soulessien

[soulessien]

𓍼 ⋮ THE GENTLEMAN'S PROMISE ( K.SN )

𝒾 : may i present to you dearest reader, Benjamin Bridgerton, a man with a heart yearning for a love so extraordinary and beautiful as a painting, your gentleman. 【 ˚⊱☁️⊰˚ 】 ♯ 𝓼𝓾𝓷𝓸𝓸 𝔁 𝓯𝓮𝓶!𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻 | 𝓌 : 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟, 𝐟𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐞, 𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐩𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐞, 𝐮𝐧𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐱, 𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭, 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬, 𝐦𝐝𝐧𝐢.

disclaimer ‣ i'm finally out of hiatus!!! this fanfiction is inspired by an offer from the gentleman, originally from the bridgerton series book. most elements and scenes are purposely altered.

𝓌𝒸 : 25.6k

( ‧˚꒰🦪꒱༘⋆ ) write to lady whistledown ✒️៹

Everyone at Penwood Park knew the truth: you were a bastard. The servants whispered it among themselves but never with malice. In fact, they adored you from the moment you arrived. You were just three years old, bundled in an oversized coat and abandoned on the doorstep on a stormy August night. Out of love, they upheld the story told by the sixth Earl of Penwood—that you were the orphaned child of a deceased friend. It didn’t matter that your moss-green eyes and dark blond hair mirrored his own. To speak of it might wound you or, worse, jeopardize their positions.

Robert Penwood, the sixth Earl, never spoke of your origin, though he knew the truth as surely as anyone. You were his illegitimate daughter. There was a letter, once, tucked into the folds of that old coat you arrived in. No one ever learned what it said; the earl likely burned it after reading.

He named you Sophia Carrie. You addressed him only as “my lord,” a formality that reflected the chasm between you. His visits to Penwood Park were rare, his life primarily rooted in London. When he did return, your interactions were fleeting, a quiet nod in the hall or a brief conversation in the drawing room. The rest of the time, you were left to the confines of your small room. You always try to fish some memories from before you arrived here, but no matter how hard you try, you can't seem to remember anything, not even blurry ones.

So when the Earl announced that he is to marry, you were over the moon. You had heard that the Earl’s intended wife already have two daughters of her own close to your age, and being the child who mostly spends her time alone with no other children in sight, to say you were happy with this news is an understatement.

Oh but how wrong you were.

You were expecting to finally have sisters but Rosamund and Rosemary did not once treat you like one, save for Rosemary's occasional kindness. Even the Countess Araminta treats you as if you're the dirt on their shoe. They treat you with indifference.

Your situation grew even more dire after the Earl’s sudden death at the age of forty, the result of a heart attack. With no heir from his wife, Araminta, the title fell into the hands of a distant cousin who squandered the estate’s wealth on drink and reckless pursuits. The household, once grand and orderly, fell into decline.

Still, fortune—or something resembling it—kept you under the roof of the former Countess. Not out of kindness, but obligation. The Earl’s will ensured she would receive six thousand pounds annually if she cared for you until you turned twenty-five. Refusing would reduce her income to a mere two thousand pounds, so she begrudgingly kept you.

But to call it fortune would be generous. Your position in the household was no better than that of a maid. The Countess gave you just enough to survive, a modest roof over your head and three meals a day. Any semblance of care was transactional, a means to an end, leaving you to endure your role in quiet resignation.

The much-anticipated opening of the new marriage mart season had finally arrived, with the grand masquerade ball serving as its inaugural event. You stood on the front steps of Penwood House, watching as Araminta, then Rosamund, and finally Rosemary ascended into the waiting carriage with the aid of the footman. Rosemary gave you a small wave as she settled in, and you returned it, lingering on the steps as the carriage rolled down the street and disappeared around the corner.

With a sigh, you turned back toward the house. At least this time, Araminta forgot to leave you a list of chores to complete in their absence. A free evening was a luxury to you, and you immediately began imagining how to spend it. Perhaps you’d reread one of your favorite novels. The thought brought a small smile to your lips as you stepped inside Penwood House, only to be stopped in your tracks by Mrs. Gibbons, the head housekeeper.

She seemed to materialize out of nowhere, grabbing your arm with a sense of urgency. “No time to waste!” she declared, her voice brimming with excitement.

You blinked, utterly baffled. “Pardon me?”

Mrs. Gibbons tightened her grip, already tugging you toward the staircase. “Come along now, quickly!”

Confused but unwilling to resist, you allowed yourself to be guided up three flights of stairs to your tiny room beneath the eaves. The housekeeper’s unusual behavior left you bewildered, but you followed her lead, trying to make sense of her cryptic urgency.

“Undress at once,” Mrs. Gibbons said as she flung open the door.

“Excuse me?” you stammered, staring at her incredulously.

“We must hurry!” she insisted.

“Mrs. Gibbons, I—” Your protest died on your lips as you took in the scene unfolding in your modest chamber.

A steaming bath stood in the center of the room, while the housemaids bustled about with unusual energy. One was pouring water into the tub, another was bent over an intriguing trunk, fiddling with its lock, and the third stood ready with a towel, urging, “Quickly now, hurry!”

You glanced between them all, utterly bewildered. “Would someone care to explain what on earth is happening?”

Mrs. Gibbons turned to you with a radiant smile. “Listen my dear, it's about time for you to go out, you're already twenty-two. So tonight, you are going to the masquerade ball!”

Oh. My. Heavens.

Benjamin Bridgerton could not muster even the slightest bit of enjoyment for the ball currently being held at their property. The beginning of another marriage season brought with it the same suffocating pressures, amplified now that two of his siblings, Dorothea and Atticus, were officially off the market. Shimmying his way through the bustling crowd, Benjamin made a beeline for the side door of the ballroom. His goal: Caleb’s study, where peace, quiet, and perhaps a glass of excellent brandy awaited him.

“Benjamin!”

Damn it. He had nearly made it unnoticed.

He turned to see his mother approaching at a brisk pace, her expression both determined and knowing.

“What can I do for you, Mother?” he asked, bracing himself. “And please, for the love of all that is holy, do not say ‘Dance with Helena Smythe-Smith.’ The last time I did that, I nearly lost three toes.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Violet replied with a dismissive wave of her hand. “This time, I want you to dance with Priscilla Fontaine.”

