers found. Someone — Benedict, almost certainly — had discovered a stash of half-melted chocolates and was tossing them at Colin like ammunition.

It was, in short, perfect.

The "young adults," as Violet had grandly declared them earlier (with a pointed look at Hyacinth and Gregory), had been granted the room for the evening.

“Alcohol,” Violet had said, lips twitching in the way they did when she was being unfair on purpose.

“Adult conversation,” Lady Danbury had added, cackling.

"Regrettable decisions," Simon had muttered under his breath.

And so, Gregory and Hyacinth had been shooed upstairs under the threat of being made to polish silver if they protested. (They absolutely protested. They were still polishing.)

Which left:

Daphne and Simon curled together on the small tufted sofa.

Eloise sprawling dramatically over an armchair, Benedict perched lazily on the floor beside her.

Kate and Edwina tucked primly (at first) onto the smaller settee.

Anthony stiff-backed on a rogue dining chair, sleeves rolled up but spine ramrod straight.

You, blissfully lounging on a nest of pillows on the floor, tucked comfortably against the sofa where Daphne and Simon sat.

Lucien, naturally, claiming the floor beside you, his long legs folded in a posture of practiced ease, his elbow a casual brush away from yours.

Colin, gleeful, commanding the drinks cart like a battle captain preparing the first volley.

The night smelled of brandy and ambition.

Colin clapped his hands.

"All right, miscreants," he declared, grinning. "I hereby declare the inaugural Aubrey Hall Adult Games Night officially begun."

Eloise groaned. "You sound like Gregory."

"Drink for that insult," Colin quipped.

Simon raised an eyebrow, amused. "And what game of questionable wisdom are we starting with?"

Colin grinned wider. "Never Have I Ever."

A beat.

Then, a collective groan.

"Perfect," Benedict said, already reaching for his glass. "Nothing says subtlety like self-sabotage."

Colin explained with unholy glee:

"Rules are simple. You say something you've never done. Anyone who has done it —"

He pointed dramatically at the liquor cart —

"—drinks."

He poured a generous shot into everyone's glass.

"First round's mercy," he said. "After that, no mercy."

You leaned back into your pillow throne, lifting your glass in a mock toast. "To chaos, then."

Lucien, lounging beside you, smiled lazily. "To spectacular regret."

Anthony just took a slow, slow sip before anything had even started.

Round 1: Colin

Colin, predictably, started with maximum mischief.

"Never have I ever —" he paused for effect, "— fallen into the Serpentine while trying to impress a lady."

Half the room turned to Benedict.

Benedict sighed, raising his glass high, and downed his drink.

"I was fifteen," he said defensively.

"You were seventeen," Daphne corrected sweetly.

Everyone roared with laughter.

Round 2: Daphne

Daphne, cheeks pink with amusement, lifted her glass.

"Never have I ever," she said serenely, "been caught sneaking into the library after hours."

Simon immediately took a drink.

So did Benedict.

And, with a slight, guilty glance sideways — you.

Lucien caught the movement and arched an eyebrow at you, amused.

"Research," you said primly.

"Was the research vertical or horizontal?" Benedict muttered.

You kicked a pillow at him.

Round 3: Simon

Simon leaned back, sipping his drink with lazy precision.

"Never have I ever," he said smoothly, "been chased by a goose while attempting to impress someone."

Eloise snorted.

Colin drank, looking very put-upon.

"Geese are vicious," he muttered into his cup.

Kate looked suspicious. "Explain."

"It involved a picnic basket," Colin said grimly. "And misplaced confidence."

Lucien looked delighted. "I must hear this story."

Colin glared at him. "You won't."

Round 4: Eloise

Eloise sat forward, fire in her eyes.

"Never have I ever," she said proudly, "been the cause of a public brawl."

Anthony drank without hesitation.

So did Benedict.

Lucien lifted his glass with a smirk and drank too.

You blinked. "You?"

Lucien smiled serenely. "My definition of 'brawl' is quite broad."

Anthony just muttered something dark under his breath about Lucien's very existence being antagonistic.

Round 5: Benedict

Benedict, always ready to cause mayhem, smirked.

"Never have I ever," he said, voice light, "accidentally confessed something incriminating to the wrong sibling."

There was a pause.

Then Colin groaned and drank again.

Daphne nearly fell off the sofa laughing.

Lucien gave a scandalized gasp. "To which sibling?"

Colin buried his face in his hands.

"Hyacinth," Benedict supplied.

"She was eleven," Eloise choked.

"It was a misunderstanding!" Colin protested. "She tricked me!"

Simon just shook his head in wonder.

Round 6: Kate

Kate, smiling slyly now, lifted her glass.

"Never have I ever," she said sweetly, "dropped a dance partner mid-waltz."

Edwina blinked, scandalized.

Anthony took a drink without shame.

So did Daphne, a little sheepish.

Simon smirked. "Define 'dropped.'"

"Define 'mid-waltz,'" Anthony shot back, deadpan.

Round 7: Edwina

Edwina, giggling already (her cheeks suspiciously pink from very little alcohol), lifted her glass with a determined expression.

"Never have I ever," she said brightly, "told a fib to avoid a suitor."

You, Kate, and Eloise all drank without hesitation.

Lucien pretended to look shocked. "Fibbing? In society?"

You leaned toward him, conspiratorial. "Sometimes survival requires creative narration."

"Remind me to stay on your good side," Lucien murmured, just loud enough for you to hear.

Anthony, meanwhile, was glowering into his glass. 

Round 8: Anthony

Anthony, stiff, reluctantly lifted his glass.

"Never have I ever," he said gruffly, "attended a party intending to cause trouble."

Lucien drank immediately, grinning.

So did Colin.

Benedict raised his glass. "I feel attacked."

Simon simply took a slow, dignified sip.

You caught Anthony’s subtle side-eye at Lucien and hid a smile behind your glass.

Round 9: You

It was your turn.

You tapped your chin theatrically.

"Never have I ever," you said with exaggerated innocence, "used someone else's identity to escape a boring conversation."

Lucien laughed under his breath.

Simon drank.

Eloise drank too.

And — with a long-suffering sigh — Benedict drank.

"Define 'identity,'" Benedict muttered, grinning into his glass.

"Define 'boring,'" Simon added dryly, setting his drink down with a thud.

You just smiled sweetly.

The fire crackled.

The glasses clinked.

The alcohol had begun to sing low and sweet in everyone’s blood — loosening posture, sharpening grins, blurring the line between friendly teasing and something far more dangerous.

They were still laughing, yes.

But the kind of laughter had changed.

It had teeth now.

Round 10: Colin (again, the instigator)

Colin, emboldened by too much brandy and not enough self-preservation, leaned forward, eyes gleaming.

"Never have I ever," he declared, "been caught in a compromising position in a garden."

There was a scandalized squeak from Edwina.

Kate raised an eyebrow.

Lucien — entirely unbothered — drank with an elegant flick of his wrist.

Simon, fighting a grin, also drank.

Benedict, looking extremely unrepentant, raised his glass high and drank.

Daphne turned pink but drank.

You, trying very hard not to smile too much, lifted your glass too and drank.

Eloise threw a pillow at you. "You absolute traitor."

Anthony didn’t drink.

But his eyes sharpened — catching Lucien’s drink — and narrowed just a fraction.

You felt it, like a brush of fire across your skin.

Lucien, lounging beside you, didn’t even blink.

He just leaned back on one elbow, gaze lazy and unreadable.

Round 11: Daphne (mischievous now)

Daphne smirked over the rim of her glass.

"Never have I ever," she said sweetly, "kissed someone in a way that left them unable to speak."

A gasp. Laughter. Fake scandal all around.

Benedict immediately drank.

Simon drank with an almost bored elegance.

Lucien drank with a ghost of a smirk.

You — cheeks heating — drank as well.

Colin blinked and drank too, almost offended. "What, it was one time!"

Kate blushed furiously but drank.

Even Anthony... after a long, long moment... drank.

Edwina looked like she wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole.

Eloise cackled.

"Well, that explains so much," she said, wiping tears from her eyes.

You nudged Lucien with your knee, playful. "You’re looking rather proud of yourself, my lord."

He leaned closer, voice low. "I never aim to leave anything half-felt."

You almost choked on your drink.

Anthony looked like he might break the chair he was sitting on.

Round 12: Simon (deadpan but wicked)

Simon’s voice was cool, casual — and devastating.

"Never have I ever," he said, "been considered a scandalous match."

The silence was deafening.

You drank.

Lucien drank.

Daphne drank, eyes twinkling.

Kate — after a pause — drank.

Simon drank himself, because of course he did.

Anthony didn’t drink.

Neither did Edwina.

Colin — shrugging — took a long sip.

"Define scandalous," Colin said cheerfully.

"You’re a Bridgerton," Simon replied. "Scandal comes standard."

Round 13: Eloise (cackling chaos)

Eloise, tipsy and dangerous, grinned.

"Never have I ever," she announced, "had to pretend I wasn't in love with someone."

You froze for a heartbeat too long.

Benedict drank.

Simon drank.

Kate drank, after a visible pause.

Colin hesitated — then drank too.

You — heart pounding — slowly, slowly lifted your glass and drank.

And out of the corner of your eye—

Lucien drank.

Quietly. Easily. Without show.

But he drank.

Your heart twisted so hard you almost felt dizzy.

Anthony... didn't move at first.

Then, after a long, taut breath — he drank too.

No one commented.

No one dared.

The laughter, for the first time, stumbled.

Round 14: Benedict (quickly trying to lighten it again)

Benedict, ever the savior of awkwardness, lifted his glass.

"Never have I ever," he said with grand cheer, "ridden a horse drunk."

The room burst into chaotic laughter.

Simon drank immediately.

Colin drank, swearing under his breath.

Lucien — predictably — drank.

You, suppressing a grin, lifted your glass.

Benedict looked betrayed. "You too?"

"I never said I was good at it," you said primly.

Anthony just muttered something about reckless behavior, and glared at Lucien for good measure.

Round 15: Kate (with razor-sharp sweetness)

Kate, her smile soft but her eyes sharp, lifted her glass.

"Never have I ever," she said lightly, "wanted something I knew I shouldn’t want."

Oof.

You felt that like a punch to the ribs.

Lucien — unbothered, unreadable — drank.

Simon, slowly, drank too.

Daphne drank.

Kate herself drank.

Colin drank after a hesitation.

And Anthony—

Anthony drank like it hurt him.

You… you drank too.

But slower.

Almost reverently.

A shiver ran through the room.

Not from the alcohol.

From the way the laughter had shifted again — heavier now.

The room pulsed with the competitive, chaotic energy that only came when a group of highly intelligent, highly reckless young adults decided that pride mattered more than dignity.

Round 16: Colin (puffing up like a rooster)

Colin, ever the show-off, grinned like a boy with matches in a library.

"Never have I ever," he said grandly, "talked my way out of a scandal before it became public."

A low hum went through the room.

Lucien — with no shame whatsoever — drank.

Simon, very coolly, drank.

Benedict hesitated — then drank with a sheepish smile.

You laughed and drank, because of course you had.

Daphne, blushing faintly, lifted her glass and drank.

Kate didn’t drink.

Edwina, bewildered but smiling, didn’t either.

Anthony…

Anthony stared into his drink, then drank in one swift motion.

Colin cheered. "Look at that! The Viscount himself has been a secret menace."

Anthony gave him a look that could curdle milk.

Round 17: Benedict (dramatic and petty)

"Never have I ever," Benedict said, waving his empty glass like a sword, "been kissed by someone with the wrong intentions."

The room groaned.

Lucien drank first — lazily.

Simon drank with a slight smirk.

Kate... after a pause, drank too.

Daphne drank, face slightly tight.

You... you drank slowly.

Colin — surprised — drank.

Even Anthony drank.

Eloise frowned. "Wait, does it count if you were the one with wrong intentions?"

Benedict beamed. "Absolutely."

She rolled her eyes but drank anyway.

Round 18: Eloise (grinning maliciously)

Eloise, fueled by spite and sherry, tossed out:

"Never have I ever let someone believe something about me that wasn’t true."

A vicious one.

You drank — because of course you had.

Lucien drank, so slowly and smoothly you almost didn’t catch it.

Simon drank, smiling thinly.

Benedict drank.

Colin drank.

Kate…hesitated. Then drank.

Anthony didn’t move at first.

But after a long, miserable beat—he drank too.

It tasted like guilt.

It tasted like every word unsaid.

And the room—the entire room—felt it.

Even Edwina, sweet, tipsy Edwina, blinked like she was seeing her future slip sideways.

Round 19: Simon (throwing a casual grenade)

Simon, ever the tactician, leaned back.

"Never have I ever," he said coolly, "wanted something badly enough to burn for it."

Silence.

You drank.

Lucien drank—so lightly, it almost didn’t register.

Daphne drank.

Simon drank himself, no hesitation.

Kate drank.

Anthony…

Anthony stared at his glass so long it almost became painful.

His fingers whitened around the glass — like he could will the fire out of himself if he just held still enough.

And then he drank.

Hard.

Like it cost him something.

Colin, to save the mood, made a ridiculous gagging sound and fell backward onto the carpet.

Everyone laughed—but the laughter was a little too sharp.

Round 20: Kate (dangerously sweet)

Kate — who had been watching everything far too carefully — lifted her drink with deadly grace.

"Never have I ever," she said gently, "hurt someone I didn’t mean to hurt."

You didn’t even hesitate.

You drank.

Lucien drank — but for once, his hand was slow.

Simon drank.

Kate drank herself.

Daphne drank — and smiled softly at Simon over her cup.

Anthony drank like it hurt.

Colin drank, eyes flickering briefly to Benedict.

Benedict...hesitated.

Then drank too.

Even Eloise, unusually serious, drank.

Edwina blinked at her empty glass and hugged it to her chest like a shield.

The mood by now:

The air was syrupy.

Thick with unspoken things.

Somewhere in the corner, Colin had abandoned decorum entirely and was lying flat on the floor, looking like a painting of Tragic Overindulgence.

Eloise was sprawled sideways in her chair, ranting vaguely about double standards.

Daphne and Simon kept stealing tiny glances at each other — little anchors in the storm.

You sat on the floor, knees drawn up, Lucien’s shoulder brushing yours every so often like a lifeline.

Anthony looked carved out.

Still sitting upright in his chair.

Still fighting a war no one else could see.

And Edwina, sweet, gentle Edwina, barely tipsy, clung to her half-filled glass and laughed too brightly at all the wrong moments.

The room was looser now.

Slumped bodies. Half-filled glasses.

But the lightness has seeped out—drained by the weight of too much honesty.

And as with all dangerous games, when the laughter fades, only pride—and pain—remain.

Round 21: Benedict (sly, but softer now)

Benedict — trying to nudge things lighter again — smiled lazily.

"Never have I ever," he said, "lied about my feelings to protect someone else."

You drank. Instantly.

Lucien... paused.

Then drank — slowly, deliberately.

Simon, with the faintest curve to his mouth, drank.

Daphne drank too, exchanging a look with Simon that said entire volumes.

Kate drank. Without looking up.

Anthony didn't even try to pretend otherwise.

He drank.

Colin frowned, clearly considering if falling for your best friend’s girl in university counted. Then shrugged and drank too.

Eloise, to no one’s surprise, drank proudly and flipped off the entire room.

Round 22: Eloise (firing a loaded arrow)

"Never have I ever," Eloise said, voice sharper now, "thought about running away from everything expected of me."

That... hit.

Hard.

Simon drank. Without any hesitation.

Lucien drank.

You — you drank too, something bitter catching in your throat.

Kate drank, her fingers tight around her glass.

Daphne drank, her smile small and sad.

Even Anthony —even Anthony, the Viscount with duty etched into his bones —even he drank.

A tiny sip.

But a sip nonetheless.

Edwina sat still — too still. 

Her hands folded neatly in her lap. 

Her smile a shade too steady, like a girl clinging to a dream fraying at the edges.

Round 23: Simon (and here — the shift truly happens)

Simon, ever the tactician — ever the man who knew how to twist the knife — leaned forward slightly.

Voice quiet.

Almost kind.

"Never have I ever," he said, "wanted to love someone... and not known how."

The air snapped.

It didn't bend.

It broke.

You drank.

Lucien drank.

Simon drank, of course.

Kate drank — fiercely.

Benedict drank, almost sheepishly.

Anthony drank. And it nearly undid him.

There was a terrible quiet around him afterward.

Not pity.

Not judgement.

Just... a knowing.

The room saw him.

The cracks he tried to hide.

The part of him that still thought love was a battlefield — and he, too broken to win it.

And Edwina — poor, sweet Edwina —looked at Anthony like she was realizing something she didn’t have words for.

The warmth in the room had long since shifted.

What had once been laughter and bright mischief had stretched into something slower, heavier.

Glasses sweated on the wood. Pillows sagged where people slumped deeper. A low buzz of tipsy daring hung like static in the air.

Simon and Daphne were curled closer on their little sofa, the glow from the lamp painting them in soft, forgiving light. Eloise leaned her chin on her fist on the armchair, hair mussed, expression bright and defiant. Benedict was half-splayed on the floor near her, toes nudging Colin, who had somehow claimed the central rug and the drinks cart as his personal throne.

Kate and Edwina perched neatly on their couch — though Edwina was quietly listing sideways, blinking slowly at her nearly empty glass. Anthony sat in his pulled-up chair, posture still too upright, too tense, as though holding back the inevitable.

And you — wrapped in pillows against the sofa at the center of it all — tilted your head back to hide a slow, blooming flush.

Lucien had not once shifted away from you. His knee brushed yours. His shoulder tilted just enough to feel the weight of him.

His presence: a constant, steady current beneath the rising tides.

The game had been funny. It had been scandalous. It had been competitive.

Now?

Now it was something else.

Colin, grinning too wide and flushed with drink, leaned forward dangerously and announced,

"Alright, my innocent little heathens. Brace yourselves. We're heading into murky waters."

He lifted his glass, smirked at the room.

"Never have I ever… loved someone I shouldn’t have."

The air sucked out of the room.

For a beat, no one moved.

And then — quietly, almost invisibly — Simon took a sip.

Kate’s fingers hesitated on her glass before she drank too.

Benedict laughed softly — a short, self-deprecating sound — and drank.

And Lucien… Lucien lifted his glass without flourish. Without apology. And drank.

A beat of silence followed. Not judgment. Not shock.

Just the quiet knowledge of heartbreak worn like a second skin.

Your heart thudded.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Anthony grip the arm of his chair — but he didn’t lift his glass.

He stared across the room at nothing.

Colin, blinking like he hadn’t meant to hit a nerve, coughed. "Right. Well. That went well."

Nervous laughter rippled.

The bottle passed.

Eloise's turn.

Her eyes, wicked and sharp even through the haze, narrowed mischievously.

"Fine. Since we’re in the pit already: Never have I ever ruined a perfectly good match because of sheer, stubborn pride."

The blow landed like a whip crack.

Simon snorted and drank immediately.

Benedict followed.

Kate hesitated — then with a sigh, drank too.

Anthony didn’t move.

He didn’t need to. The guilt was practically visible.

Your hand trembled slightly around your glass.

This wasn't playful anymore.

This was delicate surgery performed with broken swords.

The bottle creaked as it moved.

Kate’s turn.

She leaned back, lifting her chin, eyes tired but fierce.

"Never have I ever wished I could be someone else. Just once. Just to make it easier."

A heartbeat.

You didn’t even hesitate. You drank.

Simon followed you.

Benedict — who had been half-laughing all night — drank, sober now.

Lucien turned his glass once between his fingers... then drank too.

And finally — painfully — Anthony lifted his glass and swallowed.

The air in the room thickened.

Colin — sweet, drunk Colin — looked vaguely like he regretted ever inventing this damn game.

Edwina’s turn.

Bless her soul, she smiled brightly, almost dreamily. "Never have I ever… lied to impress someone!"

Everyone groaned.

Everyone drank.

The tension splintered for a moment, just enough for soft laughter to return.

Lucien bumped his knee against yours and murmured, "At least the child still sees the good in us."

You smiled. You couldn't help it.

But the current had shifted.

They were balancing on a precipice now — laughter thinning to the soft edge of something else.

Anthony's turn.

He sat stiffly, glass cradled like a lifeline.

"Never have I ever… regretted a single thing I've done in pursuit of duty."

The words were brittle.

Sharp.

You swore the room flinched.

Daphne, sitting with her hand curled through Simon’s, drank first.

Simon drank too.

Kate — silent and proud — drank.

And to everyone's surprise, Lucien drank.

A small, slow sip.

Your chest ached.

Because Anthony didn’t drink.

He just sat there, like he believed himself still right. Still justified.

Still bleeding.

The bottle passed. It was in your hands now.

Your pulse pounded.

You could feel the game teetering — the edge of some unspoken cliff.

The room held its breath as you set your glass down lightly on the ground beside you.

You leaned back against the sofa cushions, your voice steady, though something in your chest felt tender and bruised.

"Never have I ever..."

A pause. You met no one’s gaze. Only the fire.

"…been deceived by the person I loved."

The words floated into the room like smoke — delicate, poisonous.

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

And then — quietly, deliberately — Daphne lifted her glass.

Simon’s eyes snapped to her, just for a moment. His hand twitched, as if he wanted to reach for her. But she drank without looking at him, a small sip, almost graceful. Like it didn’t hurt. Like it hadn't once nearly broken her.

Benedict moved next. He tipped his glass back with a slight, almost careless flick of his wrist, like he'd forgotten they were playing a game at all — as if the admission cost him nothing. But the way he refused to meet anyone’s eyes told another story.

Across from you, Anthony — still perched stiffly in his chair — exhaled through his nose. Short. Sharp. Controlled. And then, almost like a man surrendering to an execution, he lifted his glass and drank.

The silence was thick. Weighty. Uneasy.

You thought, for a moment, that would be it.

But then — Colin.

Colin Bridgerton, who had laughed the loudest all evening, who had teased and grinned and slouched so easily against the music room’s paneling — Colin’s hand moved toward his glass.

He hesitated.

Just for a second.

Then he drank.

A full, bitter mouthful — not the tiny sips the others had taken.

Colin stared down at the half-empty glass in his lap, his knuckles white around the stem. His mouth opened — closed — opened again.

And then, very quietly, almost like a confession wrenched from the deepest place inside him, he whispered:

"Marina."

The name hit the room like a cannon blast.

Everyone froze — as if the syllables themselves had ripped the air apart.

You heard Edwina’s sharp intake of breath. Eloise's hands fisted into the fabric of her skirts. Kate’s mouth pressed into a thin, unyielding line. Even Lucien, usually a master of unreadable expressions, looked stricken for half a second.

Colin didn’t look at any of you.

He just stared at the glass in his hand — like maybe, if he concentrated hard enough, the ground wouldn’t collapse beneath him.

The silence stretched — thin and sharp and unbearable.

And then, mercifully—

Simon shifted.

He rose to his feet with a quiet authority that needed no announcement.

“This," he said, his voice low but firm, “is where we end the game.”

No one protested.

No one even breathed.

Simon crossed the room in three strides, reaching for Colin’s glass, gently prying it from his hand. He didn’t speak again. Just set the glass aside, one large hand clapping briefly on Colin’s shoulder — a solid, anchoring touch that said everything words couldn’t.

Slowly, the others began to stir — shifting, rising, collecting themselves with awkward hands and even more awkward glances.

The evening had shattered.

And there was no putting it back together.

You stayed seated a moment longer, staring into the fading embers, feeling the ghosts of the night still clinging to your skin.

In the end, it hadn’t been you, or Anthony, or Lucien, who broke first.

It had been Colin.

And somehow — somehow — that made it hurt even more.

Taglist: @bollzinurmouth @drewstarkeysrightarm @thorins-queen-of-erebor @yearninglustfully @khaleesibeach @ifilwtmfc

[plotbunnysyndrome]

More Than Honour

Chapter 29: The Best of Intentions (and Other Catastrophes)

Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Introduction: They thought the games had ended. They thought the medals and the laughter had closed the story. But the heart has its own tournaments — Ones no one volunteers for. Ones you don't always win.

It began, as most terrible ideas do, in the Bridgerton household’s least supervised corner: Benedict’s studio.

The air smelled of oil paints, turpentine, and unfinished opinions. Sunlight slanted through the high windows, pooling over canvases and crumpled sketches. It was the perfect breeding ground for bad decisions.

Colin burst in, carrying two teacups and absolutely no sense of restraint.

“He looked like he wanted to kiss her,” he announced, without preamble.

Benedict, hunched over a canvas, didn’t even glance up. “Lucien or Anthony?”

Eloise, sprawled across the window bench like a bored cat, didn’t miss a beat. “Exactly.”

A beat of silence. Heavy. Knowing. Slightly charged.

Hyacinth, perched cross-legged on a stool, let her teacup clink a little too perfectly against the saucer. Her eyes gleamed.

“This cannot continue,” she declared. “Someone’s going to end up in tears. And it’s going to be Anthony. And frankly, no one wants to see that. He’s bad enough when he stubs his toe.”

Daphne, who had arrived under the guise of “checking on Benedict”, exhaled into her tea like a woman preparing for war. “We cannot interfere.”

“We must interfere,” Hyacinth countered, nearly vibrating with righteous chaos. “It’s our sibling duty.”

Colin, leaning on the edge of the desk with no regard for Benedict’s art supplies, added, “Edwina is a sweetheart. She doesn’t deserve to be caught in…whatever this is.”

“An emotional thunderdome,” Gregory supplied helpfully from the floor.

Benedict finally looked up, paintbrush in hand, expression bone-dry. “What do you propose? A duel? A séance? Poison Anthony’s tea and hope for clarity in the afterlife?”

“No,”  Hyacinth said, sliding off her stool with the fervor of a general unveiling her battle plan. “We gently—elegantly—nudge Lucien and Edwina together.”

The room fell still.

Eloise blinked. “You mean…redirect the romantic narrative entirely?”

Colin raised a brow. “You’re proposing we reassign the feelings?”

“Exactly!” Hyacinth beamed. “I saw them laughing together after dinner. They would make a good pair. They're both lovely. They're both... available.”

Gregory, eyes wide, nodded like it was gospel. “Like musical chairs. But with love.”

Daphne looked like she was experiencing a migraine in slow motion. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”

Hyacinth had already produced a chart.

“Lucien,” she said, pointing, “is charming, wealthy, scandal-free—shockingly—and enjoys drama. Edwina is sweet, impressionable, and has absolutely no idea she’s in the middle of an emotional minefield.”

Colin looked at the chart like it was a treasure map. “What’s this column labeled ‘explosion risk’?”

“That’s Anthony,” Hyacinth said simply.

The Plan:

Eloise was to distract you ("Just ask her about her latest book. She'll forget the world exists."). Gregory and Colin would orchestrate Lady Danbury’s interference to keep Anthony occupied (“just say the word duty a few times, that’ll send him into an existential crisis”), and Benedict would “casually” escort Lucien toward the garden("You appreciate scenic hedges, don't you?").

Flower petals were somehow acquired. Daphne to somehow play violin from the window without breaking into visible hysterics. Hyacinth to oversee “general atmospheric meddling.” Violet was given a very confusing reason to go shopping with the other two Sharmas.

No flaws. No cracks.

Foolproof.

(Obviously.)

And then…it began.

The Execution:

The garden at Aubrey Hall was radiant in the early afternoon light—fragrant with roses, dappled in gold—and suspiciously littered with flower petals.

Edwina Sharma, book in hand, wandered down the path, her brow faintly furrowed at the sudden and excessive floral ambience.

A string of petals curved unnaturally toward the arched trellis. Beneath it stood a bench. Beside the bench stood Lord Lucien Blackbourne. Perfectly posed. Impossibly nonchalant. As if he had merely happened to wander into a romance novel.

Edwina blinked. “My lord. I didn’t expect—”

Lucien turned, the picture of politeness...and mischief barely restrained.

“Miss Sharma,” he said warmly, bowing slightly. “Forgive me. I was lured here by tales of an unusually dramatic hedge.”

From the bushes, Colin fist-pumped in victory.

Edwina smiled, a little puzzled. “It is...picturesque today.”

“I agree,” Lucien said, looking around with faux curiosity. “Quite dramatic use of petals. One might suspect…orchestration.”

From the shrubbery, Gregory hissed, “Abort! He knows!”

Lucien extended an arm like a perfectly rehearsed gentleman. “Shall we walk?”

Edwina, gracious as ever, accepted. “Of course.”

They began to stroll beneath the trellis.

And then—the violin.

A soft, slightly strangled trill from the top window.

Lucien paused mid-step,  head tilted.

“...Was that music?”

Edwina looked around in confusion. “It...sounded like Vivaldi.”

Daphne, from her perch, pretended very hard to be an innocent breeze.

Lucien sighed. Theatrics, then. He knew this game. But he chose—deliberately, tenderly—to play along.

“Not the worst accompaniment for a stroll,” he said, offering his arm.

“I must admit,” he said, glancing sideways at Edwina with mock solemnity, “this is not the first time I have been led into an orchestrated garden rendezvous.”

She laughed softly, “No?”

“No,” he continued. “Though in fairness, the last time involved a chandelier and considerably more fire.”

“You are joking,” she said, amused.

“Regrettably, I am not.”

Edwina tilted her head, watching him with renewed curiosity. “And did that rendezvous go well?”

Lucien smiled slowly. “It ended in scandal. And someone—” he paused, gazing down the path with meaning, “—not me, nearly combusted.”

Edwina blinked. “Do you mean—?”

“I mean,” he interrupted gently, “you should ask her sometime how she survives being near me.”

Behind the hedges, Eloise gasped. Colin fell sideways into Benedict. Hyacinth squeaked.

Elsewhere in the estate…

Anthony, locked in a conversation with Lady Danbury about Yorkshire land values, suddenly froze mid-sentence. His eyes narrowed. His fingers twitched.

Lady Danbury stopped. “Viscount?”

Anthony’s jaw tensed. “I can sense,” he said slowly, like a man piecing together a psychic crime scene, “that something absolutely horrendous is happening. Somewhere.”

Lady Danbury, without missing a beat:

“Well, that’a first. You’re usually the cause.”

Back in the garden…

They wandered past rose beds and dappled sunlight, Lucien spinning increasingly ridiculous tales of scandalous garden mishaps, each more absurd than the last.

Edwina laughed—truly laughed—and for a moment, the ache behind Lucien’s eyes softened.

This, he thought, was kindness.

Not lies.

Not false hope.

Just giving her a bright afternoon to remember.

At the end of the path, he bowed low.

“Miss Sharma,” he said, voice light, “thank you for indulging a scoundrel’s promenade.”

She curtsied, cheeks flushed with amusement. “It was...unexpectedly delightful.”

As she walked back toward the house, her footsteps soft on the absurdly placed petals, Lucien turned toward the hedges.

He said nothing.

Just lifted one sardonic brow.

And from behind the roses, six Bridgertons ducked out of view like guilty rabbits.

The Debrief:

It was not five minutes after Edwina and Lucien had returned from their scenic walk that the Bridgerton siblings reconvened in Benedict’s studio, which had officially become the headquarters for emotionally irresponsible operations.

The room was in a state of mild panic and even milder denial.

Hyacinth paced, clutching her feelings chart. Gregory was under the table again. Colin spooned jam straight from the jar.

“He knew,” Benedict said, collapsing into a chair and dragging a hand through his curls. “He knew from the start.”

Eloise crossed her arms. “Well of course he knew. He’s Lucien Blackbourne. He probably orchestrated it better than we did.”

“He played along,” Colin said, grinning. “Did you see the way he said ‘combust’? It was theatrical. It was almost kind.”

Daphne, standing at the window with a fresh cup of tea and an expression of weary grace, finally said, “It was chaos.”

“Organized chaos,” Hyacinth corrected, holding up her chart. “I had contingency arrows. We executed it perfectly.”

Gregory, muffled from beneath the table: “You put a violin in a bush.”

“I didn’t ask her to play,” Hyacinth snapped.

“You absolutely did,” Daphne called back, unbothered.

Benedict waved a paintbrush in the air. “Look, the important thing is: Edwina smiled. She laughed. She didn’t seem…miserable.”

Colin chimed in. “Lucien didn’t look miserable either. He looked like a man enjoying the role of a lifetime.”

“He indirectly brought up Y/N,” Eloise muttered, still offended. “I mean—what are we even doing here?”

“Saving everyone from heartbreak,” Hyacinth said brightly, twirling her pencil like a wand. “We are preventing emotional collapse.”

Daphne raised her eyebrows. “Are we?”

The room fell uncomfortably quiet.

Hyacinth’s voice dropped, sincere now. “ We just…we just don’t want Anthony to break again. And we don’t want Lucien to get hurt. And we don’t want Y/N to have to choose between them when she looks like it’s already killing her.”

Benedict looked up at that. So did Colin.

Gregory crawled out from under the table, brushing off dust. “So we are doing it because we care.”

Hyacinth nodded. “Exactly. That’s why it’s fine that it’s a little unhinged.”

The door creaked open.

All heads turned as Lucien stepped inside, utterly calm. 

He glanced around the chaos. At the chart. A t the violin case. At the jam jar.

A living crime scene.

“You know,” he said slowly, “I don’t know whether to be flattered or deeply, deeply concerned.”

Colin opened his mouth.

Lucien raised a hand. “Before you ask—yes. I knew. From the first misplaced petal.”

Eloise cursed under her breath.

Hyacinth dropped her pencil.

Lucien stepped further in, hands behind his back, posture regal. Lucien’s mouth curved—fond, faintly sad. “But for what it’s worth...” 

He looked around at their panicked, hopeful faces.

“At least your hearts were in the right place.”

“Did it…work?” Gregory asked timidly.

Lucien tilted his head, then smiled. “Miss Sharma is lovely. Gentle. Kind. Unaware of the minefield around her.” He paused. “But she is not the woman I’m trying to distract myself from.”

Hyacinth looked vaguely betrayed.

Colin muttered, “I knew it.”

Daphne, sipping her tea: “I told you.”

He smiled—rueful, beautiful.

Lucien moved to the door, pausing just before leaving. He looked over his shoulder, amused. “And for what it’s worth...I approved of the chaos.”

With that, Lucien turned and left, the door falling softly shut behind him.

Leaving behind six Bridgertons, one empty jam jar, and the unmistakable sound of hearts being both broken—and mended.

All at once.

A while later—before dinner.

The drawing room was bathed in the soft spill of early evening light, windows flung open to let in the scent of roses and cooling grass. A string quartet could be heard faintly from the distant music room — one of Violet’s efforts to "civilize" the lingering chaos of the Bridgerton Olympics aftermath.

Anthony sat properly on the settee, posture crisp, voice even.

Edwina perched beside him, luminous in pale blue, her smile easy and undemanding.

Across the room, Kate sat with a hoop of embroidery in her lap, though the needle had not moved in several minutes.

They made polite conversation — as they always did.

Books. Politics. The weather. A witticism from Lady Danbury about marriage being a full-contact sport.

Anthony listened, responded, nodded at the right places.

He was the model of a suitor: gracious, attentive, composed.

Only Kate, watching closely, could see the faint tightness at the edges — like a man gripping the rails of a ship in rough seas.

Edwina set down her teacup, tilting her head in a gesture of casual delight.

“I had the most amusing stroll this afternoon,” she said brightly. “With Lord Blackbourne.”

Anthony’s hand did not quite tighten on his own cup.

Not enough for a scene.

But enough for Kate to see it.

“He is rather charming,” Edwina continued with unthinking fondness. “He made me laugh until I nearly dropped my book.”

There was a beat.

And then Anthony — smooth, precise — said, “Lord Blackbourne’s talents seem boundless.”

The words were impeccably polite.

And yet, something snapped under them.

A thread stretched too thin.

Kate’s eyes narrowed slightly over her embroidery.

Edwina, oblivious, laughed. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Though he does have an easy manner. It must be nice to be so…” she searched for the word, “…unbothered by expectation.”

Anthony’s mouth thinned almost imperceptibly.

Kate’s needle finally moved — just once, stabbing the fabric a bit harder than necessary.

Anthony forced a smile. “A rare gift,” he said. “One not afforded to all of us.”

There it was.

A heartbeat too sharp.

A bitterness he hadn’t meant to show.

Edwina, sensing perhaps some shift she could not name, blinked and smoothed her skirts.

Anthony recovered quickly — offered another compliment, asked after her book, redirected with perfect grace.

But the current had shifted.

Kate could feel it in the air.

And then—

The door opened.

And you stepped in.

You paused on the threshold, caught mid-thought — the gentle conversation, the soft laughter, the perfect tableau of courtship unfolding before you.

Anthony turned his head at the same moment.

And for one suspended second —

You looked at him.

He looked at you.

Neither of you smiled.

The space between you was filled with Edwina’s laughter, the whisper of Kate’s embroidery needle, the golden light of a late summer evening.

And something else.

Something heavier.

You looked away first.

Your heart pinched — a strange, soft ache — as you turned, pretending you had only wandered in by accident.

You slipped back through the door before anyone could call after you.

And as you walked down the hall, the voices behind you growing fainter, you thought — not for the first time:

I have Lucien.

Lucien, who makes the world brighter just by standing beside me.

Lucien, who chooses me without hesitation, without fear.

And yet —

Some tiny traitorous part of you still hurt.

Still wondered.

Still whispered:

"Why wasn’t it ever this easy with him?"

A few minutes later…

The gardens behind Aubrey Hall were quieter now.

The chaos of the day had ebbed into a low hum — distant music, occasional laughter carried on the breeze. But here, tucked away near the old marble fountain, the world felt slower. Smaller. Almost manageable.

You sat on the edge of the fountain, fingers trailing absent shapes in the cool water. Your gown caught the last of the sun, gold-threaded and gossamer, but you barely noticed.

Your mind was elsewhere — walking corridors it shouldn’t.

Turning over glances you hadn’t meant to catch.

Words you hadn’t meant to hear.

You closed your eyes, breathing deep.

And then —

A shadow fell across you.

You opened your eyes to find Simon standing a few feet away, hands casually tucked into his pockets, expression open and deceptively light.

"Well," he drawled, voice low and amused, "either you're hiding from Hyacinth’s next plot... or you've finally accepted that the only sane course of action in this house is strategic retreat."

A corner of your mouth lifted, just barely.

"Maybe a bit of both," you murmured.

Simon’s smile deepened — but it was gentle.

He walked over, dropped into a seat beside you, sprawling with the kind of ease only earned by years of surviving Bridgerton-level chaos.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The fountain burbled softly between you. A rose petal floated past your fingers.

Finally, Simon tilted his head to look at you.

"You know," he said conversationally, "I’ve watched armies prepare for less brutal campaigns than what’s brewing inside that house."

You snorted, soft and involuntary.

Simon bumped his shoulder lightly against yours.

"And the funny thing is," he added, "everyone’s so busy guarding their own territory... they've all forgotten to check if the battlefield itself wanted a war."

You went very still.

He wasn’t looking at you — not directly.

But you could feel the weight of the question beneath his casual words.

Are you alright?

Do you want any of this?

Has anyone even asked you?

You stared into the fountain. Watched the ripples distort your reflection.

"I didn’t start it," you said quietly, your voice barely above the whisper of the water.

"But... maybe I didn’t stop it either."

Simon hummed low in his throat — a sound of understanding, not judgment.

"Hard thing, isn’t it?" he said softly. "When the heart wants to be chosen... but doesn’t want to choose."

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

Simon leaned back, arms stretched lazily across the fountain edge, eyes half-lidded against the setting sun.

"I spoke to Lucien," he said after a moment. "He’s... careful. Trying not to break anything he can’t fix."

"And Anthony?" you asked before you could stop yourself.

Simon’s smile thinned.

"Anthony," he said carefully, "is trying very hard not to want what he’s already halfway lost."

The breeze stirred your hair.

You closed your eyes, swallowing down the messy knot rising in your chest.

Simon’s voice was kinder now. Lower.

"And you," he murmured, "are standing in the middle of all of it — pretending you aren’t bleeding."

A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it.

Simon didn’t comment. Didn’t reach for you.

He just... stayed.

Solid. Warm. Quiet.

A tether, in a house spinning out of control.

After a long moment, you wiped your face with the heel of your hand, laughing weakly.

"Hyacinth would call me a tragic heroine," you muttered.

Simon grinned.

"She’d call you an icon," he corrected. "And then she’d start a revolution in your name."

You laughed for real this time — wet and cracked, but real.

Simon bumped your shoulder again, light and familiar.

"No more battles tonight, hmm?" he said, tilting his head. "Let the fools fight themselves into exhaustion. You deserve a little peace."

You nodded, your heart lighter by a fraction.

Simon stood, offering you a hand like a knight out of some battered, chaotic fairytale.

You took it.

And for the first time that day —

You didn’t feel quite so alone.

Back at the house…

The hallway outside the drawing room was steeped in soft golden light.

You barely had time to breathe after Simon left you — an arm of warmth and steadiness escorting you back inside — before you spotted her.

Kate.

Standing by the side table where fresh flowers had been placed, one hand trailing the stem of a rose absently, the other tucked neatly behind her back.

She smiled when she saw you. But it was a quieter smile than usual.

Almost…weighted.

You approached, careful not to startle whatever strange peace was holding the air between you.

“Miss Sharma,” you greeted, voice soft.

She chuckled — but the sound didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“We are past such formalities, are we not?”

You smiled, heart squeezing with unexpected affection. “Kate.”

She nodded once. “May I have a word?”

You glanced toward the drawing room — where Anthony and Edwina still lingered — and back again.

“Of course.”

Kate hesitated.

The sunlight caught the side of her face, outlining the determined tilt of her chin — the same stubborn set you recognized in yourself sometimes.

The one that masked fear with duty.

She folded her arms lightly.