“Have mercy,” he groaned. “She’s even worse.”

“I’m not asking you to propose to the girl,” Violet said, her tone carrying the practiced patience of a mother well-accustomed to her son’s dramatics. “Just one dance. And for heaven's sake Benjamin try to find a lady this season, you're already twenty-seven yet unmarried.”

Benjamin let out a suffering sigh, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. Priscilla Fontaine might have been perfectly kind, but her intellect left much to be desired, and her laugh was so shrill he’d once witnessed grown men flee with their hands clamped over their ears.

“Here’s a counteroffer,” he said with a hopeful smile. “I’ll dance with Pearl Fontaine if you agree to keep Priscilla far away from me for the rest of the night.”

Violet arched a brow, then relented with a pleased smile. “Agreed.”

With her mission accomplished, she excused herself, already moving with purpose toward his sister Elisa, no doubt to convince her to abandon her spot by the wall and join the festivities. Benjamin, meanwhile, cast one longing glance toward the door he had so nearly reached, sighed in resignation, and turned back toward the ballroom.

He started making his way to Pearl when a soft ripple of murmurs spread like a wave through the ballroom. He hesitated, his steps faltering, knowing full well he should continue on and fulfill his mother’s request. But curiosity got the better of him. Against his better judgment, he turned.

And there you were.

The sight of you stopped him in his tracks. He couldn’t even see your full face, obscured as it was by a delicate silver mask, but that didn’t seem to matter. There was an undeniable quality about you that held him utterly transfixed. Perhaps it was your smile, wide and full of genuine joy, or the way you carried yourself, radiating an effortless confidence as you took in the splendor of the ballroom with wide, wonder-filled eyes.

You were luminous.

Your beauty wasn’t merely physical, though it was certainly striking; it was something deeper, something that emanated from within. You shimmered, glowing with an inner light that seemed to outshine even the grand chandeliers overhead.

It was your happiness, Benjamin realized. You looked so genuinely, unabashedly happy that it was as though the sun itself had descended into the room.

He had always been described as the Bridgerton family’s ball of sunshine—a man with soft, glowing features and a smile so warm it could thaw the coldest heart. But you... you were merriment personified, a living embodiment of joy.

His feet moved before his mind had a chance to catch up. He began weaving his way through the crowd, determined to reach you. But by the time he was just a few steps away, he found himself stymied. Three other gentlemen had already beaten him to you, forming a small circle as they showered you with lavish compliments and practiced charm.

And you, responded with nothing more than a smile.

Not just any smile, but a beam. Bright, dazzling, and utterly sincere.

He stepped forward, determination gleaming in his eyes. He wanted that smile all for himself.

"Excuse me, gentlemen, but the lady has already promised this dance to me," he declared smoothly, lying through his teeth.

Your eyes widened, startled by the audacity of this man, but you couldn't deny the amusement you felt at his claim. His hand was extended, a silent dare for you to call his bluff.

With a hint of mischief curling your lips, you placed your hand in his. How could you refuse such an invitation, especially from a man as handsome as him?

He led you to the center of the dance floor, and it's like the sounds of the crowd drowned out in your ears. His voice dropped to a low murmur as he leaned in. “Have you permission to dance the waltz?”

You shook your head, unable to suppress a small, apologetic smile. “I do not dance.”

He blinked, clearly taken aback. “You jest.”

“I’m afraid not,” you said, leaning closer as if to share a scandalous secret. “The truth is… I don’t know how.”

His brows rose in surprise. You moved with such natural grace, it seemed impossible that someone like you hadn’t been trained to dance. “Then there is only one thing to do,” he murmured, his voice rich with quiet resolve. “I shall teach you.”

Your lips parted, a laugh escaping before you could stop it.

“What,” he asked, feigning affront, “is so funny?”

Grinning, you gave him a smile so warm and familiar it felt more like one shared between lifelong friends than strangers at a ball. “Even I know that one does not conduct dancing lessons at a ball.”

“Well,” he said, his tone mock-serious, “then it seems I’ll have to take the upper hand. I cannot, in good conscience, allow this tragic state of affairs to continue.”

“Tragic?” you teased, but the smile in your eyes betrayed your lack of offense.

“Absolutely,” he replied, his own smile softening as he placed one hand gently at your waist. “Now, trust me.”

And with that, he swept you into the first steps of the waltz.

At first, you stumbled, your movements hesitant and quite all over the place. But his hand at your waist remained steady, guiding you through each step with effortless confidence. “Relax,” he whispered, his voice just for you. “You’re doing wonderfully.”

Each time your feet faltered, he adjusted, moving with a grace that compensated for your missteps as if the dance were his second nature.

“Look at me,” he encouraged, his amber eyes holding yours with such intensity that you forgot to be nervous. “Just follow my lead.”

And you did. You let go of the tension in your body, trusting his guidance. As the music swelled, so did your confidence, and before long, the steps felt almost natural.

“See?” he murmured, his lips close enough to send a shiver down your spine. “You’re a natural. It’s as if you’ve been dancing your whole life.”

You couldn’t help but smile, a soft laugh slipping past your lips. “I think I have a rather talented teacher.”

He chuckled, low and warm. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

The two of you twirled across the dance floor, your skirts fanning out as he led you through the intricate movements of the waltz. His whispered words of praise and encouragement were a steady rhythm in your ear, “Perfect. Just like that.”

Benjamin’s fingertips brushed the corner of your mouth, his touch feather-light. “You’re always smiling,” he murmured, his voice filled with quiet wonder.

“I like to smile,” you said, your tone teasing but sincere.

“I like watching you smile,” he responded, his words catching you off guard with their honesty.

Before you could muster a reply, a sharp voice pierced the moment. “There you are!”

The gentleman sighed, his gaze shifting reluctantly to the man approaching. The newcomer stopped beside you, his expression a mix of annoyance and exasperation. “Mother has been searching everywhere for you,” he said, glaring at your gentleman. “You promised her a dance with Pearl, and guess who had to fill in for you?”

“My sincerest apologies,” he said smoothly, though his tone lacked any genuine remorse.