Not confrontational.

Protective.

“Forgive me if I overstep,” she said.

“But I am…concerned.”

Your throat tightened before your mind even caught up.

Concerned.

Not accusing.

Not blaming.

Just concerned.

“For Edwina?” you asked quietly.

Kate’s gaze flickered — just for a breath — before steadying.

“She is…young. Sweet. She believes in love stories.”

A beat.

“She believes Anthony might be hers.”

You pressed your hands together, fingers tight against the fabric of your skirts, anchoring yourself.

“I know,” you whispered. “I have seen it.”

Kate watched you carefully.

Weighing. Measuring.

“And you?” she asked.

It was not a cruel question.

It was a terrifying one.

You forced a smile, felt it tremble at the edges.

“I am only here to help them, Kate. That was always my intention.”

You tried to laugh lightly. “It is supposed to be them. Everyone has said so. Violet asked me to help him find happiness. And he seems to have found it — with Edwina.”

Kate didn’t correct you.

Didn’t soften.

Only looked at you for a long, terrible moment —a woman who understood how easily duty could turn into sacrifice.

And then, gently:

“You may have convinced yourself, Miss Y/N,” she said. “But you have not convinced the room.”

Your heart stuttered.

Kate stepped closer — not menacing, not unkind — but unflinching.

“I have seen the way Anthony looks at you,” she murmured.

“And I have seen the way you look at him — when you believe no one is watching.”

You inhaled sharply.

Kate shook her head, almost ruefully. “I am not here to accuse you. You have been nothing but gracious. Loyal.”

A faint smile.

“But sometimes…being good is not enough to change the truth.”

The words thudded against your ribs.

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

Kate’s voice softened.

“He is trying, you know. Trying so hard to be the man Edwina deserves. Trying to be…safe.”

The word safe twisted something inside you.

Safe. Stable. Predictable.

Everything Anthony thought he owed the world.

Not what set his soul alight.

Not what made his hands tremble when he brushed yours by accident.

You swallowed, fighting down the ache.

“I would never hurt Edwina,” you said fiercely.

“I would never hurt Anthony.”

Kate’s eyes, dark and wise, seemed to see everything you didn’t want her to see.

“I know.”

Silence bloomed between you.

Then — softer, almost kind:

“You will not have to choose, Miss Y/N,” Kate said. “Fate will do it for you. One way or another.”

And with that, she pressed a light hand to your forearm —a gesture that somehow felt like both warning and blessing —and slipped away down the hall, leaving you alone in the golden dusk.

You stood there, heart hammering, the taste of unspoken things heavy on your tongue.

From the nearby parlor, you could still hear Edwina laughing.

You could still hear Anthony’s low, careful voice.

And for the first time, you realized that loving someone quietly might still tear the world apart.

Even if you never spoke the words.

Even if you never touched.

Even if you did everything right.

The hallway was empty now.

Kate's words still echoed behind your ribs —sharp, soft, inevitable.

You turned, meaning to leave the weight of Kate’s words behind you,

only to find someone already waiting near the open door.

Lucien.

He wasn’t looking at you at first.

He was studying the wainscoting like it had said something mildly offensive, hands loosely folded behind his back, jacket rumpled just enough to suggest he'd abandoned stiffness somewhere along the way.

When he heard your step, he glanced up —and for a moment —something flickered.

Quick.

Real.

Gone in a blink.

By the time you met his eyes, Lucien was smiling.

Not broadly.

Not falsely.

But with the kind of lightness a man crafts when he knows the weight isn’t yours to carry.

"Angel," he said, voice warm and easy, like a hand smoothing down a storm. "You survived the parlour gauntlet. Should I summon a laurel wreath?"

You breathed out a sound — not quite a laugh, but close enough.

Lucien stepped closer, casually —close enough that if the world were kinder, he could have reached for your hand without thinking.

But he didn’t touch you.

He just tipped his head — playful, careful — as though offering you the choice.

"Or are we at the stage where only brandy can save the day?"

You smiled weakly. "I might be tempted."

His mouth curved — soft, conspiratorial.

Still easy.

Still safe.

"Tempted, Angel?" he said lightly. "You wound me. I thought we were long past temptation. You know I’d orchestrate a scandalous escape for you without even wrinkling my cravat."

You laughed then, real and low — the sound of it surprising even yourself.

Lucien’s gaze warmed further —as if the world, for all its fractures, could still be pieced together when you smiled.

And even though the moment was fragile —even though something heavy still twisted under your ribs —Lucien kept the air between you weightless.

He gestured toward the open door with an exaggerated bow.

"Shall we, Angel?" he said, voice full of velvet mischief. "The night awaits. And so, I imagine, does another round of artfully polite chaos."

You hesitated — just for a second.

Lucien noticed.

Of course he did.

But he didn’t ask.

Didn’t press.

He just offered you his arm — a perfect, unspoken shield.

You took it —and he tucked you against his side with a familiarity that didn’t demand anything.

Didn’t claim anything.

And with that, you walked back inside — together.

Taglist: @bollzinurmouth @drewstarkeysrightarm @thorins-queen-of-erebor @yearninglustfully @khaleesibeach @ifilwtmfc

[plotbunnysyndrome]

More Than Honour

Chapter 28: After the Applause, the Heartbeat

Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Introduction: Aubrey Hall would heal. The gardens would bloom again. But some things—whispered confessions, broken laughter, aching almosts—would never be the same. And maybe, just maybe, that was the point.

The late afternoon sun stretched golden fingers across the Aubrey Hall lawn, casting long shadows over trampled flowerbeds, smeared makeup, a suspiciously toppled statue of a peacock, and the lingering chaos of a day no one would ever forget.

The Bridgerton Olympics had officially concluded. And somehow, despite near-duels, identity crises, scandalous monologues, poetic warfare, high fashion crimes, and the most emotionally devastating flirting the ton had ever witnessed — there were still enough standing bodies to witness the final ceremony.

A long banquet table was set beneath the grand oak tree, now repurposed from judge’s lounge to “podium.” The tablecloths were slightly wrinkled, the lemonade pitchers half-empty, and Lady Danbury’s cane sat propped at the center like a royal scepter.

Violet Bridgerton stood at the head of it all, flanked on either side by Lady Mary Sharma and Lady Danbury, each of them with a goblet in hand, expressions schooled to serenity — and only a hint of residual disbelief.

“Ladies. Gentlemen,” Violet began, her voice carrying across the lawn. “Before we begin, I would like to note for the record that my garden may never recover, my nerves certainly won’t, and I haven’t laughed this much in years.”

There were murmurs of amusement.

“As one of the organizers of this—” Violet paused, searching for a word. “This… fever dream of an event… I must say, you have all exceeded expectations. Or at the very least, ignored them entirely.”

Gregory raised a lemonade glass. “To chaos!”

“To scandal,” added Hyacinth, grinning.

“To therapy,” murmured Anthony, who hadn’t recovered since Emotional Chicken.

Lucien, lounging on the edge of a bench like a portrait come to life, smirked. “To be fair, I warned everyone I was a wildcard.”

“And yet you still lost,” Benedict shot back, gleaming with victory, his arm thrown casually around Eloise’s shoulder as you leaned against the table between them.

“Technically,” Lucien replied with a theatrical sigh, “I was seduced into defeat by a Duchess. I consider it a noble fall.”

Simon tipped his glass. “I was there. It was poetic.”

“And now,” Violet continued, fighting a smile, “we present the final scores.”

Lady Mary stepped forward with the parchment — folded, stained, and definitely scribbled on in three different handwritings.

“In fourth place,” she read, “with a gallant 28.5 points… Team Two. Anthony, Edwina, and Kate.”

The polite applause was immediate — though Hyacinth’s was a bit too gleeful to be sincere.

Anthony merely bowed his head, jaw tight but composed. Edwina smiled graciously. Kate, sharp-eyed as ever, cast a quick glance at her sister… then at Anthony… then, notably, at you.

You didn’t meet her gaze.

“In third place,” Lady Danbury announced, “with 40 points and the most dramatic wardrobe reveal I’ve seen in decades… Team One. Lucien, Simon, and Hyacinth.”

Lucien offered a sweeping bow, dramatic as ever. Hyacinth curtsied so low she nearly fell over. Simon adjusted his cravat with a satisfied hum, already sipping from a flask he absolutely hadn’t had five minutes ago.

Lady Mary smiled. “Second place — and a very close race — with 53 points: Team Four. Colin, Daphne, and Gregory.”

Colin cheered. Gregory threw both fists in the air and nearly tackled Hyacinth in excitement. Daphne simply smiled, graceful as ever… though her eyes did flick briefly to Simon in a way that suggested certain Duke-of-Hastings privileges were about to be redeemed tonight.

“And finally,” Violet said, pausing for effect, “our winners — with a truly staggering 58.5 points — Team Three.”

The lawn erupted.

Benedict let out a victorious whoop. Eloise actually did a celebratory twirl. You were lifted off your feet for a second, squeezed in a joyful hug by both of them at once, your laughter mixing with the applause and shouts and distant sound of Newton barking at someone’s hat.

Lucien was watching you — his gaze soft, unguarded. And even Anthony, standing beside Kate, allowed himself one brief look. Just one. Enough to break something and rebuild something else in its place.

Once the applause faded and the awards — ridiculous flower crowns and tin medals — were distributed with appropriate pomp and irreverence, Violet raised her glass again.

“To absurdity,” she said.

“To chosen families,” Lady Danbury added, her voice cutting through the quiet like an anthem.

“To the madness that binds us,” murmured Lady Mary, her smile warm.

“And,” Violet finished, lifting her glass higher, “to Aubrey Hall. May it recover in time for next year.”

Everyone drank.

Everyone laughed.

And beneath the oak tree, as golden hour slid toward twilight, the scandalous, glorious, absurd chaos that was the Bridgerton Olympics settled into legend — woven forever into the tapestry of stories this estate would hold for generations to come.

You looked at the faces around you — flushed, loud, alive — and knew that something had shifted.

Evening — After Dinner, The Small Drawing Room at Aubrey Hall

The house was quieter now.

The echoes of laughter and chaos had faded into something softer — just the clink of cups, the low hum of a piano being played somewhere far away, the hush of servants moving unseen through the corridors.

After dinner, while the others wandered off — some to the terrace, some to the library, some simply to sleep off the day's madness — you found yourself drifting.

And somehow, so naturally it felt almost like fate, you ended up in the small morning room just off the west hallway.

A place of sunlight by day, but now, a cozy pocket of shadows and lamplight.

Violet Bridgerton was already there.

Sitting neatly on a small settee, hands folded over a teacup she hadn’t touched, her gaze resting out the window where the garden faded into darkness.

She heard you before she saw you, of course.

“Come in, dear,” she said softly, without turning.

You did.

The door whispered shut behind you.

You crossed the room quietly, taking the seat beside her when she gestured — a slight lift of her hand, as if she had always expected you.

For a moment, you both simply sat.

No demands. No expectations. Just the two of you, breathing the same soft air.

Finally, Violet spoke. Her voice was low, almost amused.

“I fear my hydrangeas will never recover from today’s trials.”

You smiled faintly. “I think the roses put up a good fight.”

She hummed — a small, private sound. “They always do. Stubborn creatures, roses.”

Another quiet.

The kind that felt… full. 

Not awkward. Just weighty.

Violet set her teacup down carefully on the small table between you.

Then she turned to you fully.

And her gaze — oh, it was kind, but sharp.

She missed nothing.

"You held your own today," she said gently. "In ways most people will never quite understand."

You didn’t answer at first.

You weren’t sure you could.

Because under her words — under the casual cadence — you heard what she meant.

You had not only survived today.

You had survived being seen.

Seen by Anthony.

Seen by Lucien.

Seen by yourself.

Violet’s smile softened, just a breath.

“There is a particular kind of bravery,” she continued, “that doesn’t come from battlefields or grand declarations.”

Her voice lowered, warm. “It’s the kind that comes from allowing yourself to be known.”

You blinked.

Hard.

Because she knew.

She always knew.

“I wasn’t expecting today to… unravel quite so much,” you murmured, voice quieter than you meant it to be.

Violet tilted her head, studying you.

Not prying.

Simply being there.

"No one ever does," she said kindly. "And yet... we always seem to unravel precisely when we are meant to."

You laughed under your breath. Bitter and fond all at once.

“What does that say about me?” you asked. “That a children's game managed to… unmake me?”

Violet’s gaze didn't waver.

“It says,” she said firmly, “that you are alive.”

You looked down at your hands, clasped tight in your lap.

Violet leaned slightly closer, her voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial.

“I loved once,” she said. “Deeply. Fiercely. Against all sense and caution.”

You lifted your eyes to her, surprised.

She smiled a little — that secretive, knowing smile mothers wore when they had once been young and reckless, too.

“I thought if I stayed very still,” Violet murmured, “if I behaved perfectly, I could protect myself. From the grief. From the fear.”

She shrugged, a small, elegant thing.

“But then Edmund looked at me,” she said simply, “and every wall I had built crumbled.”

You swallowed.

Because you knew that look.

You had felt it today.

More than once.

Violet reached out then — a gloved hand brushing yours lightly, warmly.

Her voice was almost a whisper.

“Do not be afraid to let yourself be ruined, my dear. Not by foolishness. Not by duty. But by love.”

A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it.

Violet simply squeezed your hand once — firm, sure — and then let you go.

She sat back, smoothing her skirts, eyes glinting with a thousand memories she didn’t say aloud.

Outside, the garden murmured with night breezes and the last stubborn crickets.

Inside, the quiet felt like a blessing.

And as you sat there — wrapped in the remnants of laughter, heartbreak, and the soft, stubborn hope that refused to die — you realized something:

Today had not broken you.

It had transformed you.

And tomorrow…

Tomorrow was another story entirely.

Meanwhile, Aubrey Hall Gardens — After Dinner

The gardens were quieter now. The sun had melted into the horizon, leaving long stretches of dusky purple across the lawn, and a warm breeze still stirred the wreckage of the day’s chaos — crushed banners, trampled flowers, the remnants of lemonade and mischief.

Lucien found himself wandering. No destination. Just the quiet pull of unfinished emotion.

That’s when he saw her.

Edwina.

Standing alone at the far edge of the garden where the last of the banners still fluttered weakly in the breeze. Her gown caught the dusky light like spun sugar. She was fiddling with a stray ribbon from the games, twirling it absently between her fingers.

For a moment, Lucien almost turned away.

This wasn’t his burden to shoulder.

But... he knew that look.

Hope, stubborn and fraying at the edges.

Then, with a lazy elegance that masked sharper thoughts, he made his way over.

“Miss Sharma,” he said, offering a slight bow.

She startled a little, then smiled — bright and lovely, if a bit strained. "Lord Blackbourne."

He gestured toward the battlefield around them — banners drooping, a lonely garden gnome listing sideways. "Surveying your kingdom, are you?"

Edwina laughed, a soft, musical sound. “More like mourning it.”

He mock-gasped. "Surely you would never abandon your subjects in their hour of need."

"I’m considering it," she said primly, twirling the ribbon between her fingers. "One cannot be expected to rule over chaos."

"On the contrary," Lucien said, offering his arm, "the trick is to make chaos think it’s still winning."

She gave him a suspicious glance — but tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow anyway.

They began to stroll — weaving between the battered hedges and crooked rose bushes, neither rushing nor lagging, just… existing in the same, strange lull.

"You were very dashing today, you know," Edwina said conversationally, like she was commenting on the weather. "In your... curtain cape."

Lucien clutched his chest dramatically. "At last! Recognition for my true talents."

She giggled. "And here I thought your true talents were monologuing and theatrical sabotage."

"And emotional devastation," he added helpfully. "Don’t forget that."

"Ah, yes," she said with mock seriousness. "Your specialty."

He smiled — but softer now.

Gentler.

They reached the old fountain, its stone basin still filled with floating ribbons and forgotten teacups. Lucien kicked a pebble lightly into the water, watching the ripples bloom outward.

For a while, they simply stood there, listening to the distant hum of the house behind them — laughter spilling faintly from open windows, the clink of glasses, the shuffle of a string quartet tuning up somewhere inside.

Then, very quietly:

"You know," Lucien said, studying the water, "you are... very good at hope."

Edwina blinked up at him.

He smiled faintly, still not looking at her. "Some people wear it like armor. Others like a crown. You... you wear it like a perfume. Quiet. Gentle. Everywhere at once."

Edwina flushed — embarrassed, but touched.

"You make it sound much nobler than it is," she said softly.

He finally met her eyes — a glint of mischief returning.

"But it is noble, Miss Sharma. Especially when the world tries very hard to make you give it up."

She opened her mouth — maybe to deflect, maybe to laugh it off — but no words came.

So instead, she smiled. Really smiled.

And Lucien, bless him, sensed the weight of what wasn’t said — and lifted it away before it could settle.

"Besides," he said, voice light again, "if all else fails, you have the fallback of becoming the first Viscountess to singlehandedly overthrow Parliament using only lemon tarts and strategic compliments."

Edwina burst out laughing — real, breathless, delighted.

And for a few moments, the sadness fraying the edges of her heart forgot itself.

They wandered back toward the house, still laughing under their breath, trading increasingly ridiculous theories about how to commandeer the Bridgerton fortune (“Clearly, lemon tarts are the true currency,” Lucien insisted) and how Hyacinth was most likely a retired spy in disguise.

At the steps of the terrace, they paused.

Edwina squeezed his arm lightly. "Thank you," she said — simple and sincere.

Lucien bowed low, flourishing the gesture into something so absurd she laughed again, hand over her mouth.

He straightened — and for just a moment, his smile gentled into something real.

"You are remarkable, Miss Sharma," he said. "With or without any tournaments... or Viscounts."

Edwina blinked — stunned for a second — then curtsied, eyes bright.

And she disappeared inside, the soft echo of her laughter lingering behind her.

Lucien stayed behind for a moment longer, hands slipping into his pockets, head tipped back to the bruised-purple sky.

He said nothing.

But in his heart, he tucked this night away — the small kindnesses, the tiny survivals — into the quiet, aching corner where he kept all the things he loved but would never claim.

Up on the balcony — hidden among the velvet curtains — Hyacinth Bridgerton crouched, peeking through the carved balustrade.

She had meant only to sneak a second dessert from the hallway. (Strictly for strategic sugar rationing.)

But instead, she found herself here — perched like a nosy, lace-clad gargoyle —

watching Lucien Blackbourne and Edwina Sharma.

And for the first time all day, Hyacinth said nothing.

She just watched.

Saw the way Lucien made Edwina laugh — not in a way that demanded anything, but in a way that gave something back.

Saw the way Edwina’s shoulders uncurled.

Saw the smile Lucien wore — quick, boyish, broken.

Saw too much.

Hyacinth bit her lip, tilting her head thoughtfully.

"Huh."

Because if anyone knew what it meant — when two people who were losing still chose to be kind to each other —it was Hyacinth.

Her mind whirred.

Schemes blooming faster than garden weeds.

Mischief, yes.

But also — maybe, just maybe — mercy.

She grinned, wicked and bright.

"Oh," she whispered gleefully to no one, "I am going to fix this."

And with the quiet determination of a girl who once tried to sell counterfeit titles to pigeons, Hyacinth Bridgerton vanished back into the house — already plotting her next move.

The stars blinked overhead, none the wiser.

But tomorrow?

Tomorrow, the game would change.

Taglist: @bollzinurmouth @drewstarkeysrightarm @thorins-queen-of-erebor @yearninglustfully @khaleesibeach @ifilwtmfc

[plotbunnysyndrome]

More Than Honour

Chapter 27: To Win, To Lose, To Choose

Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Introduction: The rules were simple: play to win. But no one warned them what it would cost. Between stolen glances, scattered compliments, and the quiet hum of something unspoken, alliances frayed and affections cracked open wide. The games were always meant to end with applause—but none of them expected heartbreak to sneak onto the scorecard. And somewhere in the chaos, with a lemon tart in one hand and a scandal on the tip of their tongue… someone realized this wasn’t just about victory anymore. This was about who would survive the final round with their heart intact.

The bell chimed across the garden like the sigh of a house catching its breath.

The judges stood from their shaded pavilion. Violet, ever the composed matriarch, gave a subtle nod. “That concludes the morning events,” she declared. “You may all proceed to the west lawn for lunch. Try not to duel anyone on the way.”

The competitors—still reeling from the deliciously unhinged chaos of the Compliment-Off—moved like soldiers to temporary ceasefire. The competition had paused. The tension had not.

Long trestle tables awaited under white-draped canopies, adorned with silver trays of lemon tarts, fresh bread, roast vegetables, soft cheeses, glazed ham, and pitchers of cool elderflower lemonade. The place settings sparkled. The air was thick with the scent of late-summer roses, freshly mown grass, and unresolved feelings.

Each team gravitated to one another instinctively, still locked in their alliances.

Team 1 — Lucien, Simon, and Hyacinth claimed the central stretch of the long table with the ease of people who knew they were winning. Lucien settled into his chair with unhurried elegance, pulling off his gloves and setting them beside his plate. Simon leaned beside him with a military casualness, letting Hyacinth launch into a monologue about the next round’s sabotage potential.

Team 2 — Anthony, Edwina, and Kate were quiet as they claimed a spot opposite them, slightly more reserved. Anthony’s jaw remained set. Kate’s eyes moved between him, you, and Lucien like she was solving a complex puzzle. Edwina, chipper and oblivious to the subtext, reached for the lemonade with a bright, “What a lovely day for lighthearted competition!”

Team 3 — You, Benedict, and Eloise chose seats slightly off to the right, near the edge of the canopy where the ivy filtered the sunlight. You didn’t say much at first, distracted by the memory of Lucien’s words—you scare me—still humming like a bell against your ribs. Benedict refilled your glass before you asked. Eloise was still furiously muttering her last line from the Compliment-Off under her breath, as if determined to outdo herself over sandwiches.

Team 4 — Colin, Daphne, and Gregory formed a bright, boisterous hub down the table, gleefully reenacting Gregory’s emotional collapse during All Too Well. Gregory had clearly leaned into the persona. “It was the scarf line,” he sighed dramatically. “It unraveled me. Literally.”

“I thought you were going to faint,” Daphne said, pouring water with one hand and patting Gregory’s back with the other. “Mother was on the verge of sending for smelling salts.”

Colin smirked. “If he performs like this in the next event, we’ll need to drag him back to the field in a wheelbarrow.”

You found your appetite slowly returning as a tart was passed around, though your attention drifted—not to your food, but to the easy way Lucien laughed at something Simon said, the glint in his eye when Hyacinth whispered conspiratorially into his ear.

He didn’t look at you. Not at first.

But when he did, it was deliberate. And quiet. Like a thread tugged gently between you.

You looked away first.

Anthony, three seats across, did not.

He hadn’t spoken since the last round. Not to Edwina. Not to Kate. Not even to Benedict, who had made a valiant attempt at goading him with an offhand comment about Lucien’s cravat being sharper than most of Anthony’s retorts.

His silence wasn’t calm. It was control in freefall.

“I’ve decided,” Hyacinth declared mid-chew, “that if the next event doesn’t involve physical contact or a slingshot, I’ll be disappointed.”

Simon raised a brow. “Do you always weaponize your leisure time?”

“She was practically born with a saboteur’s manual,” Lucien murmured, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin. “I’ve merely encouraged it.”

Eloise, from your end of the table, gestured toward them. “There. Right there. That’s collusion, is what that is.”

“It’s charming,” you said, sipping lemonade. “In a terrifying sort of way.”

Anthony, still not eating, said nothing. But he shifted slightly in his chair when you spoke. As though he could still feel the echo of Lucien’s words during the compliment round — you could’ve had her,  and didn’t.

Kate tilted her head at him. He didn’t notice.

But she noticed everything.

Benedict stood halfway through the meal to refill his plate, and as he passed Lucien’s end of the table, he tipped his head in mock acknowledgment. “Lovely compliment back there, Blackbourne. Didn’t know you had restraint in your arsenal.”

Lucien raised his glass. “One must conserve energy. The day’s still young.”

Gregory piped up from the far end. “He’s saving it for whatever Hyacinth throws at us next.”

Lady Danbury, passing behind them toward the pavilion, murmured under her breath, “Poor boy doesn’t even know.”

Dessert was light—just as Violet intended. Fruit tarts. Slices of sponge with sugared petals. Something sweet to contrast the slow build of tension back into the air.

“Has anyone noticed,” Daphne said idly, “how no one’s spoken to each other across team lines since breakfast?”

“Battle lines have been drawn,” Eloise replied. “But the lemonade is a temporary treaty.”

“Temporary,” Lucien echoed, his voice low.

You didn’t meet his gaze this time. But you didn’t need to.

Across the table, Anthony set down his fork with precision. “Shall we prepare for the afternoon events?”

Violet, having returned to her seat with an expression of perfectly polite foreboding, stood once more. “Indeed. You have ten minutes to regroup. I suggest you use them well. Your judges are feeling... generous.”

Lady Mary raised a single brow.

Lady Danbury simply smirked.

Event Four: The Great Scandal Pitch

The sun had shifted to its peak, casting warm light over the terrace as luncheon cleared, replaced by sweetened tea and a hint of mischief in the air. The garden was dappled in sunlight and secrets, as the teams returned to the field with renewed energy and questionable morals.

Lady Danbury rose once more, her cane striking the ground like a gavel.

“Welcome back,” she said, with the theatrical grace of someone introducing an execution. “Our next event is one of tradition, truth, and—above all else—timely defamation.”

A ripple of laughter followed, the kind that always preceded danger.

“This,” she declared, “is The Great Scandal Pitch.”

Gregory nearly whooped with delight.

Lady Mary rose beside her, reading from the rules. “Each team must now invent a scandal. One for each member of every other team. That’s three teams, multiplied by three targets… nine glorious opportunities to destroy reputations in under thirty minutes.”

Violet, calm as ever, added, “Each scandal will be judged on creativity and delivery. One to three points in each category. If the audience gasps—” she smiled, gently, “—you earn two bonus points.”

Daphne clapped, almost sweetly. “So basically, lie as dramatically as possible.”

“No,” Hyacinth grinned. “Lie convincingly.”

Violet added with a faint smile, “Do remember that this is all in jest.”

Lady Mary, from her seat beside her fellow judges, smiled far too serenely. “Yes, of course. Nothing said here will leave the garden.”

“And I,” Lady Danbury said, cane tapping, “will personally ruin anyone who repeats a word at supper. Understood?”

The teams nodded.

The scores, prior to the event, were recited by Hyacinth in dramatic tones:

Team 1 (Lucien, Simon, Hyacinth) – 12 points

Team 3 (You, Benedict, Eloise) – 9 points

Team 4 (Colin, Daphne, Gregory) – 4 point

Team 2 (Anthony, Edwina, Kate) – 3 points

You exchanged a glance with Benedict and Eloise. There was a sparkle of war behind all three of your eyes.

The teams huddled briefly, heads bent together in whispers, grins and gasps exchanged in confidence. And with that, the destruction began.

Team 1 – Lucien, Simon, Hyacinth. Targeting: Anthony, Edwina, Kate | Benedict, Eloise, You | Colin, Daphne, Gregory

Lucien stepped forward like a man about to give a sermon — or deliver a eulogy. “Let us begin,” he said, “with Anthony Bridgerton.”

He gestured with one elegant hand. “It is said, and I quote, that the Viscount once mistook a goat for his fencing opponent during a duel, and still lost.”

Gasps. One judge dropped her pen. Violet pressed her fingers to her lips.

Hyacinth took over for Edwina. “Miss Sharma was once overheard calling Lord Bridgerton ‘inspirational’ for his decision to marry only out of duty. In Latin.”

The room collectively winced.

Simon, clearing his throat dramatically, addressed Kate. “It has come to our attention that Miss Sharma’s boots have steel tips—not for practicality, but for duels at dawn. Three confirmed wins. One decapitated lawn statue.”

Kate’s smile barely twitched. But her eyebrow did.

They moved on.

For Benedict: “Disguised himself as a statue in Vauxhall Gardens to overhear a rival artist’s critique. Was there for three hours. Pigeons were involved.”

For Eloise: “Wrote an anonymous pamphlet promoting political unrest. Accidentally signed it with her real name. Twice.”

For You: “Reportedly broke six proposals in one season—not by refusal, but by out-arguing the suitors until they fled crying.”

Your mouth dropped open. “That’s not even exaggerated—”

Lucien winked. “You’re welcome.”

Now, for Team 4.

For Colin: “Secretly operates as Whistledown’s wine columnist under the pen name Baron Bubbles.”

For Daphne: “Once elbowed a viscount’s wife in the stomach during a waltz and claimed it was ‘a moment of spiritual reckoning.’”

For Gregory: “Owns a journal titled The Art of War: Flirtation Edition. Illustrated. Annotated. Multiple editions.”

The audience was gasping between laughter. Gregory looked vaguely proud.

Total Gasps: 3

Total Points Earned: 23

Team 3 – You, Benedict, Eloise. Targeting: Lucien, Simon, Hyacinth | Anthony, Edwina, Kate | Colin, Daphne, Gregory

You stepped forward with a demure smile. “Lord Blackbourne,” you said, voice syrupy, “was once found locked in a greenhouse at midnight. Alone. With two bottles of wine and a parrot who, for weeks after, only repeated the phrase, ‘Again, but slower.’”

Lucien looked positively delighted.

Benedict pointed to Simon. “Rumor has it the Duke of Hastings once faked an engagement to avoid dancing with five debutantes in one night. Ended up married. No regrets.”

Simon raised his hands. “Accurate.”

Eloise grinned. “Hyacinth has been banned from three apothecaries for ‘experiments.’ One involved a frog, a lemon tart, and a nobleman’s wig.”

Gasps.

You turned to Anthony.

“Lord Bridgerton,” you said innocently, “once recited poetry to a potted plant, thinking it was Miss Edwina. The plant was more moved.”

Anthony’s fork twitched where he held it behind his back.

Eloise cleared her throat. “Miss Sharma—Edwina—once offered to help a suitor adjust his cravat. She accidentally choked him unconscious. It was ruled an accident. Was it?”

Kate’s scandalized laugh almost startled her own sister.

Benedict’s smile was razor-sharp. “And Kate once bribed a footman to fake a fainting spell so she could escape an eligible marquess. The footman now owns a tailor shop.”

For Colin: “Once tried to sell autographs of himself to foreign tourists. Claimed he was a prince in disguise.”

For Daphne: “Has never lost a game of croquet. Ever. Suspicious? Maybe. Rigged? Definitely.”

For Gregory: “Accidentally proposed to two girls in one night by blinking too slowly.”

More gasps

.Total Gasps: 4

Total Points Earned: 25

Team 4 – Colin, Daphne, Gregory. Targeting: Lucien, Simon, Hyacinth | Anthony, Edwina, Kate | You, Benedict, Eloise

Colin opened with flair. “Lord Blackbourne is currently banned from five ballrooms for the crime of weaponized flirting. One hostess fainted.”

Daphne took Simon. “He once disappeared at a country ball and was found hours later teaching toddlers how to smuggle pastries into the library. They still write him letters.”

Gregory, beaming, raised a finger. “Hyacinth once made a clergyman cry. No one knows what she said. He doesn’t know what she said.”

Lucien laughed, full and loud. “I want that framed.”

Then came Anthony.

Colin took a breath. “Viscount Bridgerton was once seen sprinting down Bond Street in pursuit of a hat. Not his own. Rumor says it belonged to the Modiste’s assistant. No explanation was ever offered.”

For Edwina: “Refused three suitors in one afternoon, citing lunar incompatibility. One was a Sagittarius.”

For Kate: “Once made a grown earl return a book to the library. She didn’t work there.”

And now, Team 3.

Gregory went for you. “Once sent a gentleman caller home crying just by correcting his grammar.”

Daphne added, “Eloise once pretended to be Lady Whistledown for an entire week. Fooled everyone except the dog.”

Colin finishes, “Benedict painted a nude portrait of a woman once. Months later, realized it was a self-portrait with a wig.”

Gasps. Violet actually dropped her handkerchief.

Total Gasps: 4

Total Points Earned: 24

Team 2 – Anthony, Edwina, Kate. Targeting: Lucien, Simon, Hyacinth | You, Benedict, Eloise | Colin, Daphne, Gregory

Kate stepped up first, eyes scanning her targets.

“Lucien Blackbourne once had a duel cancelled because his opponent fainted before the first shot. From his smirk.”

Edwina, quietly vicious: “Simon once tried to write a romantic letter to Daphne. Accidentally sent it to the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

Anthony’s voice was tight but clear. “Hyacinth once forged a marriage certificate between two footmen for practice.”

Now, Team 3.

Kate went for you. “Y/N once convinced an entire house party that she was engaged to a French nobleman. The man didn’t exist. He had a name. And a tragic backstory.”

Anthony turned to Benedict. “Painted a scandalous mural in a country inn. Claimed it was a ‘visual metaphor for longing.’”

Edwina blinked. “Eloise made a matchmaker cry. In four minutes.”

Final targets.

For Daphne: “Has been using the same ‘lost glove’ excuse to flirt with men since 1813.”

For Colin: “Tried to pass off a sheep as a racing horse to win a bet.”

For Gregory: “Spotted in Hyde Park, wearing lavender and quoting Shakespeare…to a goose.”

Gasps: 3

Total Points Earned: 22

Scores After Event Four

Team 1 (Lucien, Simon, Hyacinth) – 35 points

Team 3 (You, Benedict, Eloise) – 34 points

Team 4 (Colin, Daphne, Gregory) – 28 points

Team 2 (Anthony, Edwina, Kate) – 25 points

As the last of the laughter faded, and the judges scribbled down their final tallies, Anthony stood still—arms crossed, jaw tight, clearly seconds away from exiling all of you.

Lucien turned toward you and whispered, “You did convince a house party of a fake fiancé?”

You smiled sweetly. “Of course. He died tragically in a dueling accident.”

He gave a low whistle. “Remind me never to disappoint you.”

And the day wasn’t over yet.

But for now, they had survived the scandal.

Mostly.

Event Five: Fashion Duel – Walk of Unshame

It begins, as all disasters at Aubrey Hall do, with Violet Bridgerton’s soft, amused voice over the garden’s low murmur.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she calls with impeccable grace, “your next event is what our dear Hyacinth has coined—‘The Walk of Unshame.’”

There is a pause. A beat. A rustle of wind through linen and lace.

And then: laughter.

Real, unrestrained, full-bodied laughter.

Hyacinth grins devilishly from the sidelines, already sketching something onto a napkin. Possibly a diagram. Possibly Benedict in heels. She won’t say.

Rules: Each team must select one member to dress in the most outrageously impractical, scandalously mismatched outfit using only repurposed items from the estate. Bonus points awarded for drama, flourish, and refusal to feel shame. Each walk will be judged out of 5 for:

Creativity

Cohesion (or the deliberate lack of it)

Confidence of the catwalk strut

Audience reaction

Overall unshamefulness

Contenders:

Team 1: Lucien

Team 2: Anthony

Team 3: Benedict

Team 4: Gregory

And so the dressing begins.

Backstage (read: the drawing room)

It’s chaos.

Hyacinth is pinning an entire lace curtain into what she calls “regency-Venetian flair with masculine disillusionment.” Simon is doing something very serious with Lucien’s collar. It may involve a brooch. It may involve violence.

Anthony is being dressed with alarming efficiency by Edwina and Kate, who are arguing about whether cravats can be layered. Anthony stands like a man awaiting execution.

“I don’t see the purpose of this,” he mutters.

Kate tightens a belt under his arms. “That’s the point.”

Across the room, Benedict is trying to thread ribbon through a repurposed military jacket while you and Eloise debate whether or not feathers are too subtle.

“You’ve worn worse,” Eloise argues. “Remember your self-portrait phase?”

“You’ve worn worse,” Eloise argues. “Remember your self-portrait phase?”

Gregory, meanwhile, has voluntarily wrapped himself in two layers of taffeta, a hunting vest, and a sash made of garden bunting. Colin and Daphne are beside themselves.

“You look like a ceremonial goose,” Colin says helpfully.

“Perfect,” Gregory beams.

The Runway (read: the garden path)

First to walk: Gregory Bridgerton.

He emerges to a roar of disbelief.

Draped in pale yellow taffeta, tartan socks, fencing gloves, and a bonnet with a single daffodil, Gregory struts like he owns Versailles.

He pauses mid-walk to bow. Then spins.

Lady Danbury’s monocle falls off.

Violet covers her mouth.

“Three points for confusion,” murmurs Lady Mary. “Two for commitment.”

Score: 5/5.

Because somehow, it worked.

Second up: Benedict Bridgerton.

Benedict appears looking like an absurd fever dream of a royal guard, crossed with an opera ghost. Velvet jacket. Lace cravat. A belt as a headband. No one knows where the pearls came from.

You call after him, “Should we mention the boots are on the wrong feet?”

“I’m making a statement!” he shouts, spinning.

He throws a wink at you on the way back down the path.

The judges are both impressed and alarmed.

Score: 4.5/5.

Next: Anthony Bridgerton.

He walks out looking… surprisingly put together. A formal tailcoat inside-out, two waistcoats layered over one another, and a sash made from Edwina’s discarded shawl.

He walks with military dignity, because that is the only way he knows how to walk.

Kate whispers something as he passes. He visibly falters.

Someone snorts—maybe Eloise. Maybe Lucien.

Hyacinth stage-whispers, “You look like a haunted groomsman.”

Simon folds his arms. “That’s generous.”

Still, the elegance cannot be denied.

Score: 3.5/5.

And finally: Lucien Blackbourne.

You weren’t prepared.

Nobody was prepared.

He appears like a storm. Floor-length curtain cape, open fencing jacket with no shirt beneath, a satin sash in the most scandalous shade of plum, riding boots, and a flower tucked behind one ear. The man is a problem.

He does not walk. He prowls.

Every step calculated. Every glance deliberate.

Simon leans over to Hyacinth and mutters, “Did he just flirt with a hedge?”

Hyacinth is too stunned to answer.

Lady Danbury grips her cane harder than necessary. “Five.”

“Five,” says Violet.

“Five,” says Lady Mary, sighing.

Lucien returns to his seat like nothing happened.

You are definitely not breathing.

Score: 5/5.

End of Event Five: Final Scores

Team 1 (Lucien, Simon, Hyacinth) – 40 points

Team 3 (You, Benedict, Eloise) – 38.5 points

Team 4 (Colin, Daphne, Gregory) – 33 points

Team 2 (Anthony, Edwina, Kate) – 28.5 points

There’s applause. Laughter. Whispers about Lucien’s cape physics.

But beneath the joy and mockery, something else stirs.

Anthony looks away.

Lucien catches your eye. Winks.

You?

You just exhale, your pulse somewhere near the clouds.

Because one event remains.

And it might just break everything.

Event Six: Emotional Chicken

Sunlight streamed like a spotlight over the sprawling lawns of Aubrey Hall, where the last remnants of the Bridgerton Olympics were still fluttering through the air—stray ribbons, a few feathers, a glittering trail of confetti courtesy of Hyacinth’s “ceremonial touch.”

But all of that paled in comparison to the current setup.

A narrow stage—cobbled together from crates, carpet runners, and a hastily repurposed chaise lounge—had been arranged in the center of the garden. Benches and chairs were drawn into a rough semicircle around it. The audience was restless, murmuring, shifting in their seats. Some fanned themselves, some clutched scorecards. A few—namely Colin and Gregory—had already begun placing bets.

This was it.

The Final Event. The Crowning Chaos.

Emotional Chicken.

Lady Danbury stood at the center of the chaos like a storm eye in a silk turban, her cane angled before her like a scepter.

“Each team,” she announced crisply, “has nominated one player—secretly. They will face off in pairs. The goal: fluster your opponent through any means of verbal flirtation. Swoon-worthy lines, seductive whispers, outrageous declarations. The one who falters—breaks, blushes, looks away, or gasps—loses. The winning teams for this event will be awarded 20 points, which could mean winning the entire tournament.”

The crowd was already buzzing.

Lady Mary and Violet sat at the judge’s table with straight faces and sparkling eyes. Violet’s teacup trembled once, ever so slightly, when Hyacinth blew her a kiss from the crowd.

Danbury raised one hand.

“Let the flirtation... begin.”

The crowd roared.

Lady Mary opened a velvet pouch and pulled the first matchup slip.

“Team Four… versus Team One.”

Another hush. All eyes snapped to the players.

Daphne Bridgerton rose slowly.

Elegant. Poised. Radiant in her soft blue dress that fluttered in the breeze like something out of a fever dream.

Across the stage, Lucien Blackbourne adjusted the cuffs of his dramatically impractical fencing blouse and rose with the kind of smug grace only a man too aware of his effect could muster.

The cheers that followed were deafening.

“I would pay to watch this,” Eloise muttered. “Oh wait. I am.”

Hyacinth, already at the edge of her seat, whispered to Simon, “Your wife’s about to kill him.”

Simon, arms folded, grinned. “He’s earned it.”

ROUND ONE: Daphne vs. Lucien.

Daphne stepped onto the makeshift stage and curtsied. Lucien bowed in return, one hand over his heart, eyes full of mischief.

Daphne started.

“I hear you make women faint with a single glance,” she said softly. “Is that your specialty, or just a side effect?”

Lucien smirked, circling her slowly. “Only if I want them to fall into my arms.”

The crowd “ooh’d.”

Daphne stepped closer. “And do they usually land there willingly?”

“Eventually,” Lucien said, voice velvet-smooth. “But I prefer the ones who fight it.”

Daphne’s smile sharpened. “Then I suppose you enjoy disappointment.”

Lucien chuckled. “Never. Only delay.”

She tilted her head, stepping even closer now. “You know, I once told my husband I’d never be tempted by a rake.”