The other man crossed his arms, clearly unimpressed. “You owe me for this,” he said darkly. “And I’ll make sure you pay.”

“Take your best shot,” he replied easily, a hint of mischief in his smile. “Though let’s not pretend you didn’t enjoy yourself. Pearl is your best friend, after all.”

The man scowled but didn’t refute him. His features, so strikingly similar to the man you're dancing with, gave away their relation almost instantly.

And then it hit you.

Oh. Great. Heavens.

These must be the Bridgerton brothers. This must be their home. And you hadn’t even recognized the hosts themselves.

This is Benjamin, the man you're already so familiar thanks to the writings of Lady Whistledown. The man you developed a crush on the first time you saw him before when you accompanied Rosemary at an art class she took.

The man turned to you with a charming smile that felt more practiced than Benjamin’s. “Well now, aren’t you going to introduce me to your lady, brother?”

Benjamin arched an eyebrow. “You can certainly try,” he said, his grin sly. “But good luck. I haven’t even managed to learn her name.”

“You haven’t asked,” you interjected, unable to resist.

“Fair point,” Benjamin admitted with a slight shrug.

“Mother,” the other man began, deliberately ignoring you both, “would be thrilled to see you married off. Although,” he added with a thoughtful pause, “she might prefer it if I tied the knot first.”

Benjamin groaned. “Let’s go with you, then. Everyone would be relieved to have you out of the house.”

A laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it. The man turned his gaze back to you, his mock indignation melting into a grin.

“Then again,” he continued, “he’s the older one, so perhaps it’s only fair to send him to the altar first.”

“Do you have a point, Caleb?” Benjamin asked, his patience clearly wearing thin.

“Not really,” Caleb admitted cheerfully. “But when have I ever?”

Benjamin turned to you, exasperation giving way to amusement. “Unfortunately, that’s the truest thing he’s ever said.”

Caleb flourished an arm in your direction, his grin widening. “So, my lady, will you take pity on our poor mother and hurry my dear brother toward the altar?”

You tilted your head, pretending to consider. “Well, he hasn’t exactly proposed.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Benjamin warned, though there was a playful lilt to his voice. He turned his focus back to Caleb. “As for you, shouldn’t you be preparing for your next dance with Pearl?”

Caleb stiffened, his confident smirk faltering. “Next dance?”

“Yes,” Benjamin said, his tone almost casual. “She was asking after you earlier. Sounded quite eager to find you.”

Caleb’s eyes narrowed. “You’re bluffing.”

Benjamin’s grin widened. “You’re welcome to stay and test that theory. But don’t blame me if she comes looking and drags you off.”

Caleb muttered something under his breath before spinning on his heel. “You’re insufferable,” he called over his shoulder as he stalked away.

Benjamin watched him retreat, shaking his head with a small chuckle before turning his attention back to you. “And that,” he said lightly, “is how you handle an irritating younger brother.”

You raised an eyebrow, still grinning. “I’ll admit, that was impressive.”

“Years of practice,” he replied with a wink. “Now, where were we?”

“I believe you were about to ask for my name,” you teased.

Benjamin leaned in slightly, his smile turning sly. “Was I? Somehow, I think I’d rather savor the mystery a little longer.”

Your smile widened, a warm flutter spreading through your chest. “Is that so?”

“For now,” he said, offering you his arm. “But only if you promise not to disappear before I solve it.”

Sliding your hand into the crook of his arm, you gave him a soft smile. “I think I can manage that.”

You two danced for one more song before Benjamin tugged gently at your hand as the music began to fade. “Come with me,” he said, his voice low, filled with mischief.

Without waiting for your reply, he led you away from the ballroom, through a quiet hallway, and up a grand flight of stairs. Turning a corner, he stopped in front of a pair of ornate French doors. He jiggled the wrought-iron handles, pushed them open, and revealed a small, private terrace. Potted plants adorned the corners, and two chaise lounges sat beneath the glow of the moonlight.

He gestured for you to sit beside him on one of the lounges, and as you settled in, the soft night breeze brushed against your skin.

“I still can’t quite figure out why you don’t know how to dance,” he said, tilting his head to study you.

You smiled faintly. “Dancing wasn’t exactly a priority in my upbringing,” you admitted. “I imagine yours was the complete opposite, growing up as a Bridgerton with so many brothers and sisters.”

He smiled knowingly. “So, you’ve figured out who I am.”

You nodded. “I didn’t at first.”

“And what gave me away?” he asked, leaning back with an amused look.

“It was your brother, actually,” you said, laughing softly. “You look so alike.”

“Even with the masks?” he asked, raising a brow.

“Even with the masks,” you confirmed with an indulgent smile. “Lady Whistledown never misses a chance to mention how similar you all look.”

He smirked. “And do you know which brother I am?”

“Benjamin,” you replied confidently. “Assuming Lady Whistledown is right about you being the only Bridgerton with amber eyes and…” You hesitated, heat rising to your cheeks. “…and the most plump lips.”

His smile widened. “Quite the detective, aren’t you?”

You looked away, a faint blush spreading across your cheeks. “I merely read gossip. That hardly makes me exceptional.”

“What else do you know about me from Whistledown?” he asked, his voice slow and teasing.

“Are you fishing for compliments?” you countered, your lips curving into a soft smile. “Because Lady Whistledown tends to be very kind when it comes to the Bridgertons. You’ve all been spared her sharper remarks.”

“It’s caused no end of speculation about her identity,” he said with a chuckle. “Some even think she’s a Bridgerton herself.”

“Is she?”

He shrugged, his smile mysterious. “Not that I’m aware of. But you didn’t answer my question.”

“Which question was that?”

“What you know of me from Whistledown,” he repeated, leaning forward slightly.

“You’re genuinely interested?” you asked, tilting your head in surprise.

He nodded, his gaze steady. “If I can’t know anything about you, I’ll settle for hearing what you’ve learned about me.”

You smiled, tapping a finger lightly against your lower lip as you pretended to ponder. “Let’s see… Last month, you won a horse race in Hyde Park.”

“It wasn’t silly,” he interjected, grinning. “And I’m a hundred quid richer for it.”