Lucien leaned in, almost brushing her ear. “Then I hope he doesn’t mind exceptions to the rule.”

The crowd lost it.

Lady Danbury didn’t move—but one brow did quirk upward.

“You flatter like a poet,” Daphne said sweetly, her breath a mere whisper between them, “but I’m afraid I’m immune to theatrics.”

Lucien, without missing a beat, pulled a rose petal from behind her ear and placed it delicately on her shoulder. “And yet, I’ve been told I turn immunity into addiction.”

Someone actually screamed.

From the judge’s table, Violet sipped her tea. “Heavens.”

Daphne blinked once.

Lucien saw it. He smiled.

And then she struck.

“Well then,” she said, taking one step closer—nose to nose—“If I were to fall, Lord Blackbourne, I’d only ask that you ensure my reputation remained intact.”

Lucien opened his mouth.

Daphne leaned in, just barely—then whispered: “Like you did for the Marquess of Elbourne’s wife?”

Lucien’s breath hitched.

The audience gasped.

Simon let out a sharp bark of laughter.

“Did she just—?” Benedict looked stunned. “That’s a real scandal, isn’t it?!”

Lucien raised both hands and stepped back with a deep, respectful bow. “Well played, Duchess. I concede.”

Daphne curtsied once more—serene, composed, victorious.

Team Four wins the round.

Daphne and Lucien had burned the air with their charm. The garden was still echoing with whistles and gasps. Simon was fanning himself dramatically with Hyacinth’s sketchbook. Benedict swore his wine had turned to steam.

And then — silence.

Violet stood, clipboard in hand. “Next up—Team Two versus Team Three.” Her eyes sparkled. “Anthony Bridgerton will face…” she checked her page with mock surprise, “Y/N.”

As Violet announced the final round, and your name was called alongside Anthony’s… a different kind of energy pulsed through the air.

The air shifted.

Hyacinth actually gasped.

Eloise sat up straight.

And somewhere near the back, Lucien stilled.

The two of you stepped forward — you from your team’s side, Anthony from his.

Neither of you smiled.

No theatrics. No strut. Just… gravity.

You stood across from each other, feet planted in the same grass that had been trampled by laughter and chaos mere moments ago. But here, now — you might as well have been standing on the edge of something ancient and unspoken.

The rules had been repeated already, but they barely mattered anymore.

Flirt. Charm. Fluster or falter, and you lose.

Except this wasn’t about winning.

Not anymore.

ROUND TWO: You vs. Anthony

Anthony went first.

Of course he did.

He stepped forward, just a little — a respectful distance, the kind a gentleman keeps. But his voice didn’t follow suit.

It dropped low, warm, close.

“If I met you at a ball — no family obligations, no sisters or rules or titles — I think I’d still find you in every room.”

You blinked. The world narrowed.

“I’d pretend not to notice you,” you replied, voice light, teasing, stepping in with the smallest smirk. “Let you suffer. Watch you fumble for my name.”

Anthony’s eyes glittered. “I’d get it wrong on purpose. Just to hear you correct me.”

Your breath caught.

He stepped closer.

“One dance,” he said, soft now. “That’s all it would’ve taken. And I would’ve been yours.”

There was movement behind him — Edwina smiling from the sidelines, utterly unaware. And next to her… Kate.

Watching.

Calculating.

Lucien stood behind your team, arms crossed, unreadable — except for the way his eyes never left your face.

You tilted your head, lips twitching. “Would you have asked me? Or would you have stood by the wall all night, brooding?”

“I would’ve asked,” Anthony said instantly. “But only once I was sure I’d memorized your laugh.”

Your heart thudded.

That felt too real.

You swallowed, willing your composure back. You weren’t done.

So you stepped forward. Just a little.

“You know,” you said, voice softer now, “I think I would’ve said yes. Not to your title. Not even to your face.”

He raised a brow. “No?”

“No,” you murmured. “But to the way you always look at me like you’re trying to memorize the shape of my joy.”

Anthony’s expression fractured.

Just a flicker — but it was there.

And suddenly the air wasn’t just thick with tension — it was tender. Private. And public. And wrong. And yet so, so right.

From the sidelines, Benedict whispered to Colin, “Are we… intruding?”

Lucien didn’t move. His jaw tightened slightly. His gaze never wavered.

Edwina clapped lightly, like this was all good fun.

Kate didn’t.

She watched Anthony like she was seeing something for the first time.

And then—

Anthony leaned in, voice a velvet blade.

“You ruin every plan I’ve ever had,” he whispered. “And I would still choose you. Every time.”

The sound that left you wasn’t quite a gasp.

Not quite a breath.

It was something in between.

Your hands curled slightly at your sides. You couldn’t look away.

So you stepped closer — barely inches between you now.

“I’m not asking you to,” you whispered. “I never did.”

Anthony’s eyes dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, and for a moment, you thought — God, he’s going to kiss me.

But he didn’t.

Because he couldn’t.

Because everyone was watching.

So instead—

He stepped back. And bowed.

It was graceful.

It was final.

And it was his surrender.

The crowd broke into cheers, hoots, gasps, applause — no one entirely sure who won, only that something happened.

The judges tallied scores with wide eyes.

Lucien hadn’t moved.

But when you turned, finally, to face him — he smiled.

It didn’t quite reach his eyes.

But when you walked back to your team, he took your hand. Not possessive. Not threatened.

Just a silent reminder: I’m still here.

And you held on.

Because it was true.

Anthony had looked at you like you were everything he’d ever wanted.

But Lucien…

Lucien reached for you anyway.

Event Six Results

Team 4: 20 points (Daphne wins her round)

Team 3: 20 points (You win yours)

Final Scores

Team 3 (You, Benedict, Eloise) – 58.5 points

Team 4 (Colin, Daphne, Gregory) – 53 points

Team 1 (Lucien, Simon, Hyacinth) – 40 points

Team 2 (Anthony, Edwina, Kate) – 28.5 points

You didn’t just win the games.

You became the story.

And as the final event ended, and the crowd erupted into applause, you stood there — one foot in the wreckage, one hand still held — and let the applause wash over the war you’d just survived.

And the one you hadn’t. Yet.

Taglist: @bollzinurmouth @drewstarkeysrightarm @thorins-queen-of-erebor @yearninglustfully @khaleesibeach

[plotbunnysyndrome]

More Than Honour

Chapter 26: Relay, Recitation, and Ruin

Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Introduction: Welcome to the Bridgerton Olympics: Where tea gets spilled (literally), poetry becomes bloodsport, and compliments hurt more than insults. If anyone makes it to lunch with their pride intact… it’ll be a miracle. Let the sabotage begin. 🎭☕🔥

The morning sun stretched long over the back lawns of Aubrey Hall, gilding the hedgerows in honeyed gold. A breeze teased the banners strung between the trees — hand-painted with “Bridgerton Olympics: Where Dignity Comes to Die” in bold, looping script.

The judges—Lady Danbury, Lady Mary Sharma, and Violet Bridgerton—sat in a shaded pavilion on the sidelines, sipping tea with all the restraint of women who absolutely knew a war was about to begin.

Four teams. Twelve players. And a single silver trophy that Gregory claimed he "definitely didn’t steal from Father’s study."

The first event: The Teacup Massacre (Relay Edition)

The setup was deceptively elegant. A narrow pathway of trimmed grass, marked with fluttering flags, stretched across the lawn to a single ornate table at the far end — the halfway mark. Each team lined up at their own starting point, one behind the other, holding delicate saucers with filled teacups. The task? Dash down the path, teacup in hand, without spilling a drop, tag your teammate, and let them do the same.

Simon stood at the front of Team Chaos — Lucien to his left, Hyacinth behind, stretching like she was preparing for combat rather than crockery. His stance was flawless. Posture military-perfect. He narrowed his eyes at the path like he was about to charge into a battlefield.

“Form is everything,” he muttered. “Breathe through the hand. Engage the core. You drop nothing.”

Lucien, holding his saucer with the casual grace of a man born to wreck things in style, merely raised a brow. “What fun is that?”

Hyacinth grinned. “I was planning to slip by accident. For entertainment.”

Simon didn’t blink. “Save the chaos for round two.”

Lucien muttered to her, “We’ll call it a performance piece.”

On the next lane, Anthony rolled his shoulders back, adjusting his grip on the saucer like it might rebel. Edwina stood behind him, serene as ever, utterly determined to prove herself as useful. Kate brought up the rear with crossed arms and an air of ‘if this cup spills, I will personally challenge the wind to a duel.’

Team Three—your team—was all nerves and calculation. You were behind Benedict, who was first to run, spinning the cup on his saucer with entirely too much flair. Eloise stood behind you, narrating her warm-up as “ritualistic nonsense designed to intimidate.”

Team Four, across from you, was already in shambles. Colin, up first, kept bouncing on his toes like an excitable foxhound. Daphne had her hair pinned perfectly and was calmly giving Gregory instructions on how not to treat the teacup like a slingshot.

Lady Danbury raised a hand.

“Ready—”

Lucien winked at you across the line. Simon muttered, “Focus.” Anthony exhaled like this was life and death. And Benedict gave a deep bow to the imaginary crowd.

“—Go!”

Four men burst forward.

Simon moved with terrifying precision, every step measured, each breath even. His saucer didn’t wobble once.

Benedict, meanwhile, ran like a man who had once considered performance art his calling. Elegant, yes—but not exactly efficient. His tea sloshed dangerously near the rim.

Colin immediately tripped on his own feet and somehow turned it into a pirouette.

And Anthony—oh, Anthony—charged forward with all the grace of a charging cavalry unit, jaw set, steps perfectly paced.

For the first half of the run, they were neck-and-neck. But Benedict’s flair slowed him just enough that Simon reached the midpoint first, handed off to Lucien with a quick nod, and turned to watch the others with a general’s eye.

Lucien took off in a saunter that turned into a smooth jog—dangerously smooth. He barely looked down at the teacup, trusting it to behave out of fear or admiration. When he passed Anthony, he offered a smirk and a muttered, “Don’t trip on your dignity, Viscount.”

Anthony didn’t reply. He handed off to Edwina, who took off with surprising agility.

You stepped forward next.

Benedict tagged your hand with a breathless “Don’t spill it like I nearly did.”

“Don’t perform it like a ballet,” you muttered back, and ran.

The air sliced cool across your face, the tea sloshed slightly, but you held the saucer steady, focused on the path ahead, on the midpoint—

Until you caught Lucien slowing down, reaching the turnaround, pausing to glance at you with a grin.

“You’ve got lovely form, Angel.”

Your step faltered. Barely. But it cost you a second.

“Stop flirting during the relay!” Eloise shouted from behind you.

Daphne, across the path, called, “Focus, Y/N!”

You made it back just as Edwina was halfway, handing off to Eloise with a grin and a gasp. “Go. Go now.”

Across the way, Colin had handed off to Daphne, who was running with the elegance of a duchess and the determination of a woman about to publicly shame her husband for snorting.

Lucien reached Hyacinth with a wink. “Don’t spill it until halfway.”

She grinned manically. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She ran.

Not fast.

Not careful.

Dramatic.

She got halfway down the path, made eye contact with Anthony—and accidentally stumbled. The cup tipped. A small stream of tea splashed directly in the center of the grass.

Right in Anthony’s team’s path.

Hyacinth gasped. “Oh no! I’ve created… a hazard.”

Gregory, next up on his team, cheered. “YES, HAZARD ZONE!”

Kate, already on edge, shouted, “That’s clearly sabotage!”

Hyacinth bowed. “Artful sabotage.”

Anthony growled. “Why are they allowed to do that?!”

Lady Danbury called from the side, without blinking, “Adapt, Viscount.”

Kate ran. Last of her team. Swift, agile—and then her foot hit the slightly slick patch.

She skidded, just slightly. Enough to lose half the cup.

“Unacceptable,” she hissed.

You leaned toward Benedict. “Was this Hyacinth’s plan all along?”

“She said she wanted performance art,” he muttered. “I didn’t think she meant installation chaos.”

Gregory finally ran—he was all limbs and reckless joy, spinning in wild arcs, not spilling a single drop by what could only be called divine interference.

Lucien leaned in toward Simon. “Think we’ve secured this one?”

Simon’s expression didn’t shift. “If Hyacinth doesn’t take out one of the judges, yes.”

Hyacinth tagged the finish point with a dramatic flourish.

Lady Danbury stood.

“Team Chaos,” she announced, “wins round one.”

Hyacinth threw her arms in the air. “I live here now!”

You caught Lucien’s gaze across the field. He raised his cup to you — still full. Still pristine.

Anthony stood beside Edwina, jaw tight, glaring at the spot of tea on the grass like it personally offended him.

And as the crowd moved toward the next event, you whispered to Benedict, “So... how long do we have before the next catastrophe?”

He grinned. “Darling, we’re already living in it.”

Event Two: Dramatic Reading Face-Off

Current Standings:

Team 1 (Lucien, Simon, Hyacinth) – 3 points

Team 3 (You, Benedict, Eloise) – 2 points

Team 4 (Colin, Daphne, Gregory) – 1 point

Team 2 (Anthony, Edwina, Kate) – 0 points

The terrace had been hastily transformed into an outdoor theatre, with mismatched cushions and benches forming a rough semicircle around a raised platform made from overturned crates and rugs stolen from the drawing room. The air still carried the scent of tea from the relay race, but now the energy was less kinetic, more... charged.

Violet took the makeshift podium—really a footstool draped in lace—and cleared her throat with the elegance of a woman used to commanding attention without raising her voice.

“Event Two,” she began, her voice calm but with a gleam in her eye, “is the Dramatic Reading Face-Off.”

The crowd — which is to say, the rest of the participants not performing — murmured in interest.

Lady Danbury adjusted her spectacles.

Lady Mary sighed, already anticipating the chaos.

“Each team,” Violet continued, “will send forth a single contender. They will be provided a piece of… let’s call it source material.”

Lady Danbury, deadpan: “It’s all ridiculous nonsense.”

“The goal,” Violet said firmly, ignoring her, “is to deliver a dramatic reading with as much flair, conviction, and emotional damage as humanly possible.”

The crowd leaned in.

“Judges,” she added, with a small smile, “will score each performance from one to five. The highest cumulative score wins the event.”

A hush fell. Then, Gregory whispered: “So... Shakespeare, but stupid?”

Colin grinned. “So... perfect.”

The Contenders:

Team 1: Simon Basset

Team 2: Edwina Sharma

Team 3: Eloise Bridgerton

Team 4: Gregory Bridgerton

The audience settled in. The judges lifted their quills. And Lady Danbury smirked.

Let the theatre begin.

First Up: Simon Basset (Team 1)

Simon stepped up with the solemn poise of a condemned poet. He took the parchment from Hyacinth—who handed it over with reverence—and cleared his throat.

“Manifest of Shipment: East India Trading Company, 1792.”

A collective inhale.

He began:

“Twelve barrels… of salted codfish.”

He paused. Let it linger. Painfully.

“Four crates of woven linens…”

His voice cracked. Violet blinked. Lady Mary looked genuinely concerned.

“One unlabeled chest…”

“…contents unknown.”

A few sniffs from the audience. Daphne had a hand over her mouth. Colin muttered, “He’s crying over fish. He’s really doing it.”

When Simon reached the final line:

“Seven bolts of ivory wool—accounted for… but at what cost?”

Lucien clapped first. Slow. Theatrical.

Hyacinth leaned over to Benedict. “He deserves a BAFTA.”

Second: Eloise Bridgerton (Team 3)

Eloise strode up with a grimace and a torn parchment that looked like it had been rescued from a bakery’s trash bin.

“The Queen’s Bakery Order,” she announced, deadpan. “Or, as I call it: tragedy.”

She took a breath.

“Two dozen honey-lavender scones.”

A pause.

“Six raspberry tarts. A loaf of lemon elderflower—”

Her voice broke on elderflower. Lady Danbury clutched her fan to her chest.

“And six… no, seven… no! Six again. Cinnamon rolls.”

A gasp from Hyacinth. Gregory was crying into a napkin.

“Delivered… with unsalted butter.”

Dead silence.

Then Benedict stood up and applauded, eyes wet. “She’s a menace.”

Third: Gregory Bridgerton (Team 4)

Gregory bounced to the front with a determined gleam in his eye and a sheet of paper held reverently.

“All Too Well,” he said. “Author unknown to the ton. But not to me.”

And he performed.

“I walked through the door with you… the air was cold.”

He grabbed his chest like he’d been stabbed.

“You kept me… like a secret. But I kept you… like an oath.”

Lucien whispered to you, “He’s possessed. Send help.”

“You said if we had been closer in age, maybe it would have been fine.”

Gregory dropped to one knee.

“And that made me want to die.”

By the end, he was practically on the floor. Daphne had to clap a hand over Colin’s mouth to stop him from laughing too loud.

Last: Edwina Sharma (Team 2)

Edwina floated up gracefully, holding a neatly folded issue of Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers. She took a breath, lifted her chin, and began.

“Miss Charlotte Fairborne was seen walking… alone… on a Tuesday.”

Scandalous gasps from half the terrace.

“In last season’s bonnet.”

Lady Danbury dropped her fan. Lady Mary looked vaguely ill.

“And Lord Banbury—yes, he—ordered a second bottle of claret… before noon.”

Colin gasped, “The horror.”

Edwina’s voice dropped.

“They said… his gloves were… unbuttoned.”

And with that, she curtsied and left the stage.

The Scores

The judges raised their scorecards in swift succession:

Lady Danbury: Simon – 4 | Eloise – 5 | Gregory – 5 | Edwina – 3

Lady Mary: Simon – 5 | Eloise – 5 | Gregory – 4 | Edwina – 4

Violet: Simon – 5 | Eloise – 4 | Gregory – 5 | Edwina – 3

Final Totals:

Simon – 14

Eloise – 14

Gregory – 14

Edwina – 10

A three-way tie.

Gregory dramatically fell to his knees. “We bleed for our art!”

Eloise raised her hand like a victorious politician. “I dedicate this to the forgotten pastries.”

Simon, cool as ever, simply nodded. “The fish was real.”

Lucien, whispering behind you, murmured, “And to think we haven’t even reached lunch.”

And somewhere in the background, Anthony muttered to Kate, “This is ridiculous.”

Kate replied, “Yes. And they’re all better actors than you.”

Event Three: The Great Compliment-Off

Current Standings:

Team 1 (Lucien, Simon, Hyacinth) – 6 points

Team 3 (You, Benedict, Eloise) – 5 points

Team 4 (Colin, Daphne, Gregory) – 4 point

Team 2 (Anthony, Edwina, Kate) – 1 point

The laughter from Gregory’s tortured rendition of All Too Well still echoed faintly across the lawns, most of the crowd still catching their breath when Lady Mary stood and raised a hand for quiet. Hyacinth, of course, ignored her — still scribbling scores into a self-made 'Emotional Devastation Index' she claimed was just as valid as the judges’ sheet.

Lady Danbury leaned forward, her cane tapping once on the ground. “Next event,” she declared, “is a test of restraint, wit, and the ability to leave your opponent speechless... with kindness.”

Violet smiled serenely, though her eyes sparkled like she'd just uncorked the best bottle of vintage chaos. “We call it: The Great Compliment-Off.”

Chairs shuffled. Eyes turned. Half the participants straightened. The other half immediately tried to flee.

“The rules,” Lady Mary continued, “are simple. One-on-one pairings. You must compliment your opponent. The compliment must be tasteful, appropriately phrased — but either romantic, flattering, or sincerely impressive. You may not repeat yourself. You may not pause too long. You may not laugh.”

Lady Danbury added, “The moment you falter, flinch, or get flustered — you lose. The last one standing in each pairing earns two points for their team.”

“And if it ends in an accidental proposal,” Violet mused aloud, “we’ll sort it out over lunch.”

Chuckles rippled through the crowd, but the players were already being called.

Pairing One: Gregory vs. Kate

Gregory and Kate stepped up like children sent to opposite corners of the room — one with too much confidence, the other with the quiet ruthlessness of a seasoned observer.

Gregory looked like he was marching into battle. Kate looked like she’d already won.

“You have the intensity of a thunderstorm,” Gregory began dramatically, “and the cheekbones of an avenging goddess.”

Kate blinked once. “You look like the result of a science experiment involving sugar, mischief, and an accidental lightning strike.”

Gregory grinned. “Your wit could cut steel.”

Kate tilted her head. “Your enthusiasm could flatten cities.”

“You look like you’d survive an avalanche with perfect posture,” Gregory declared with youthful bravado.

Kate raised a brow. “And you look like you’d cause one by sneezing near a mountain.”

Gregory grinned. “You intimidate me in the best way.”

Kate tilted her head. “You remind me of Newton when he tries to catch a swan: confident, determined… doomed.”

Gregory opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Kate smiled.

Victory: Kate

+2 points: Team 2

Updated Score: 3 points

Pairing Two: Edwina vs. You

Edwina smiled like sunshine; you smiled like a challenge wrapped in lace.

You stepped up slowly, gaze locked with Edwina’s — radiant and obliviously ready to play fair. You? You were playing to win.

“You move like a poem I haven’t read yet,” Edwina offered warmly.

You smiled. “Your eyes are so gentle, I nearly forgot we’re not on the same side.”

“You have the grace of a dove and the cunning of a lion.”

“You smell like innocence and scandal in equal measure.”

“You have the presence of moonlight,” she said sweetly, “gentle, but impossible to ignore.”

You smiled softly. “And you have the elegance of a portrait that makes people wish they lived in its time.”

Edwina pressed forward. “You wear confidence like it’s silk.”

You matched her. “You speak like kindness was stitched into your bones.”

Her eyes sparkled. “You’re the sort of woman people write stories about.”

You blinked, thrown.

But not flustered.

You leaned in, just a little. “And you’re the reason I have to work harder to win.”

She faltered. Just a breath.

But enough.

Victory: You

+2 points: Team 3

Updated Score: 7 points

Pairing Three: Simon vs. Benedict

These two looked like they were about to engage in verbal fencing at dawn.

Simon folded his arms. Benedict mirrored him.

“Your brushstrokes could make marble weep,” Simon said, arms crossed.

Benedict smirked. “And your jawline belongs on a currency.”

“Your laugh is offensive,” Simon replied, “because it makes people believe in charm again.”

“Your posture is infuriating,” Benedict fired back, “because it screams nobility while your words commit crimes.”

“I once saw you sketch a dying orchid into something seductive,” Simon said flatly.

“I once saw you drink whiskey like it was holy water,” Benedict replied.

“You terrify men who think they understand charisma.”

“You terrify poets who think they understand restraint.”

Simon smiled. “You wear paint stains like royal medals.”

“You brood like you invented it.”

They circled each other like panthers.

“You’re as exhausting as you are captivating,” Benedict added.

Simon smirked. “Then you admit you’re captivated.”

Benedict blinked.

Lucien, from the sidelines, called, “Checkmate!”

And Simon bowed mockingly. 

Victory: Simon

+2 points: Team 1

Updated Score: 8 points

Pairing Four: Daphne vs. Eloise

Daphne looked like she’d walked into a flower show. Eloise looked like she wanted to light one on fire.

This was personal. This was sibling war.

“You are sharper than half the swords I’ve seen in my husband’s fencing room,” Daphne said with perfect serenity.

“You weaponize politeness like it’s fencing foil,” Eloise snapped.

“You could dismantle a man’s ego with a well-placed sigh.”

“You could collapse an empire with that maternal tone.”

Daphne smirked. “Your rebellion is rather charming, darling.”

Eloise growled softly. “And your restraint is maddening.”

“You command a room with a raised eyebrow.”

“You scare lords without raising your voice.”

“You smile like you’ve already read their secrets.”

“You… you love too perfectly.”

Daphne blinked.

Eloise caught it.

Victory: Eloise

+2 points: Team 3

Updated Score: 9 points

Pairing Five: Colin vs. Hyacinth

Colin looked uncertain. Hyacinth looked feral.

Colin looked wary. Hyacinth? Already had three lines prepared.

“Your hair is like a misbehaving halo,” Colin started.

“Your face is an apology that gets away with everything,” Hyacinth shot back.

“You sparkle like a threat,” Colin said weakly.

“You function like a broken compass with a god complex,” Hyacinth replied sweetly.

“You speak like a villain trying not to be caught.”

“You walk like your shoes are in on the plan.”

“You have fangs hidden behind pearls.”

“You’ve peaked,” she whispered dramatically.

Colin blinked.

Defeated.

Victory: Hyacinth

+2 points: Team 1

Updated Score: 10 points

Final Pairing: Lucien vs. Anthony

The crowd hushed.

Even the breeze paused.

Lucien stepped forward like a cat toying with a lion. Anthony moved with the deliberate pace of a man walking straight into a battlefield with no escape route.

Lucien began, tone rich and silken. “You walk like thunder — even when you want to be silent.”

Anthony returned, clipped. “You speak like every word was forged in fire.”

“You wear guilt like it’s your crown.”

“You wear charm like it’s armor.”

Lucien said, voice silk. “You command a room like you own every breath in it.”

Anthony nodded, cold. “You wield silence like a weapon.”

Lucien smiled. “You wear control like a second skin.”

Anthony’s voice was tight. “And you wear temptation like perfume.”

Lucien’s eyes glinted. “You resist love like it’s a plague.”

Anthony didn’t blink. “You pursue it like it’s a conquest.”

The judges stared, frozen.

The air was thick with something dangerous.

Lucien’s gaze flicked toward you — just once.

Then back to Anthony.

Lucien leaned in, very slightly, voice low. “You scare me,” he said, quietly. “Because you could’ve had her — and didn’t.”

A beat.

Anthony’s breath hitched.

Barely.

A pause too long.

Victory: Lucien

+2 points: Team 1

Updated Score: 12 points

Lady Danbury stood, cane tapping lightly.

“Well,” she said. “If anyone would like to continue playing this game without sobbing into their tea, I suggest we break for lunch.”

You didn’t even realize you’d been holding your breath.

Lucien caught your eye from across the field.

And Anthony?

He didn’t even wait for dessert this time.

He walked away.

Taglist: @bollzinurmouth @drewstarkeysrightarm @thorins-queen-of-erebor @yearninglustfully @khaleesibeach

[plotbunnysyndrome]

More Than Honour

Chapter 25: Flirtation, Formation, and Flaming Teapots

Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Introduction: There are three things one should never underestimate at Aubrey Hall: a Bridgerton in competition, a scandal brewing before breakfast, and a teapot set ablaze in the name of ceremony. Today promised all three. Flirtations would be sharpened into strategy. Formations would disguise vendettas. And beneath it all, the faint scent of lemon custard and impending chaos would linger like perfume on war paint. Let the games begin.

Aubrey Hall – Morning Courtyard

The sun was indecently bright.

Which felt like an attack, honestly.

You stepped out onto the stone path just outside the main courtyard and blinked against the light — only for it to catch the gleam of a nearby golden waistcoat.

Lucien.

Already standing with Simon and Hyacinth, sleeves rolled up, one eyebrow raised like he was born to deliver threats wrapped in silk.

You hadn’t even reached the gravel before he turned his head, sensing you.

“Angel,” he called lazily, “tell the Duke he is wrong.”

You blinked. “About?”

Simon raised a brow. “I said it’s not possible to lose with Hyacinth on our team.”

Hyacinth tilted her head. “That sounds like a compliment.”

Lucien looked bored. “It’s not. It’s a declaration of war.”

You smiled, just a little. “If you’re already arguing, I fear for your team cohesion.”

Hyacinth grinned at you. “You say that now. Wait until we start playing dirty.”

Lucien’s gaze lingered a beat longer than necessary — as if taking stock of your mood, your stance, your distance.

Then he stepped forward and brushed an invisible thread from your sleeve, his voice dipping low enough for only you to hear.

“You slept well?” he murmured.

You nodded. “Well enough.”

A pause.

His fingers barely grazed your wrist. “Are we alright?” he asked, like the question had lived in him all night.

You met his gaze. Steady. Real.

“We are good,” you said softly. “I just needed a moment yesterday. But you… you never make me feel small. I promise.”

His jaw relaxed just slightly.

Simon, standing just a few feet away, was looking anywhere but at you two. “I’m going to take a walk,” he announced. “Possibly to the other side of the estate.”

Hyacinth called after him, “Pick me some sabotage flowers!”

Lucien chuckled.

You rolled your eyes, but your hand lingered on his sleeve just a second longer than necessary.

Then—

A door opened behind you.

Anthony stepped out.

He wasn’t looking at you. Not yet. He was mid-conversation with Benedict, who was carrying a large scroll of paper and muttering something about the emotional implications of scoreboard font.

But he felt you.

That much was obvious.

Because his step slowed.

Because he didn’t laugh at Benedict’s joke.

Because his eyes — when they finally did lift — went straight to the two of you.

You. Lucien. Standing far too close in the light of morning.

Lucien saw it too.

But he didn’t pull away.

He simply leaned closer, whispered something that made you smile, and then stepped back — smooth, easy, like nothing had just passed between you.

Benedict saw it.

Kate, emerging from the house behind them, definitely saw it.

And Anthony?

Anthony clenched his jaw, muttered something to Benedict, and walked straight past you without a word.

But the tremor beneath the surface?

Unmistakable.

Aubrey Hall Grounds – Late Morning

The lawn behind the west wing had been unofficially commandeered as the pre-games war room.

From the upper terrace, it looked like a strange little festival — four tight clusters of people, circled like plots of land about to be claimed.

Team One: The Trinity of Chaos

(You, Benedict, Eloise)

You had claimed a shaded patch near the rose arbor, your skirts tucked under as you leaned over a pilfered scrap of parchment, eyes locked on Benedict’s scribbled diagram.

“Okay,” you murmured, tapping the paper, “we know Anthony plays to win. Kate hates losing. And Lucien plays like he’s flirting with destruction. So what do we do?”

Eloise sipped her tea — she brought tea to a strategy meeting, of course — and muttered, “We weaponize unpredictability.”

Benedict, sketching a caricature of Simon and Lucien with villain capes, added, “I suggest subverting expectations and targeting Team Doom’s weak point.”

You tilted your head. “Which is?”

He grinned. “Ego.”

Eloise raised her teacup in solemn salute. “To theatrical sabotage and verbal carnage.”

You exchanged glances, and a plan began to take shape — part brilliance, part nonsense, entirely yours.

Team Two: The Honorable Disaster Trio

(Anthony, Kate, Edwina)

Tucked near the hedge maze, the air around them was…tense.

Kate had her arms folded, pacing like a general inspecting troops.

“We play smart. Controlled. No surprises,” she said sharply. “No need for theatrics. We just win.”

Anthony was nodding, overly focused, as if trying to will last night out of existence through strategic excellence.

“I agree,” he said. “Lucien is dangerous. But he overextends. He shows off.”

Edwina smiled, hands clasped sweetly. “I think it’ll be fun! I’m good at croquet.”

Kate and Anthony shared a glance.

“...There might not be croquet,” Kate offered delicately.

Edwina blinked. “But it’s the Bridgertons. It’s tradition.”

Anthony cleared his throat. “Not this year.”

Kate added, “Gregory and Hyacinth are involved.”

Edwina paled slightly.

Anthony looked across the lawn to where you were laughing with Benedict. His voice dropped.

“And they’ll be targeting us. We’re the team to beat.”

Kate narrowed her eyes, following his gaze. “Yes,” she said quietly. “We are.”

Team Three: The Flirt, the Duke, and the Goblin

(Lucien, Simon, Hyacinth)

They’d staked out the bench under the biggest oak tree — Lucien lounging like he’d ordered the sun to hit his jawline just so, Simon calmly peeling an orange, and Hyacinth vibrating with uncontainable joy.

“I have an idea,” Hyacinth said breathlessly. “We pretend to be awful in the first round. Lull them into smugness. Then annihilate them.”

Lucien nodded thoughtfully. “A classic long con. I approve.”

Simon raised a brow. “You just want an excuse to monologue mid-round.”

Lucien smirked. “If we’re going to crush their spirits, we might as well do it with flair.”

Hyacinth beamed. “Exactly!”

Simon popped a slice of orange in his mouth. “We’ll win. But more importantly… we’ll rattle them.”

Lucien’s gaze drifted lazily toward you across the lawn.

“She already knows I’m dangerous,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Let’s remind the rest.”

Simon rolled his eyes. “I should’ve partnered with Lady Danbury.”

Team Four: The Secret Weapons of Mayhem

(Colin, Gregory, Daphne)

Camped out near the fountain, this group looked… deceptively innocent.

Daphne was adjusting her gloves.

Gregory was building a small pyramid of stones.

Colin was squinting suspiciously at the other groups.

“I’m just saying,” he whispered, “we’re the wild cards. Everyone thinks we’re the leftovers.”

Gregory shrugged. “I am a leftover.”

Daphne smiled sweetly. “No, darling. We’re the trapdoor. They don’t see us coming until they fall.”

Colin nodded. “We hit them when they least expect it. During a monologue. Or while Anthony is making a speech.”

Gregory added, “Or when Lucien’s flirting.”

Colin grinned. “Exactly. That’s our window.”

Daphne, eyes scanning the field, murmured, “Let them underestimate us. We’ll use it.”

Across the Lawn…

The judges — Lady Danbury, Violet, and Lady Mary — stood by the garden gate, robes flowing and arms crossed. Their expressions were unreadable.

Lady Danbury leaned toward Violet. “Your children are feral.”

Violet smiled fondly. “They’re creative.”

Mary looked at her notes. “Do they know what the events are yet?”

Lady Danbury’s smile was sharp. “No.”

And across the field, the players were ready.

Friendships braced.

Rivalries sharpened.

Tension crackled like a storm in the grass.

The lawn had been transformed.

A stretch of green had been roped off with velvet cords stolen from the music room. Benches lined the edges like seats at a royal execution. A hastily crafted podium stood near the marble fountain—clearly one of Benedict’s old art tables, now draped with a lace tablecloth and flanked by two stern-looking garden gnomes.

And gathered before it…

Every guest. Every Bridgerton. Every rival. Every romantic entanglement with a hair-trigger temper.

Let the chaos commence.

The Judges Take Their Places

Lady Violet stood tall and radiant, the picture of serene grace—until Gregory knocked into her robe while skipping toward the makeshift torch.

Lady Danbury, as always, looked like she was preparing to sentence half the lawn to social exile. Her cane gleamed in the sunlight. Her eyes did, too.

Lady Mary was the calm in the storm, arms folded neatly, amused but composed as she watched her daughters eye their competitors like military scouts.

Behind them: the Torch.

A wrought-iron garden stake wrapped in ribbons, topped with a brass teapot spout, and—God help them—somehow smoking.

Gregory hovered nearby with a match. His grin was entirely too wide.

Eloise’s Opening Speech

Violet stepped forward, lifting a hand for silence.

“My dears,” she began, her voice carrying with practiced ease, “welcome to the first-ever Bridgerton Olympics. In honor of your... collective energy, the traditional Pall Mall match has been expanded. Team-based. Unpredictable. And, I am told, inspired by ‘the need for flair.’” She gave Hyacinth and Gregory a long, meaningful glance.

Lady Danbury stepped beside her. “You will compete. You will scheme. You will most certainly embarrass yourselves. And at the end of the day… one team will win.” She paused. “And everyone else will be mocked.”

Polite applause.

Lady Mary nodded, “In the spirit of good sportsmanship and very bad ideas, we now invite Miss Eloise Bridgerton to give the official opening address.”

Eloise climbed the podium with a dramatic sigh and cleared her throat.

“My fellow inmates,” she began, “and the unfortunate judges watching this circus unfold, I stand before you not as a competitor, but as a survivor of familial nonsense.”

Hyacinth cheered.

“You will be pitted against friends, lovers, siblings, and sworn enemies. Some of you may weep. Some of you may scheme. And some of you,” she looked at Anthony, “may lose your mind entirely.”

Anthony folded his arms.

Lucien grinned.

Edwina blinked.

You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing.

“This is not just sport,” Eloise declared, arms flung wide. “This is warfare. But with lemonade breaks.”

Gregory clapped so hard he dropped the match.

“And now,” Eloise concluded, stepping down with flair, “light the torch and let chaos reign.”

The Torch Lighting Ceremony

Gregory pounced on the match like it was a relic of destiny.

The crowd parted.

He struck it dramatically. It fizzled.

“Wait, wait,” he muttered. “I’ve got another—”

The second match sparked. He leaned close to the ridiculous construction.

For a beat—nothing.

Then the entire top of the makeshift torch flared up in a burst of smoke and sparks, shooting a puff of glitter into the air.

Colin leapt back. “Dear God, he weaponized a teapot!”

Lady Danbury didn’t flinch. “At least he’s passionate.”

Lucien leaned in toward Simon. “Are we sure this isn’t actually an assassination plot?”

Simon smirked. “Too theatrical. Not enough poison.”

Gregory stood beneath the flaming torch with arms wide. “LET THE GAMES BEGIN!”

Hyacinth whooped.

The crowd applauded.

The chaos was official.

Across the lawn, your eyes met Lucien’s—his brows raised in mock solemnity, but his smile said bring it on.

You smiled back, the tension from last night slipping just slightly under the sun.

On the other side of the field, Anthony was already rolling up his sleeves.

Kate cracked her knuckles.

Daphne whispered something to Colin that made him gasp and yell “That is NOT within the rules!”

Lady Violet stepped forward once more.

“The judges will now retire for tea. The first event begins shortly. You’ll be called when it’s time to embarrass yourselves. Good luck.”

She turned, regal and efficient, robes swaying behind her as she swept toward the garden terrace.

Lady Danbury paused, looked over her shoulder at the gathered competitors, and smiled slowly.

“I expect drama,” she said. “Don’t disappoint me.”

And with that—

The field was set.

The crowd dispersed.

And the Bridgerton Olympics… were officially underway.

Still on the field, just before the first event

Now, the teams lingered in loose circles, pretending not to size one another up like wolves in waistcoats and ribboned bonnets. Silence should have descended, perhaps—something civilized. But this was a Bridgerton-hosted event.

Which meant chaos came first.

It started innocently enough. A dry comment from Simon, directed at Team Anthony.

“You do realize,” he said, eyes glinting beneath the brim of his hat, “that chivalry doesn’t count as a sport?”

Anthony turned slowly, Edwina and Kate flanking him like matching caution signs. “And what exactly counts in your book, Hastings? Flirting your way through the obstacle course?”

Simon didn’t flinch. “I was rather counting on charm. That, and Hyacinth’s unparalleled ruthlessness.”

Hyacinth beamed beside him, already bouncing on her heels. “I plan to weaponize both cuteness and emotional manipulation.”

“You were born to compete,” Lucien said approvingly.

Kate crossed her arms. “Funny. I thought you two had already won something — the title of Most Likely to Cause a Scandal Before Noon.”

Lucien gave a short bow. “We do like to set the bar early.”

Your team, huddled to the side, were watching with vague amusement.

“Should we intervene?” Benedict asked lightly, sketchpad in hand, as if already illustrating the battlefield. “Or just let them exhaust each other?”

“I say let them,” Eloise muttered, arms folded. “They’re all posturing. Besides, Anthony getting bested by Simon is the kind of performance art I’ll never tire of.”

You leaned in, voice low, half a smirk on your lips. “We haven’t even started playing and everyone’s already sweating.”

“Is it intimidation?” Benedict mused. “Or just heat-induced hysteria?”

“Both,” you said, watching Lucien tip his head toward Simon with the kind of slow grin that made Anthony visibly bristle.

Across the lawn, Team Four made their entrance.

Colin tossed an apple in one hand, chewing thoughtfully. “Are we late, or just fashionably underestimated?”

Daphne smirked. “You could arrive on time and still be underestimated, dear brother.”

Gregory offered a dramatic bow. “We’re the sleeper threat. The chaos no one sees coming.”

Eloise shouted across the lawn, “No one’s sleeping on Gregory. He once tried to bribe a judge with jam tarts.”

Hyacinth clapped her hands. “I liked those tarts. That was strategy.”

Lucien leaned toward Simon. “I like how we’re being discussed as though we’re not standing right here.”

“Let them talk,” Simon said, adjusting his cuffs. “It’ll make their defeat feel personal.”

Anthony rolled his shoulders back. “You say that with a lot of confidence, Hastings. But I have Edwina and Kate. Intelligence and precision.”

Kate arched a brow. “Did you just call me precise?”

Anthony blinked. “It was meant as a compliment.”

“Mm,” Kate said, unconvinced. “Let’s see if you still say that when I beat you.”

“Again,” Eloise cut in, “teammates, not opponents. Do try to hold your alliances together for at least the first event.”

Lucien looked over at you then, all quiet confidence and veiled flirtation.

You raised an eyebrow. “Say what you’re thinking.”

“I was just admiring your poker face,” he said. “So calm. So composed. I can’t wait to see what it looks like when you lose.”

You stepped closer, smiling too sweetly. “You’ll have to catch me first.”

Benedict raised a hand between you like a referee separating prizefighters. “Let’s keep the flirting below a simmer until after the opening bell.”

“And what will you be doing during these events, brother?” Colin called out. “Sketching us into your war diary?”

Benedict shrugged. “Depends who bleeds first.”

Lucien leaned in toward Simon. “Is this what war looked like in your dueling days?”

“Wittier,” Simon murmured. “Better dressed.”

Gregory cleared his throat dramatically. “If I may offer a serious suggestion—”

“You may not,” said three people at once.

Gregory continued undeterred. “We should all remember that this is meant to be a spirited, team-building, family-oriented event.”

“Spoken like someone who has something dangerous planned,” muttered Anthony.

“And I,” said Hyacinth brightly, “volunteered the term ‘Olympics.’ Do you think I did that for unity?”

Silence.

Then, faintly, Lady Danbury’s cane tapped once against the wooden floor of the judging platform.