You laughed, throwing your head back as his laughter joined yours, filling the terrace with lighthearted joy.

As the laughter calmed down, a romantic waltz drifted from the ballroom below that you can hear all the way to the terrace.

Benjamin’s hand lingered at your elbow, guiding you gently as the romantic waltz spilled into the terrace. The air between you grew heavy with unspoken tension that neither of you seemed willing to address.

“Do you hear that?” he murmured, his voice husky and low, as though speaking louder might break whatever spell had fallen over the two of you.

“The music,” you whispered, nodding slightly.

“Not just the music,” he said, stepping closer. His amber eyes through the mask caught the moonlight, glinting with a heat that sent a shiver down your spine.

You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out. You were caught, trapped in his gaze, the rest of the world fading into the background. The faint rustle of the wind through the plants. All of it disappeared.

It was just him.

And when his hand brushed against yours, fingers curling over yours, you could swore you stopped breathing at that very moment.

“You’re trembling,” he said softly, his voice carrying a mixture of concern and something far more dangerous.

An intense desire.

“I’m not,” you managed to say, though the slight quiver in your tone betrayed you.

He smiled faintly, his thumb brushing over the back of your gloved hand. “You are.”

You didn’t respond, couldn’t respond. Not when he was looking at you like that, as though you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

The waltz swelled, filling the air with a crescendo of strings and passion, and in that moment, Benjamin leaned in.

“May I?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, his lips mere inches from yours.

You nodded, and before you could second-guess yourself, his lips were on yours.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, as though he was giving you the chance to pull away. But when your hand slipped to the back of his neck, drawing him closer, it only deepened. His other hand cupped your face, his thumb brushing along your cheek as his lips moved against yours with a growing fervor.

The chaise lounge creaked softly as he guided you backward, his weight shifting to brace himself above you. The warmth of his body was intoxicating, his touch sending sparks of electricity down your spine.

His hands found yours again, and with a deliberate slowness, he slipped your gloves off, one by one. His fingers traced the bare skin of your wrist, your palm, before his own gloves joined yours in a forgotten heap on the terrace floor.

“Benjamin,” you murmured against his lips, your voice breathless.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his amber eyes searching yours. “Tell me to stop,” he said, his voice rough, his breath mingling with yours. “If this isn’t what you want, tell me now.”

But you didn’t.

Instead, you reached up, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pulled him back down to you. The kiss resumed, fiercer now, all restraint abandoned. His hands explored the curve of your waist, the dip of your back, the line of your collarbone. You felt his fingers skim the delicate fabric of your gown, his touch searing even through the layers.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew this was improper. Scandalous. A moment that, if discovered, could ruin you both.

But you didn’t care.

Not when his lips found the sensitive skin of your neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Not when his hands, steady and sure, slid to the small of your back, pressing you closer to him. Not when you feel his heartbeat pounding against yours, fast and unrelenting.

The warmth of Benjamin’s hand pressed against your chest, the intimacy of the moment sending a jolt through both of you. You had placed it there yourself, your own boldness surprising even you, but in the heat of passion, propriety felt distant, irrelevant.

His lips stilled against yours for the briefest second as he gasped softly in surprise, his amber eyes meeting yours through half-lidded lashes. Then, as if understanding your unspoken desire, his hand flexed, his fingers squeezing gently. The heat of his touch sent a wave of pleasure coursing through you, and you felt his lips return to yours with renewed fervor, his kisses deeper and hungrier than before.

Time seemed to stand still, the world beyond the terrace fading entirely as you gave yourself over to the moment. But then, a loud, resonant gong shattered the stillness, its deep toll reverberating through the estate.

Benjamin broke the kiss, his breath ragged as he rested his forehead against yours. “It’s time,” he murmured, his voice tinged with regret.

“Time for what?” you whispered, your pulse still racing.

“The gong,” he explained, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. “It’s the signal for unmasking. It must be midnight.” He reached up, his fingers brushing against the edge of your mask as if to remove it, but he hesitated.

Midnight.

The word struck you like a thunderclap, Mrs. Gibson’s warning ringing in your ears: “You must be out in the carriage and on your way home by midnight, Sophie. No exceptions.”

Panic surged through you. “Midnight?” you repeated, your voice rising as you sat up abruptly, gently pushing him away.

Benjamin frowned, confusion clouding his features. “What’s wrong? Why are you so—”

But you didn’t wait for him to finish. Rising to your feet, you gathered your skirts and darted toward the terrace doors. “I have to go,” you said hastily, your voice trembling as you glanced back at him.

“Sophie, wait!” he called, rising to follow you.

But you were already moving, your steps hurried as you slipped down the hallway, retracing your path to the grand ballroom. Your heart pounded in your chest, each second feeling like an eternity as you scanned the crowd, searching for the exit.

Benjamin chased after you, weaving through the throng of guests, but by the time he reached the doors, you were gone.

Standing at the top of the stairs, he scanned the estate grounds, his eyes darting from carriage to carriage. But there was no sign of you. No clue as to where you had gone. Not even a name to remember you by.

He stood there for a moment longer, the weight of your absence settling over him like a heavy cloak. Then, with a sigh, he turned back to the party, the memory of your touch, your kiss, and the mysterious, intoxicating woman you were lingering in his mind.

The morning after that, he sat on a couch in the drawing room, looking tired and lacking sleep. Violet sat gracefully on a settee, her morning tea in hand, while her youngest daughter, Elisa, perched nearby, her expression one of exasperation.

“Elisa, dearest,” Violet began, her voice imbued with a gentle persistence, “this is your third season. Surely there must be a young gentleman who has caught your eye by now.”

Elisa sighed dramatically, her posture slouching in defeat. “Mama, I assure you, I’ve tried. But most of them are either dull as dishwater or convinced they are a gift to womankind. It’s exhausting.”

“Lord Harrington didn’t seem to bore you,” Caleb interjected from his spot by the fireplace, a teasing glint in his eye. “In fact, you looked rather cozy during your dance last night.”

Elisa groaned and shot her brother a withering look. “Cozy? Hardly. I was merely enduring his stories about his prize-winning horse. Honestly, Caleb, the man is more interested in horses than in me.”

Violet suppressed a worried smile and took a sip of her tea. “Horses or not, Elisa, you must remain open to prospects. A good match may appear where you least expect it.”

As the conversation continued, Benjamin was silent and unmoving, his gaze seemed fixed on the far wall, but his mind was elsewhere entirely.

You, the mysterious woman in silver, had successfully consumed his thoughts. Your laughter, your wit, the smoothness of your skin, how easy it is to have a conversation with you. All of it lingered like a haunting melody. He could still feel the warmth of your touch, the press of your lips against his.

“Benjamin,” Atticus’ voice cut through his reverie.

Benjamin blinked, startled, and turned to his elder brother, who regarded him with a concerned stare.

“What?” Benjamin asked, though his tone lacked its usual sharpness.

“You’ve been staring at that wall for the better part of ten minutes,” Atticus said, leaning back in his chair. “What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing,” Benjamin replied hastily, shaking his head as if to dismiss the question.

“Nothing, is it?” Atticus’ brow arched. “You’ve barely said a word all morning. That’s hardly ‘nothing.’”

Before Benjamin could respond, Caleb leaned forward from his seat, his curiosity piqued. “Wait a moment. This wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain lady, would it?”

Benjamin groaned softly, his head tipping back against the chair.

Caleb’s grin widened. “It is a woman! Let me guess—she’s the one in silver from last night, isn’t she?”

At this, Violet’s attention sharpened. She lowered her teacup and turned her gaze toward Benjamin, her interest unmistakable. “A lady in silver? Benjamin, are we discussing a potential match?”

“Mama,” Benjamin said, his voice tinged with both reluctance and embarrassment, “it’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” Violet set her cup on the table and leaned forward, her expression alight with curiosity. “It doesn’t sound like ‘nothing’ to me. You must tell us about her.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Benjamin muttered, though his words carried little conviction.

“Nonsense,” Violet said briskly. “If she’s captured your attention, she must be quite remarkable. What does she look like? Where is she from? How did you meet her?”

Benjamin sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know her name, Mama. I don’t know anything about her.”

Violet’s brow furrowed in confusion. “You spent the evening with a lady and didn’t learn her name? How is that possible?”

“Perhaps,” Caleb said with a wicked grin, “he was too busy being utterly enchanted to bother with formalities.”

Benjamin shot him a dark look but didn’t deny the accusation.

Violet’s expression softened into one of gentle amusement. “Well, that only makes her more intriguing. You said she wore silver? That should narrow it down.”

“She might not even be from the city,” Benjamin said, his frustration evident. “And besides, she clearly wanted to remain a mystery.”

“All the more reason to find her, if you really want to.” Violet said with a decisive nod.

Heather quipped in, leaning on the armchair of the couch where her brothers sat, “You could always just ask around. I'm pretty sure if she was in the masquerade ball then someone from the ton knows her.”

Violet smiled approvingly while Caleb turned his head to Heather with a taunting smile and said something that made his little sister roll her eyes, “That is the only useful thing you have ever said.”

For a moment, Benjamin sat in silence, considering the suggestion made by his sister. Perhaps this wasn’t an impossible task.

And he will definitely start searching for you. A splendid morning for Benjamin indeed.

Although the same can't be said for you.

You were scrubbing the stone countertop with practiced efficiency. The familiar sounds of footsteps on the stairs, the clatter of dishes, the occasional murmur of voices. It was, by all appearances, a morning like any other.

But beneath the surface, your mind was elsewhere. The memory of the ball, Benjamin's touch. Oh you cannot seem to fathom how you ended up in the arms of the man you admire so much, and even going as far as kissing him and letting him touch you in a way a woman can get ruined.

You shook the thought away, focusing on your task. There was no room for fantasy in a life like yours.

“Miss Sophie!”

The sharp call from one of the housemaids jolted you from your thoughts. You turned, a cloth still in your hand, and saw the girl standing in the doorway, her expression taut with worry.

“Mrs. Araminta wants to see you,” she said, her voice low but urgent.

A pang of dread settled in your chest, but you nodded. “I’ll be right there.”

You wiped your hands on your apron and took a steadying breath. There was no reason to panic. Everything had been planned so carefully. The staff who had helped you escape last night had assured you that no trace would remain.

Still, as you climbed the staircase to Araminta’s chambers, the knot in your stomach tightened.

When you reached her door, you knocked softly.

“Enter,” came Araminta’s clipped voice.

You stepped inside, your gaze immediately finding her seated on a chaise lounge, her posture as imperious as ever. In her hands, she held something that made your heart plummet, something you wore last night.

A pair of silver shoes.

She turned them slowly in her hands, her fingers brushing the delicate embroidery as she inspected them with a look of cold curiosity. When her eyes finally lifted to meet yours, they were sharp.

“What is this?” she asked, holding one shoe up and angling it so you could see the sole.

Your heart raced as you noticed the scuff mark on the bottom, evidence of the night you thought you had left behind.

“I... I don’t know, ma’am,” you said carefully, keeping your voice steady despite the panic rising within you.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “You don’t know?” she repeated, her tone dripping with disbelief. “These are a pair of shoes I had made especially for an upcoming soirée. A pair of shoes I have never worn. And yet, here,” she gestured to the sole, “is a scuff. How curious.”

You opened your mouth, searching for words, but none came.

Araminta’s eyes narrowed. “Explain this, Sophie.”

“I… I don’t know how that could have happened, ma’am,” you managed, your voice trembling ever so slightly. “Perhaps they were mishandled in storage?”

Her gaze bore into you, unrelenting. “Mishandled in storage,” she repeated, her tone laced with sarcasm. “How convenient. And yet, I can’t help but notice that this scuff resembles the sort one might acquire from, say, wearing them to a ball.”

Your pulse quickened.

Araminta rose from her seat, her movements deliberate and menacing. She crossed the room, stopping just in front of you, the silver shoes still clutched in her hands.

“I’ve told you before,” she said, her voice low and venomous, “that you are nothing more than a burden in this house. A charity case. And yet, here you are, testing my patience with your insolence.”

“I swear, ma’am, I didn’t—”

“Enough!” she snapped, cutting you off. “I will not tolerate lies.”