Lady Mary tilted her head toward Violet. “Should we be worried?”

“Almost certainly,” Violet said with a sigh.

Down on the grass, Lucien looked toward the three judges and grinned. “They’ll enjoy this more than they admit.”

You bumped shoulders with Benedict, voice light. “Ready?”

He glanced toward the battlefield. “Born ready.”

Eloise cracked her knuckles. “Let the games begin.”

And just like that — they turned toward the first event.

Smirks in place. Alliances set.

The teasing may have ended.

But the real war?

Was about to begin.

Taglist: @bollzinurmouth @drewstarkeysrightarm @thorins-queen-of-erebor @yearninglustfully @khaleesibeach

[plotbunnysyndrome]

More Than Honour

Chapter 24: Tactical Alliances and Other Dinner Table Crimes

Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Introduction: The rules were never announced. The alliances? Formed with eyebrow raises and stolen sips of wine. And tomorrow’s games? Officially sanctioned sabotage wrapped in sibling tradition. But tonight— Tonight is all candlelight and crumbs, hallway whispers and quiet confessions. Just enough sugar to mask the sharp edges underneath.

The moment Violet gently cleared her throat and rose from her chair, the tension in the room broke like brittle sugar beneath a spoon.

“I believe,” she said smoothly, her tone the picture of grace, “that dessert is ready to be served.”

Footmen emerged as if summoned by magic, carrying trays of lemon tarts, custards dusted with cinnamon, and glazed fruit tarts that shimmered under candlelight. The clink of silver returned—safe, rhythmic, polite.

Anthony had just excused himself from the table with an apologetic murmur. Edwina watched him go with concern, her expression soft but perplexed.

You knew that walk. That stiff, back-too-straight stride. That was the Anthony who couldn’t control the storm inside his chest and needed to control something else instead.

Violet didn’t look surprised. She simply took a bite of custard and hummed thoughtfully, like she was plotting an escape route from the castle she built herself.

Simon watched the door Anthony disappeared through with a slight smirk. “Should we be worried?”

Lucien, without missing a beat, murmured, “Only if he returns.”

Colin choked on his dessert.

Benedict grinned. “Careful. That sounded like you’re not afraid of him.”

Lucien dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “Should I be?”

Daphne raised her brows. “At the very least, cautious.”

Kate, who had remained relatively quiet through dessert’s arrival, spoke up for the first time in several minutes. “Why is it,” she said slowly, “that every time I think I understand the relationships at this table… someone goes and quotes poetry like a dagger?”

Lucien tilted his head, curious. “Was that aimed at me?”

Kate sipped her wine. “Not just you.”

Her eyes shifted from you, to Lucien, to the door Anthony had vanished through. She was observing. Always. You could almost hear the thoughts clicking behind her gaze.

You didn’t meet her eyes. You were too busy trying to remember how to hold your spoon.

Across from you, Edwina stirred the lemon tart on her plate. “He seemed… off this evening,” she said softly. “Do you think he’s alright?”

There was an awkward silence.

Hyacinth broke it. “Define alright. If you mean ‘not currently screaming into the garden,’ then yes. He’s alright.”

Daphne delicately cleared her throat. “He’s just overwhelmed. This household isn’t exactly known for peace and quiet.”

Lucien’s voice dropped to something gentle. “Some people need quiet to think. Others run from it.”

His words weren’t cruel. They were too true for that.

Kate’s gaze flicked to him.

“You’re very sure of yourself,” she said.

Lucien smiled faintly. “I’m very sure of her,” he said simply, eyes falling on you for just a breath too long.

You froze.

The tension was back again—no less sharp, no less present—but threaded now with something warmer, something almost aching.

Lady Danbury’s spoon hit her saucer. “Is he always like this?” she asked no one in particular.

Colin raised his hand. “Since the moment I met him.”

Gregory leaned toward Eloise. “This is the part where the villain turns out to have a heart.”

Eloise muttered, “This is the part where the hero realizes he’s not the only one bleeding.”

And then—

Anthony returned.

He entered like he hadn’t left. Composed. Calm. Except… not. His coat sat straighter. His hands were looser at his sides. But his eyes—they went straight to you. Then to Lucien.

Then away.

He sat beside Edwina, murmured something that made her smile.

But he didn’t smile back.

Colin leaned into Benedict and whispered, “Well. He’s either about to declare war, or dessert.”

Benedict replied, “Would it be wrong to hope for both?”

Hyacinth: “It’s never wrong to hope for dessert.”

Lucien, meanwhile, sat straighter.

Not as a threat.

As if he’d felt Anthony’s return in his bones.

And you… you hadn’t moved. But your fingers curled slowly around the base of your goblet, grounding yourself in the only thing still, still.

Anthony cleared his throat.

Not a dramatic sound. Not a warning. But a clearing, as if brushing away the last threads of tension lingering like fog over candlelight.

He placed his napkin down carefully beside his untouched dessert plate. The silence that followed was not total—but it was expectant.

“If we’ve all… sufficiently recovered,” he began, gaze skimming the table with the precision of a man pretending not to measure emotional carnage, “I believe we should discuss tomorrow’s plans.”

The fork in your hand paused.

Lucien leaned back in his chair just slightly, watching.

Gregory sat up straighter. Hyacinth leaned forward with predatory glee.

“The family tradition,” Anthony continued, “has always included a match of Pall Mall during our time at Aubrey Hall. However, my mother—” he glanced toward Violet, whose serene expression was just a bit too polished, “—mentioned that this year, the plans have been… adjusted.”

“Oh, I definitely did not approve that phrasing,” Violet said lightly, cutting into her custard with unsettling grace. “I said nothing about adjusted plans.”

Anthony blinked. “Then what—”

“I said the traditional Pall Mall would be replaced entirely.”

A gasp rippled through the room.

Mostly from Colin, who looked like someone had slapped the cravat off his soul.

“Replaced?!” he cried.

Violet, entirely undeterred, dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “With something more inclusive. And more reflective of the number of guests we’re hosting this year.”

Simon raised a brow. “Inclusive usually means exhausting.”

Lady Danbury’s cane tapped once against the leg of the table. “It means someone’s going to cry.”

Hyacinth grinned. “Excellent. That’s our measure of success.”

Anthony gave his mother a measured look. “What, exactly, are we doing tomorrow then, if not Pall Mall?”

Violet set down her fork. Her smile didn’t widen—it sharpened. “It wasn’t my idea, dear. Ask the masterminds.” She gestured lazily toward the two chairs on either side of her.

All eyes turned.

To Gregory and Hyacinth, who now looked suspiciously pleased with themselves.

“It’s called…” Hyacinth began, glancing toward her co-conspirator.

Gregory straightened his spine like a man about to be knighted. “The Bridgerton Olympics.”

A beat.

Colin blinked. “That sounds fake.”

Eloise: “That sounds dangerous.”

Daphne: “That sounds familiar. Didn’t someone cry last time they tried to organize a family-wide competition?”

Hyacinth, eyes glowing: “Exactly. This time it will be official.”

Anthony rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Hyacinth…”

“Oh come now,” Gregory interrupted. “You always tell us to channel our energy. Now we’re doing it through sportsmanship.”

“Organized chaos,” Hyacinth clarified helpfully.

Benedict, grinning, glanced at you. “I give it three minutes before someone tries to weaponize a teacup.”

Kate, arms crossed, voice suspiciously calm: “Are we allowed to know the events?”

Hyacinth smirked. “No. That ruins the element of surprise.”

Lucien sipped his wine. “I adore surprises.”

Anthony’s eye twitched.

Violet had just set down her fork. The air around her shimmered with the elegance of authority. “Teams,” she declared, “will be posted tomorrow morning, and—”

“Actually,” Hyacinth interjected sweetly, voice too innocent to be trusted, “wouldn’t it be far more entertaining if we got to pick our own teams, in groups of three?”

Gregory immediately chimed in, mouth still half-full. “It’s only fair. Strategy is half the sport.”

Lady Danbury gave a sharp little nod, tapping her cane twice in what might as well have been a gavel. “Let the children sort themselves. It’s how we learn who to actually worry about.”

Lady Mary, from beside Kate, offered a diplomatic smile. “Besides, it will show us who trusts whom.”

Anthony narrowed his eyes. “This sounds suspiciously like sabotage dressed in sibling bonding.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Eloise said brightly. “But I’m already excited.”

Simon leaned back in his chair, surveying the room like a general planning his battle campaign. Lucien was already watching him, eyebrows slightly raised. No words passed between them. Just a look. An agreement. Formed in the flick of a brow and the tilt of a wine glass.

Simon jerked his chin subtly in Hyacinth’s direction.

Lucien’s lips curled in approval. “Naturally.”

Hyacinth, watching them from across the table, blinked. “Wait—am I the wildcard or the weapon?”

Lucien: “Both.”

Simon: “Undeniably.”

She grinned like she’d just been knighted.

“Done,” she said, sliding her place card toward their side of the table as if that was how official teams were forged.

Colin, watching the silent alliances take shape around him, looked suddenly nervous.

Across the table, Anthony cleared his throat, ever the picture of noble purpose. “Miss Sharma,” he said to Edwina, voice polished, “might I have the honor of your partnership?”

Edwina beamed. “Of course, my lord!”

Kate quirked a brow. “Are we drafting now?”

Anthony turned to her with careful neutrality. “Would you join us? I’d value your... competitive spirit.”

Kate’s mouth twitched. She glanced at her sister, then back at Anthony. “Fine. But if we lose, I’m blaming the embroidery conversation.”

“Fair,” Anthony muttered under his breath.

Three seats over, you had barely turned when Benedict, already half out of his chair, said, “Us. Obviously.”

Eloise lifted her glass in silent agreement. “I like our odds. We’re chaotic, clever, and emotionally unmoored.”

You grinned. “A perfect combination.”

“Besides,” Benedict added, tapping his fork against his plate in thought, “I think we’re the only team that won’t implode halfway through.”

“That,” you murmured, “remains to be seen.”

Colin looked around slowly. Panic creeping in.

Because across the table, teams had formed in confident, coordinated silence—and he was not part of any of them.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered.

Gregory raised his hand. “Hi.”

Daphne waved serenely. “Darling brother, don’t look so distressed.”

Colin’s head hit the table.

“No,” he groaned. “No, no, no. I’ve been drafted by the chaos twins.”

Gregory leaned toward him with a slightly unhinged grin. “We’re going to destroy them.”

“You literally cried during Pall Mall last year!”

“That was a strategic release of emotion,” Gregory huffed.

Lady Danbury raised a brow. “I like this team already. Unpredictable.”

“You mean doomed,” Colin grumbled.

Simon laughed softly. “That’s the same thing in this house.”

Violet stood then, brushing invisible lint from her sleeve with practiced grace. “Then it’s settled.”

Six pairs of eyes turned toward her—some gleaming with pride, others bracing for war.

“Tomorrow morning,” she said, “the opening ceremony begins. The Bridgerton Olympics are officially in motion.”

Hyacinth saluted.

Gregory looked ready to mount a horse and ride into battle.

Lucien? He looked at you.

And smiled.

Slow. Wicked. Certain.

You felt it in your ribs before you felt it in your breath.

Anthony didn’t look at you. Not yet.

But he saw the way Lucien did.

And tomorrow?

He’d do everything in his power to win.

Because losing to Lucien Blackbourne, in front of you?

Would feel far worse than any duel.

After dinner, in the hallway.

The hallway outside the dining room is dimly lit, the sconces casting flickering shadows across dark oak and velvet wallpaper. The laughter and chatter behind the doors are muffled now, a low hum in the background of a house that had just weathered a social storm.

Lucien stands near the window, the collar of his jacket slightly undone, hands in his pockets, as if he hadn’t just baited half the table into losing composure. He inhales deeply through his nose and exhales just as slow, eyes fixed on nothing in particular.

“You warned me this house was volatile,” he murmurs.

From behind him, Simon’s voice carries, low and amused. “And yet, you poured oil on the flames and called it foreplay.”

Lucien chuckles, but it’s quiet. “You don’t think I went too far?”

Simon steps beside him, arms folded loosely as he leans against the banister. “You were only holding up a mirror. If they flinch, that’s on them.”

A silence settles between them—companionable, edged only by the knowledge of what simmered all through dinner.

“She’s extraordinary,” Simon says finally.

Lucien’s eyes soften, and this time, he doesn’t look away.

“I know.”

“No game?”

“No game.”

Simon watches him for a beat longer. “You care for her.”

Lucien’s throat works. “It’s terrifying.”

Simon’s mouth quirks. “Good. That means it’s real.”

Lucien doesn’t answer. Just nods once, slowly. The silence that follows says more than any sentence could.

Then, with a dry grin, Simon adds, “But if you don’t win this… you’ll be the one getting challenged to a duel.”

Lucien finally laughs. “If he does, I hope he aims well. I’d hate for my waistcoat to survive another scandal.”

A few hallways over.

Away from the noise and the warmth of the dining room, Benedict is seated on a windowsill, sketchbook open on his lap, pencil dancing absently across the page.

Anthony steps into the hallway with all the weight of a man dragging a secret he doesn’t know how to carry anymore.

Benedict doesn’t look up. “Come to yell at me for enabling chaos?”

Anthony exhales. “No.”

Benedict raises a brow. That’s new.

Anthony walks a little closer but doesn’t sit. He stares out the window instead. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

Benedict flips a page in his book. “No. But when is it ever?”

Silence.

Anthony speaks again, quieter now. “I was doing the right thing. I thought I was being… honorable.”

“And maybe you were.” Benedict finally looks at him. “But who is it serving now, Anthony? Her? Or you?”

Anthony’s jaw ticks.

“She deserves to be chosen,” Benedict says gently. “Not buried under duty.”

Anthony says nothing.

Because what is there to say when the truth is an echo you’ve been trying not to hear?

Benedict closes the sketchbook softly. “Don’t wait until it’s too late to realize what you gave up in the name of doing the right thing.”

And with that, he leaves Anthony standing alone in the hallway. No lecture. No resolution. Just truth.

And a silence that sinks deeper than any wound.

Meanwhile, on the terrace.

The house had finally gone quiet. Laughter now lived only in echoes, and the distant sound of the last wine glass being cleared was the final note of a symphony that had played too close to chaos. You had slipped away when the last of the conversation dwindled, murmured a soft goodnight to Eloise, and wandered, restless, into the dark.

The terrace was still warm from the day’s sun, but the breeze carried the promise of night. Above, the stars had emerged from behind gauzy clouds, not yet bold but still glimmering. And below, the garden slumbered — petals curled, fountains stilled, even the misbehaving peacocks tucked away.

You were alone for maybe a minute.

Then you heard the soft creak of the terrace door open behind you.

Footsteps.

Measured.

Familiar.

You didn’t turn around.

Lucien came to stand beside you, his presence quiet — no theatrics tonight, no signature grin.

Just him.

After a moment, he exhaled. “You disappeared.”

You kept your eyes on the stars. “Only just.”

He didn’t speak right away.

Then — “You were quieter tonight.”

You smiled, faintly. “Says the man who nearly turned the dinner table into a poetic duel.”

He huffed a soft laugh, but there was no smugness in it. Just breath. Just warmth beside you.

Then, more seriously — “I’ve been thinking…” A pause. “I know I can be… a lot.”

You blinked, glancing over. He was looking out over the garden now, one hand lightly gripping the stone ledge, his knuckles pale in the moonlight.

“A performance. A flirt. A scandal waiting for the right guest list,” he continued, almost wryly. “I enjoy being that person. But not with you. Not only with you.”

He turned to you fully now, and the light caught something rare in his expression — uncertainty.

“And I suppose what I’m asking, in a very roundabout way, is… have I been too much?”

Your lips parted, caught between the instinct to soothe and the instinct to retreat. You didn’t expect him to ask. You didn’t expect him to see it.

You looked down at your hands. “No,” you said, softly. “You’ve never been too much.”

He exhaled. But you weren’t done.

You forced yourself to lift your head and meet his gaze. “You’ve been more present than anyone else. More real. That matters to me.”

The silence stretched.

But it wasn’t heavy.

It was… full.

Lucien looked at you like he wanted to say something more — something deeper — but instead, he let the moment breathe.

And then, with a soft smile, he nudged your shoulder with his. “So. I hear we’re on opposing teams tomorrow.”

You blinked. “God help us all.”

He grinned. “I do hope you’ve prepared. Because I plan to win.”

You arched a brow. “You’re teaming up with a Duke and a chaos goblin.”

“And you’re with Benedict and Eloise. That’s not a team — that’s an uprising.”

You laughed, and this time it came easily. The tension that had clung to your ribs all night cracked, just a little.

Lucien watched you, his smile softening into something warm. “I look forward to seeing your strategy,” he said. “Even if it means losing.”

You tilted your head. “Since when does Lucien Blackbourne lose?”

He leaned closer, his voice dipping low, fond. “Only when it’s worth it.”

And then — like it wasn’t even a question — he took your hand.

Not to flirt. Not to stake a claim.

Just to hold it.

Beside you, the night exhaled.

The stars above twinkled like conspirators.

From the Garden.

Anthony stepped out into the cool dark, the door clicking shut behind him with a sound that echoed louder than it should have. The quiet slapped him like a reprimand — no clinking silver, no soft laughter, no Violet’s eyes flicking across the table like a conductor trying to hold together a broken orchestra.

Just crickets. The hum of distant wind through rosebushes. The hush of nightfall settling on old stone.

He didn’t plan to come this way. He didn’t plan anything tonight, and that, he knew, was where it had all begun to unravel.

He needed air.

He needed to forget the dinner. The stolen glances. The aching silence between your chair and his.

And so he wandered through the garden paths without really seeing them. Past the hydrangeas, the fountain, the weathered cherub statues he used to hate as a child.

And then he looked up.

The terrace.

He froze mid-step.

There you were — silhouetted in the soft golden spill of lamplight. Standing just close enough to Lucien that it twisted something sharp in his ribs.

And then—

Lucien reached for your hand.

No theatrics. No spectacle.

Just fingers brushing yours until you let him in. And then you stood there, silent, steady — like you were two halves of the same quiet storm.

Anthony couldn’t move.

He didn’t breathe.

Because it wasn’t the handholding.

It wasn’t even the smile on your face — real, gentle, safe.

It was that he’d never given you that.

He’d burned for you in silence. Had tried to contain you.

Lucien?

Lucien just… showed up.

And you let him.

Anthony stepped back before either of you could see him.

Back into the shadows.

Back into the ache.

His heart didn’t shatter, exactly. But it shifted. Something cracked, slow and deep.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t cry. He didn’t rage.

He simply turned around, alone in the garden he once played in as a boy —

and walked back inside, quietly, with the weight of something he could no longer deny:

He was losing you.

And he had no one to blame but himself.

A while later in the night, Daphne & Simon’s bedroom.

The fire in their room had dimmed to embers, casting long shadows across the stone hearth. Daphne sat at the vanity, slowly brushing out her hair, while Simon leaned against the doorway in his dressing robe, arms crossed, his expression thoughtful in that way that meant something had been left unsaid for too long.

“You’re quiet,” Daphne murmured, glancing at him through the mirror.

Simon smiled faintly. “Just replaying the battlefield.”

Daphne laughed, soft and amused. “We do call it a dining table, not a dueling ring.”

“With those three seated like chess pieces?” he said, walking over to her, “It might as well have been a war council with dessert.”

He picked up her hairbrush and gently took over, brushing through her hair with long, slow strokes. It had always calmed him — this simple, domestic intimacy. The part of marriage that had nothing to prove.

“I spoke to Lucien,” he said after a pause. “After dinner.”

Daphne arched an eyebrow. “And?”

Simon’s voice lowered, thoughtful. “He didn’t say much. But he didn’t have to. He’s in it. For real. And he’s not playing to win—he’s playing because he already knows he’s losing something, whether he wins or not.”

Daphne looked down for a moment, then met his eyes in the mirror. “That makes two of them.”

Simon stopped brushing.

“He won’t say it,” Daphne continued. “Not even to himself. But he’s spiraling, Simon. Every glance, every swallow of wine, every sharp breath he thinks no one notices? It’s all her.”

Simon set the brush down gently.

“I hate watching it,” Daphne whispered.

Simon nodded. “Because it’s not just heartbreak. It’s pride, and guilt, and duty, and everything he’s never learned how to unravel.”

A quiet beat passed between them, heavy with understanding.

“And now,” Daphne added, turning slightly to face him, “we’ve put all three of them on opposing teams. During something invented by Hyacinth and Gregory.”

Simon blinked. “God help us.”

Daphne leaned her head against his shoulder. “It’s going to be a massacre.”

Simon smiled into her hair. “Oh, it’s going to be delightful.”

They stood there like that for a moment longer—two spectators who loved the players too much to look away.

And somewhere in the silence between words, they knew:

Tomorrow, the games would begin.

And no one would leave unchanged.