Her words hung heavy in the air, and for a moment, you feared she might strike you. But instead, her eyes snapped to the doorway as a maid hesitantly stepped in.

“Pardon the intrusion, ma’am,” the maid said timidly, “but there’s a Mr. Bridgerton at the door. He’s asking to speak with you.”

The tension in the room shifted. Araminta’s scowl transformed into a curious, almost smug expression. Her brow arched, and without sparing you another glance, she swept past you, her skirts rustling with authority as she descended the stairs.

You stood frozen, your heart pounding. Mr. Bridgerton? It had to be him. But why was he here?

Araminta descended down the stairs and opened the door, getting greeted by the sight of the dashing Benjamin Bridgerton.

“Good morning, Mr. Bridgerton,” she greeted, her voice dripping with the polished charm she reserved for members of the ton.

“Good morning, madam,” Benjamin replied, his tone courteous but with a sense of urgency. “I apologize for calling unannounced, but I have a rather specific inquiry. I was wondering if you might be able to assist me.”

“Of course,” Araminta said smoothly, her interest piqued.

Benjamin hesitated briefly before continuing. “I’m trying to locate a lady who attended the masquerade ball last night. She was dressed entirely in silver. Her most striking feature was her eyes, moss green. I was hoping you might know of someone with such a description.”

There was a long pause before Araminta spoke again, her tone pleasant but laced with subtle deceit. “How intriguing,” she said with a light laugh. “But I’m afraid I don’t know anyone who matches that description. A woman like that would certainly stand out, wouldn’t she?”

Benjamin seemed to take her response at face value. “She certainly would. Well, thank you for your time, Lady…?”

“Araminta,” she supplied with a gracious nod.

“Thank you, Lady Araminta,” he said with a polite smile. “I won’t take up any more of your morning.”

“Not at all. I hope you find her,” she replied, her voice sweet and encouraging.

Benjamin tipped his head in farewell and walked away. Araminta watched him through the window until he disappeared down the lane. Then, with a chilling slowness, she closed the door, her expression hardening into something darker and crueler.

You had barely moved from your spot, but your mind was racing. Her silence and stillness as she ascended the stairs were far more terrifying than her earlier outburst.

When she reentered her room, her gaze landed on you, her eyes narrowed to slits.

“You,” she hissed, her voice dripping with venom.

Before you could react, she grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked it back sharply, forcing you to face her.

“You wretched little liar!” she spat, her face contorted with fury. “You think you can sneak out, pretend to be something you’re not, and I wouldn’t find out?”

You winced, struggling against her grip, but her hold was unrelenting.

“I knew it,” she continued, her voice rising. “I knew you were trouble from the moment you stepped foot in this house. And now, you’ve humiliated me with your antics. Do you realize what you’ve done?”

“I’m sorry, I just wanted to—”

“Silence!” she barked, shaking you slightly. “You’re nothing, Sophie. Nothing but a burden and a disgrace. You don’t belong in their world. You never will.”

Tears welled in your eyes, both from the pain and the harshness of her words.

“And if you think for a moment that I’ll let you ruin this household with your stupidity,” she snarled, “you’re gravely mistaken. If Mr. Bridgerton or anyone else comes sniffing around here again, I’ll make sure they know exactly what kind of little impostor you are.”

Suddenly, her grip tightened as she dragged you towards the door. You stumbled along, tears streaming down your face as she pulled you through the hallway.

"Araminta, please!" you sobbed, trying to steady yourself. "I didn't mean any harm!"

Behind you, Rosamund appeared at the top of the stairs, her lips curled into a smug grin. Rosemary followed timidly, her brow furrowed in concern.

"Is she finally getting what she deserves?" Rosamund called down with a laugh, leaning on the banister to watch.

Araminta shoved you forward, her heels clicking sharply as she marched you down the staircase and toward the front door. The maids froze in place as you passed, their eyes wide with shock but their mouths silent.

“Lady Araminta, please reconsider!” Mrs. Gibson called, rushing out of the kitchen. Her voice was steady but desperate as she tried to intercede. “Whatever Sophie has done, surely there’s a better way—”

“No,” Araminta spat, cutting her off. “This little wretch has brought shame upon this house for the last time. I will not have her tarnishing our name any longer.”

She threw open the front door, the cool morning air rushing in to meet you. You tried to resist, but her grip on your arm was unrelenting as she dragged you outside.

“Please, Araminta,” you sobbed, dropping to your knees as she let go of your arm. “I’ll do anything. Don’t throw me out.”

“Anything?” she sneered, her voice dripping with venom. “You’ve done quite enough already. You think you can parade yourself among nobles, pretending you belong? Let me remind you of your place.”

Moments later, Araminta disappeared inside, leaving you kneeling on the cold cobblestone. You tried to gather your thoughts, to figure out what to do next, when the door slammed open again, and Araminta reappeared with an armful of your belongings.

“These are yours, aren’t they?” she mocked, flinging them onto the street. Dresses, shoes, and a few small trinkets scattered around you, some landing in the dirt.

“Take them. Take all of them and never come back,” she hissed.

“Araminta, please!” Mrs. Gibson tried again, stepping forward.

“Enough!” Araminta snapped, glaring at her. “Do not test me, Gibson. You’re welcome to join her if you feel so inclined.”

Mrs. Gibson hesitated, her face heavy with sorrow as she looked at you.

By now, a small crowd of passersby had gathered, their whispers and curious stares adding to your humiliation. Rosamund stood in the doorway, laughing openly at the spectacle, while Rosemary lingered in the shadows, her expression conflicted.

“Mother, you’re really going through with this?” Rosemary asked hesitantly, but Araminta silenced her with a glare.

“You’ll thank me one day, Rosemary,” she said coldly. “This is for the best.”

With that, she slammed the door shut, leaving you alone in the street. The sound echoed in your ears, final and unforgiving.

You sat there for a moment, trembling and clutching your arms as the weight of everything crashed over you. Tears spilled down your cheeks as you reached out to gather your scattered belongings, your fingers shaking.

The whispers from the crowd grew louder, some pitying, others cruel. You avoided their gazes, focusing only on collecting your things. But even that felt impossible as the reality of your situation sank in.

You truly are alone now.

The months following your expulsion from the Penwood Household were a whirlwind of hardship for you. With nothing but the clothes on your back and a meager bundle of belongings, you had wandered the town, searching desperately for work. Kind strangers offered scraps of bread or a spare coin, but mostly, you were left to fend for yourself, sleeping in alleyways or under the open sky.

Eventually, luck brought you to the Cavender Estate. The Cavenders, a baronial family of noble lineage, were in need of extra household staff, and despite your worn appearance, you presented yourself with as much dignity as you could muster. The housekeeper, Mrs. Albright, had looked you over with a critical eye before nodding and assigning you a place in the kitchen among the maids.

It was a relief to find stability again. The Cavender family was nothing like Araminta and her daughters. They paid you fairly, provided decent food, and didn’t go out of their way to make your life miserable. The baron himself was an aging man with little interest in household affairs, and his wife, Lady Cavender, was aloof but not unkind. Their daughters were polite, if a bit distant, and the younger sons were charming in their own ways.

All except one, Philip Cavender.

He was the third son of the baron, a man in his late twenties with sharp blue eyes and an easy smile that didn’t quite reach them. There was something about him that set your nerves on edge. Perhaps it was the way his gaze lingered just a moment too long whenever you were in the room, like there's malice behind them.

You tried to dismiss your unease as paranoia. After all, you had been through much in the past months. Surely, you were just imagining things.

You're just being paranoid, right? Maybe. You hope so.

But the knot in your stomach tightened every time you caught him staring, his eyes trailing over you like a hunter sizing up his prey.

Still, life at the Cavender Estate was manageable. You worked hard, spending your days cooking, and assisting with the preparations whenever there's a social event the family hosts. It was exhausting but fulfilling work, and you often fell into bed at night with aching limbs and a sense of accomplishment.

Tonight was one of those nights. The family had hosted a grand gathering, and the entire staff had been on their feet since dawn, ensuring every detail was perfect. By the time the last guests had left, your feet were throbbing, and your back ached from carrying trays and scrubbing floors.

You managed to steal a quiet moment for yourself, slipping out to the secluded pond on the estate grounds. The moonlight bathed the area in a soft, ethereal glow, and the gentle sound of water lapping against the shore was a balm to your weary soul. You kicked off your shoes, removed your apron, and sat on a flat rock near the water's edge, letting out a long sigh of relief.

For a moment, it was just you and the night. A sense of peace.

But the peace didn’t last.

The sound of footsteps crunching against the gravel behind you made your heart leap into your throat. You raised your head and saw Philip.

He stepped into view, his figure illuminated by the moonlight. His sharp features were softened by the silvery glow, but the intensity of his gaze was far from gentle.

“Miss Sophie,” he said smoothly, his voice low and measured. “What a surprise to find you out here, all alone.”

You scrambled to your feet, clutching your apron tightly as if it could shield you. “M-Master Philip,” you stammered, bowing your head slightly. “I didn’t realize anyone else was here.”

He smiled, a slow, unsettling curl of his lips as he stepped closer. “The pond is a lovely spot, isn’t it? So quiet, so… secluded.”

“I was just… just enjoying the quiet, sir,” you said, forcing yourself to remain calm despite the growing unease in your chest.

“Quiet can be so rare in a place like this,” he mused, his eyes roving over you in a way that made your skin crawl. “You’ve been working hard today. The gathering was quite the success, thanks to you.”

“Thank you, sir,” you said quickly, taking a small step back.

He tilted his head, studying you with a strange intensity. “You shouldn’t push yourself so hard. A pretty young thing like you needs to take care of herself.”

The words hung in the air like a dark cloud, and you fought the urge to recoil as his hand reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. The touch was light but deliberate, sending a shiver of fear down your spine.

“I should head back now,” you said, your voice shaky. “It’s late, and there’s still much to do tomorrow.”

You tried to walk past him but he gripped your arm harshly, pulling you to him while his other hand maliciously touched your waist. Your mind screamed at you to punch him, kick him, anything to free yourself, but you couldn't move, frozen by fear.

“Don’t be in such a hurry,” he said, his creepy smile widening. “It’s such a beautiful night. Why not stay a little longer?”

Your heart raced as he stepped closer, cutting off your escape. Panic bubbled in your chest, but before you could say anything, a voice called out from the distance.

“Philip,” the voice said, sharp and firm.

You turned your head toward the sound, and your heart leaped with relief. Standing at the edge of the garden path was Benjamin.

Yes, Benjamin. The guy you ghosted at the masquerade ball a few months ago after being inappropriate with him at the terrace.

Philip stiffened, his expression darkening. “Bridgerton,” he said, his tone clipped.

Benjamin’s gaze flickered between the two of you, lingering on you for a moment before narrowing at Philip. “You should come inside, a lot of guests are looking for you.”

Philip hesitated, his jaw tightening before he gave a curt nod. “Of course,” he said, his voice cold.

As he turned and walked away, you exhaled shakily, clutching your apron to your chest as you tried to steady your breathing. Your hands trembled as you bent to pick up your shoes.

Benjamin slowly approaches you, his movements were careful as though you are a frightened doe poised to flee.

“You’re safe now,” Benjamin said, his voice low and steady, but his eyes, dark with concern, scanned you for any sign of harm.

You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came. How could you even respond, when this man, this impossibly handsome and gallant man you had admired for year, stood here like a knight from the very stories you used to dream of as a child?

Finally, he gently reached for your hand and lowered his head to kiss it. “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said gently. “I’m Benjamin Bridgerton.”

You knew his name. Of course, you did. You had spent endless nights since the masquerade ball reliving every moment of your dance with him, every word exchanged, every stolen glance. But you could not let him know that.

“I—” Your voice wavered, and you cleared your throat, trying to steady it. “I’m Sophia Barrington. Sophie is fine.”

“Sophie,” he repeated, as if trying the name on his tongue. A faint smile softened his expression, but the tension did not leave his posture. “Miss Barrington, forgive me, but I must ask… Do you feel safe here? In this household?”