Taglist: @bollzinurmouth @drewstarkeysrightarm @thorins-queen-of-erebor @yearninglustfully @khaleesibeach

[plotbunnysyndrome]

More Than Honour

Chapter 23: Threadbare Composure

Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Introduction: They called it dinner. With candlelight and wine and the illusion of civility. But beneath the silver and silk sat something hungrier. A table of secrets. A room of witnesses. A game no one agreed to play— and everyone was losing anyway.

Anthony sat rigidly in his chair, hands folded too tightly over his napkin. Lucien was too quiet. Edwina too radiant. And you—too far away. Still laughing softly at something Hyacinth had said. Still occasionally turning toward Lucien like he was gravity.

Violet had nearly succeeded in shifting conversation toward something neutral—opera seasons, carriage redesigns, the weather in Bath—when Daphne, seated beside her husband, lifted her wine glass and gave her brother a look that could only be described as wicked.

“Well, since we’ve all touched on the subject of Anthony’s impressive... need for control,” she began, smooth as clotted cream, “did you know he once challenged Simon to a duel?”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Then—

Gregory gasped audibly.

Hyacinth knocked her spoon into her bowl.

Lady Mary made a startled noise into her wine glass.

Edwina blinked rapidly. “A duel?”

Colin groaned. “Not this story again.”

Colin dropped his spoon. Benedict leaned back, suddenly grinning.

“Oh, absolutely this story again,” Benedict said, leaning in with an almost reverent grin. “I had to physically stop him from marching Simon into the woods like a madman.”

Simon, calm as ever, lifted his glass with a small smile. “He was halfway through threatening my bloodline before Daphne even finished adjusting her hem.”

Anthony shot him a glare. “You laid your hands on my sister—”

“I kissed my fiancée,” Simon corrected, eyes twinkling. “You responded like an unhinged opera villain.”

Lucien, very casually cutting his meat, didn’t even look up. “That explains the dramatics. I did always sense you had a flair for duels, Bridgerton.”

Anthony’s jaw clenched. “At least I didn’t court my scandals publicly.”

“Oh no,” Lucien murmured, still not looking at him. “You just escorted yours into the woods and declared war.”

A collective snort erupted from Colin, Benedict, and Hyacinth.

You, despite yourself, let out a sharp laugh—and quickly masked it behind your wine.

Anthony’s gaze snapped to you.

You were already composed again. Almost.

“I do recall Daphne mentioning the incident,” you said mildly. “And something about you screaming something dramatic about honor while she was still smoothing her skirts?”

Eloise grinned. “He did. I heard about it from the butler before breakfast.”

Simon chuckled. “I believe his exact words were: ‘This family shall not be disgraced by a Duke with no intentions.’”

Benedict added helpfully, “And then he tripped over a tree root and tried to duel anyway.”

Hyacinth, delighted, leaned forward. “Did you use swords or pistols?”

Anthony, visibly exhausted, pressed his fingers to his temple. “Pistols.”

Lady Danbury, who had been silently sipping her wine through the entire affair, spoke for the first time. “I remember that morning. The ton nearly combusted. You know, if you’d fired a moment earlier, half the gossip circles would have had to rename the Bridgertons entirely.”

Colin mock-gasped. “The Bleedgertons.”

Lucien, shaking with silent laughter, raised his glass. “To duels poorly thought out, and reputations narrowly saved.”

Anthony ignored him, turning to Daphne with something that looked suspiciously like pleading. “You couldn’t have picked any other story?”

Daphne’s smile was sweet. “You chose to escalate. I chose to educate.”

Gregory, still wide-eyed, turned to Simon. “Would you have shot him?”

Simon looked contemplative. “Possibly in the leg. Nothing fatal.”

Lucien finally looked up, eyes gleaming with wicked delight. “And would you have apologized, afterward?”

Simon met his gaze evenly. “Depends which leg.”

Even Kate cracked a reluctant laugh at that.

Anthony, thoroughly outnumbered and glaring daggers at everyone, turned to you—his last possible source of dignity.

But you only tilted your head with faux sweetness. “Well. I suppose this means you won’t be proposing a garden stroll tonight.”

Benedict choked on his wine.

Edwina blinked between the two of you, utterly baffled by the dynamic she could not name.

Anthony said nothing.

And Simon—ever the quiet disruptor—leaned back, swirling his drink.

“I’m beginning to enjoy family dinners,” he said.

Lucien, with barely veiled amusement, leaned forward. “So just to be clear…you threatened bodily harm because a man fell for your sister?” His gaze flicked to Anthony, eyes glinting. “Are we sure you have not scheduled my duel yet?”

Anthony stiffened.

You, ever so sweetly, patted Lucien’s arm. “If he has, I will stand between you and the bullet.”

Lucien turned to you with a grin. “Ah, my angel. Always dramatic.”

Colin snorted. “You are one to talk.”

And for the first time since soup had been served, you found yourself laughing out loud—with Lucien beside you, Anthony smoldering across the table, and the entire house two anecdotes away from burning to the ground.

The laughter from Daphne’s duel anecdote still lingered in the air like smoke — sharp, stinging, leaving behind the burnt edge of revelation. Anthony had gone quiet again. Simon had leaned back into his chair, smug and satisfied, while Benedict and Colin wore identical grins that said we’ve waited years to say this out loud.

You had barely touched your wine, fingers tracing the rim of the glass, eyes fixed somewhere past the flickering candlelight in front of you. You weren’t retreating. Not exactly. Just… breathing. Carefully.

Which is why you missed the glint in Eloise’s eye before she spoke.

“So, Lord Blackbourne,” she said, far too casually for anyone to believe she hadn’t planned it. “Why do you call Y/N angel, anyway?”

The fork you were holding paused mid-air.

Eloise continued, elbows unapologetically on the table as she leaned in toward him with narrowed curiosity. “You don’t use her name. Not even in passing. Just… angel. Repeatedly. Sounds intimate.”

Gregory immediately turned, alert. Hyacinth’s eyes sparkled. Colin snorted into his wine. Kate tilted her head.

Anthony… didn’t move.

You felt every eye shift to you—but you didn’t flinch.

Lucien didn’t flinch.

Instead, he set down his glass with a quiet ease, his gaze finding you immediately. Not with a smirk or a laugh. But with something quieter. Something that slowed the beat of your heart.

“When I first said it,” Lucien murmured, his voice like velvet brushing against the grain of the room’s tension, “it was meant as mischief.”

Your breath caught.

“The kind of name you give someone when you’re trying to disarm them,” he continued, eyes never leaving yours. “Because they’re looking at you like they know your game and won’t play it. Because their smile is lovely, but not soft. Because you say it once and expect it to land lightly.”

He leaned back slightly, almost contemplative now. The room around him faded — for you, and seemingly for him as well.

“But she didn’t flinch when I said it,” he added, softer now. “She didn’t blush, didn’t glare, didn’t fall for the bait. She just… smiled. This quiet, maddening little smile. Like I had no idea how deep I’d just sunk.”

Your throat went tight.

Lucien’s fingers lightly tapped against the stem of his glass, once, before stilling.

“And from that moment on, nothing else fit,” he finished simply. “Not her name. Not miss. Not any title. Just angel. Because she’s never been anything less than my undoing in disguise.”

Silence wrapped around the table, taut and humming.

Hyacinth let out a breathy “oh my God.”

Colin blinked rapidly. “Did anyone else feel that in their spine?”

Daphne pressed a hand over her heart. “Honestly, that might’ve been the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

Simon raised a brow at Anthony, who hadn’t moved. His knuckles were white against the silver of his fork, and the muscle in his jaw had gone tight enough to crack.

You still hadn’t said anything.

Lucien turned to you now — just you — and, with the gentlest edge of a grin, added, “Unless, of course, you’d prefer I stop.”

It wasn’t cocky.

It wasn’t for show.

It was a question. A quiet one.

You didn’t look at anyone else. Just met his gaze and shook your head once, slow. “No. I don’t mind it.”

Lucien smiled.

Across the table, Anthony reached for his glass, slower this time. Measured. But his eyes didn’t leave yours. Not for a moment.

The tension still shimmered in the air like heat off stone, delicate and dangerous.

Lucien’s gaze hadn’t left yours. You held it, steady, a breath from something… more.

But Hyacinth, ever the chaos elemental in curls and silk, broke the moment with a sing-song curiosity that cut through the silence like a ribbon:

“But wait—when was the first time you said it?”

You blinked, startled. Across the table, Lucien’s mouth curved just slightly.

“Oh, I remember that,” Colin chimed in, already grinning. “It was that dinner. The one where I lost a bet to Benedict about whether or not Anthony would snap a butter knife in half.”

“I believe the final tally was… two,” Benedict added helpfully. “One bent beyond recognition. One thrown in the general direction of the fireplace.”

“I knew something was missing from the cutlery drawer the next morning,” Violet murmured, sipping her wine with the serene composure of a woman who has seen the apocalypse in cravat form.

Hyacinth leaned across Simon like a spy at court. “It was the night Lord Blackbourne flirted like the house was on fire and Y/N was the only woman worth saving.”

Lady Danbury arched a brow. “Sounds theatrical.”

Daphne chuckled. “It was art.”

“I wasn’t even there,” Simon said, “and I’ve heard the story at least three times. From three different sources. None of which included the same number of wine bottles or swooning incidents.”

“Oh, there was no swooning,” Colin said cheerfully. “Just Anthony pouring enough wine to drown a scandal.”

Anthony, seated across from Lucien and very much present, set down his glass with care. “I do hope the entertainment value outweighs the embellishments.”

“Funny,” Eloise said, swirling her wine, “I don’t remember needing to embellish. Lord Blackbourne served the tension. You roasted in it.”

Hyacinth squealed. “Yes! You were seething, Anthony. You tried so hard to look composed, but your fork nearly pierced the duck.”

Lucien, ever composed, didn’t gloat. Not quite. But the glint in his eye as he turned to you was unmistakable. “If memory serves,” he said softly, “you were the one who started the real fire.”

You tilted your head, meeting his gaze. “I might’ve poured the oil. You struck the match.”

Colin snorted. “And the rest of us? Roasted marshmallows.”

Gregory, wide-eyed, stage-whispered, “Didn’t someone say ‘turn about the garden’ and it was basically a marriage proposal in disguise?”

“I asked if she wanted to walk,” Lucien said innocently. “I never said how far.”

Eloise nearly fell off her chair laughing. “And she replied ‘Are you sure you can keep up?’ Like she hadn’t just murdered him in cold blood.”

Hyacinth pointed a dramatic finger across the table. “And then he smirked. Said he never has trouble keeping up. I nearly fainted.”

Daphne’s smile was knowing. “And Anthony—”

“I remember perfectly well,” Anthony cut in, voice low.

Silence descended, taut and immediate.

All eyes flicked to him.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t move. He just looked down at his plate, then up at Lucien. Then—you.

Kate, seated beside Edwina, watched it all. Closely. Like someone reading between lines only a few others could see. Her gaze lingered on Anthony’s tightened jaw. On your hand as it rested a little too still near your wine glass. On Lucien, who—despite all the revelry—wasn’t looking at anyone else but you.

Anthony exhaled, sharp and slow, then turned his attention to Edwina beside him, reaching for the wine to refill her glass.

“I’m afraid,” he said, his voice steady, “my family takes great pleasure in exaggerating past events.”

Edwina smiled, slightly confused. “I don’t remember it being so… theatrical.”

Kate’s brows twitched faintly.

“Exaggerated?” Colin laughed. “Anthony, you were seething. Daphne tried to change the subject and you looked at her like she’d insulted your lineage.”

Benedict grinned. “You were about to quote something dramatic. Then Blackbourne beat you to it. Poetry, wasn’t it?”

Lucien didn’t confirm or deny. But he turned to you, and with that quiet cadence of his, murmured just loud enough:

“There is pleasure in the pathless woods…”

Your lips parted. Your breath caught.

“…there is a rapture on the lonely shore…”

Hyacinth gasped. “He’s doing it again.”

Anthony reached for his wine.

Kate leaned in, eyes narrowed—sharp, calculating. “That was Byron, wasn’t it?” she asked lightly.

Lucien nodded. “Indeed. Quite a favorite of Lord Bridgerton’s, I hear.”

The corners of Kate’s mouth didn’t move, but something shifted behind her gaze. Slowly, she turned toward Anthony.

“Is it?” she asked.

Anthony said nothing.

Daphne leaned into the chaos like it was a chaise lounge. “To be fair, it’s one of the most romantic recitations I’ve ever heard. From either of them.”

Anthony’s fingers gripped the stem of his glass a little too tightly.

You felt it.

The pressure.

The attention.

The way Lucien hadn’t taken his eyes off you, even as he dropped words like embers.

The way Kate watched Anthony with rising suspicion.

The way Anthony looked at you like memory was a weight he couldn’t put down.

It was Colin who broke the tension.

“Well,” he said brightly, “if that dinner was a fire, then this one’s at least a slow roast.”

“And dessert hasn’t even arrived,” Eloise added gleefully.

Violet raised a brow at no one in particular. “Then heaven help us when it does.”

Across the table, Lady Danbury spoke again, her voice dry as brandy and twice as strong.

“I cannot believe I missed that dinner.”

Lucien smiled. “I’m sure this one will make up for it.”

He looked at you again. Not with amusement. Not with victory.

But with something quieter.

Like he saw all the cracks in the room—and only wanted to know if he could hold them together.

Anthony, from across the table, saw that look too.

And for now?

He said nothing.

Dessert hadn’t even been announced, yet Violet’s napkin already looked suspiciously like it had been squeezed within an inch of its life.

Which is when Benedict, with the kind of grin only a man too comfortable with fire could wear, leaned into the quiet.

“So,” he said, casually tearing a piece of bread in half. “Now that we’ve revisited the dinner that shall not be named… what say we play a game?”

Colin’s eyes gleamed. “Oh no. Is it time?”

Hyacinth sat up straighter. “I knew I wore the right earrings for scandal.”

Gregory whispered, “This better be the game with secrets.”

“It is,” Eloise said brightly. “And the adults haven’t ruined it yet.”

Lucien raised a brow. “What kind of game are we playing?”

Hyacinth clapped once, delighted. “It’s simple. We take turns going around the table and ask each person to describe the last scandalous thought they had during this meal.”

You blinked. “That’s not simple. That’s social warfare.”

“It’s Bridgerton dinner,” Eloise said. “Same thing.”

Violet opened her mouth—perhaps to object—but paused. Then sighed. “I am going to need a stronger wine.”

Simon leaned forward with a wolfish grin. “Shall I begin, or will you, Lord Blackbourne?”

Lucien didn’t flinch. “Ladies first.”

Eloise jumped in. “Perfect. I’ll start.” She turned to Simon. “What was the last improper thought you had at this table?”

Simon smirked. “I imagined throwing a bread roll at Anthony when he said ‘embroidered cushion’ with such confidence. Miss Sharma deserves better metaphors.”

The table erupted.

Anthony looked personally wounded.

Edwina blinked in confusion.

Kate nearly snorted her wine.

Lady Danbury murmured, “So do I. Heavens, it was dull.”

Benedict was wheezing. “Throw the whole metaphor out. Start again.”

Simon sat back, sipping his wine with the elegance of a man entirely unbothered.

Lucien grinned. “Well played.”

Colin leaned in next. “My turn.” He turned to you. “Tell us — what were you thinking when Lord Blackbourne quoted poetry to you a few minutes ago?”

You paused — dramatically. Eyes sweeping the table. Then you smiled, sweet and dangerous.

“I was wondering,” you said slowly, “whether it’s possible to melt silverware from sheer eye contact alone.”

Hyacinth gasped. “That’s the quote of the evening!”

Lucien leaned in. “You’re welcome to test that theory. Privately.”

Eloise groaned, “God, I hate how good that was.”

Anthony didn’t move. But you saw it.

The shift.

The flex in his jaw. The tight grip around his spoon. The flicker of heat that bloomed in his eyes before he blinked it away.

Kate saw it too. Her gaze narrowed.

You caught Kate watching you again—not with hostility, but precision. Like a seamstress deciding where the thread frays.

You looked away first. That unsettled you more than it should’ve.

“Alright,” Benedict said cheerfully, “my turn. Blackbourne. What scandalous thought crossed your mind during the soup course?”

Lucien, unhurried, locked eyes with you. “That if I were born less decent,” he said quietly, “I would have kissed her, right there, in front of every person here.”

Silence.

Not gasping silence.

Gutted silence.

The kind that trembled on the edge of danger.

You didn’t blink.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t smirk.

You reached slowly for your wine glass, took a measured sip, and let the silence stretch long enough to be felt.

Then you smiled.

And the table tilted.

Hyacinth whispered, “I think I forgot how breathing works.”

Daphne, blinking hard, muttered, “Remind me to steal that line.”

Anthony…

Anthony looked like he was about to stand. His knuckles turned white against the table.

And Lucien — the devil wrapped in velvet and candlelight — finally glanced at him.

And smiled.

It was not a taunt. It was a challenge.

Simon leaned in toward Hyacinth. “Did you get that sketch?”

Hyacinth nodded solemnly. “Lucien with devil wings. Anthony with smoke coming out of his ears. I’ll add flames.”

Lady Danbury cackled. “I like him.”

Kate, meanwhile, was looking at Anthony.

“Anthony,” Benedict said brightly, like he hadn’t just dropped a match into a room filled with gas, “your turn.”

The words landed like thunder.

Every head turned.

Even Edwina blinked, gently surprised. “Oh, yes—Lord Bridgerton, what has been your most scandalous thought this evening?”

Anthony didn’t answer immediately.

Didn’t twitch.

Didn’t blink.

Just… stared at the wine in his glass like it had betrayed him for the final time.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said at last, voice calm but low, “about restraint.”

Lucien let out the softest laugh, just enough to draw attention.

Anthony continued, tone measured. “How it’s a virtue. How it separates men from boys.”

Colin raised a brow. “So… nothing scandalous, then?”

Anthony glanced at him. “You’d be surprised what a man has to restrain when people won’t stop provoking him.”

A beat.

Lucien, swirling his wine, looked entirely relaxed. “Some of us provoke without meaning to, Bridgerton. It’s just the hazard of having charm.”

Anthony looked up, sharply.

Lucien didn’t even flinch. “You should try it sometime.”

“Oh,” Gregory whispered. “Oh, he’s going to die.”

Eloise leaned forward like she was front row at a play. “Do it again.”

But Kate—Kate—cut across the table like a knife.

“What exactly are we restraining, my lord?”

Everyone turned.

Anthony blinked.

Kate was watching him—not accusing, not angry.

Curious.

Anthony cleared his throat. “Decorum. Diplomacy.”

“Desire?” Lucien offered, oh-so-softly.

The word sliced through the air.

Hyacinth actually whooped.

Daphne’s hand went over her mouth.

Edwina let out a quiet, confused laugh.

“Lord Blackbourne,” she said, still trying, bless her, “you really do enjoy dramatics.”

Lucien didn’t answer.

He wasn’t looking at her.

He was still watching you.

Anthony finally turned back to his glass. “Restraint,” he repeated. “It’s useful. Especially when others forget theirs.”

You shifted in your seat, the weight of all their eyes grazing your skin like fingertips. Your breath felt heavier now—like the air had started playing tricks.

Lucien leaned closer, voice just for you.

“Are we talking about my restraint, darling?” he asked, tone velvet and velvet thorns.

 You turned slowly, your lashes low. “I think everyone’s restraint is hanging by a thread.”

“You seem fine,” he murmured.

“I’m not the one being fought over in metaphors.”

He grinned, and whispered—just loud enough for only the very worst people to hear—

“Oh, I’m not fighting for you in metaphors, angel. I’m fighting with teeth.”

Anthony stood.

No warning.

No sound but the scrape of chair legs and the unmistakable heat that poured off of him like a thunderstorm with too much pride.

“I believe I need air,” he said tightly.

Edwina startled, half-rising. “Oh—but the next course—”

 “I’ll return.”

But his eyes weren’t on Edwina.

They were on you.

Just for a second.

Long enough to say everything he wasn’t allowed to speak.

Then he was gone.

The room froze.

And then, finally—

Colin muttered, “Well. There goes the thread.”

Hyacinth threw her arms up. “Best dinner ever!”

Lady Danbury toasted the candlelight. “About bloody time.”

Kate, silent until now, lifted her wine and murmured—half to herself—“That wasn’t restraint. That was retreat.”

You didn’t move.

Lucien’s hand was still resting near yours, his posture utterly unshaken. His smile was soft now. Sharpness tucked away.

“I’m sorry,” he said, finally looking at you. “Did I… overstep?”

You didn’t answer immediately.

Then you leaned in—close enough to make him hold his breath—and said quietly, sweetly:

“If this is your version of restraint, I’d love to see what losing control looks like.”

Lucien let out a breathless laugh, low and dark.

“Oh angel,” he whispered, “so would I.”

Across the table, Simon raised his wine glass toward Hyacinth.

She clinked her goblet with his and grinned.

There was a beat of stunned, simmering silence after Anthony exited.

The flicker of candlelight danced in the absence he left behind, a space at the table filled only by the tension he abandoned—and the heat of every gaze that followed.

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