His question caught you off guard, and for a moment, you hesitated. Did you feel safe? The Cavenders had given you stability when you had nowhere else to go. But Philip’s actions tonight had shattered whatever fragile sense of security you might have had. Still, you could not simply leave. Where would you go?

“Yes,” you said, though your voice lacked conviction. “I… I’m fine. Truly.”

Benjamin’s brows furrowed, and he studied you with an intensity that made your stomach flutter. “Miss Barrington, I am not convinced,” he said firmly. “Philip had no right to approach you like that. And if this is how he behaves while under his family’s roof, I shudder to think what else he might be capable of.”

You lowered your gaze, feeling both grateful for his concern and ashamed for having been caught in such a vulnerable moment. “It won’t happen again,” you murmured.

“I won’t risk that,” Benjamin said, his tone resolute. He took another step closer, his presence both commanding and oddly comforting. “Miss Beckett, you don’t have to stay here. Come with me. My family’s household would gladly take you in.”

Your breath hitched, and you looked up at him in surprise. “I… I can’t just leave,” you stammered. “This is my job, my livelihood. I owe the Cavenders for taking me in when I had nowhere else to go.”

“You owe them nothing if they cannot protect you,” he countered, his voice softening as he saw the conflict in your eyes. “I understand your loyalty, but your safety must come first. Let me help you.”

Your chest tightened at his words. Let him help you? It sounded so simple when he said it, but how could you accept such kindness? And yet, standing here in the moonlight, with his warm gaze fixed on yours, you felt a flicker of hope.

You glanced away, your thoughts a chaotic swirl. “Why are you doing this?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Benjamin hesitated, as though weighing his answer. “Because no one should be made to feel unsafe in their own home,” he said at last. “And because… it’s the right thing to do.”

Your heart ached at his sincerity, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to imagine what it might be like to be in his household, to see him every day, to bask in his kindness, to—

No. You couldn’t let yourself think like that. He was a Bridgerton, a nobleman, and you were just… you, a maid.

“I’ll… I’ll think about it,” you said finally, your voice trembling.

Benjamin nodded, though there was a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. “That’s all I ask,” he said softly. He stepped back, giving you space, “You can always look for me whenever you make a decision, but my promise stands. I will take care of you.” His gaze lingered as though he wanted to say more but he didn't.

“Goodnight, Miss Barrington,” he said, his voice laced with both warmth and reluctance.

“Goodnight,” you replied, your heart still racing as you watched him turn and disappear into the night.

As the silence returned, you sank to the ground, your knees trembling. Your hand pressed against your chest, as though trying to steady your racing heart. Benjamin Bridgerton… He had saved you tonight. And as much as you tried to push the thought away, you couldn’t help but wonder if he might save you in other ways, too.

Your gentleman gave you a promise.

Over the next few days, everything seemed to worsen. Philip Cavender, the man who made your skin crawl with his stares, became even more unbearable. Avoiding him became a daily quest, but it was nearly impossible to stay out of his way in the Cavender household. His presence was like a storm cloud hovering over you, and the fear of what he might do if he cornered you never left your mind.

Then the physical abuse began. At first, it was subtle, a mere harsh grip on your arm when you didn’t respond fast enough, a shove when you accidentally crossed his path. But as time went on, it escalated. For the smallest mistakes, he would strike you, leaving bruises that you tried desperately to hide.

One afternoon, as you were carrying a tray of tea to the sitting room, Philip appeared out of nowhere. You froze as he blocked your path, his cruel smirk making your stomach churn.

“Careful now,” he said, his voice dripping with mockery. “Wouldn’t want you to spill, would we?”

You tried to step around him, but he moved to block you again. “Excuse me,” you said quietly, trying to keep your voice steady.

He grabbed your wrist, squeezing it hard enough to make you wince. “I’m not done talking to you,” he said, his tone dark.

When you finally managed to free yourself and rush away, your heart was pounding so hard you could barely breathe. The fear was constant, a weight you couldn’t escape.

But it all came to a breaking point one evening. The household was quiet, most of the staff having retired for the night. You were tidying up in the dining room when Philip cornered you again. This time, there was no one around to intervene.

He grabbed you by the waist, pulling you close as you struggled against him. “You’re such a stubborn little thing,” he murmured, his breath hot against your neck.

“Let go of me!” you cried, shoving at him with all your strength.

But he didn’t relent. He pushed you against the wall, his hands roaming where they shouldn’t, and you felt his lips graze your neck. That was when your panic turned to fury. Summoning every ounce of strength, you balled your fist and punched him square in the jaw.

Philip stumbled back, and he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Your chest heaved as you stared at him, your hand trembling. There was no one to help you, no one to stop this nightmare. Without thinking, you fled. You ran out of the room, out of the house, your feet carrying you to the market as if it were the only safe place left in the world.

The bruises on your body ached with every step, but you didn’t stop. Your basket was clutched tightly in your hands, filled with fruit you weren’t even sure you’d need, but it gave you an excuse to be there.

The market was bustling, the chatter of merchants and buyers creating a false sense of normalcy. But you couldn’t shake the paranoia, the feeling that Philip might wake up and come after you. You kept glancing over your shoulder, your heart racing.

Then, in your distraction, you collided with someone.

“Oh!” you gasped, your basket slipping from your hands as the fruits all spilled and rolled onto the cobblestones. “I’m so sorry! I wasn’t looking—”

You dropped to your knees, scrambling to gather the fruit, but a pair of hands joined yours, helping you.

“It’s alright,” a warm, familiar voice said.

Your breath caught, and you froze. Slowly, you looked up, and your heart stopped.

It was Benjamin.

He was crouched beside you, holding an orange in his hand, his kind eyes searching yours. His expression shifted from polite concern to alarm as he noticed the bruises on your arms, the faint cut on your lip, and the sheer terror in your eyes.

“Sophie?” he said softly, his voice filled with worry. “What happened to you?”

Your throat tightened, and you looked away, reaching for another apple. “I… I tripped,” you said, the words barely above a whisper.

Benjamin frowned, his brows knitting together. “Tripped?” he repeated, clearly unconvinced.

“Yes,” you said quickly, avoiding his gaze. “I fell. It’s nothing, really.”

He gently set the orange in your basket and stood, extending a hand to help you up. You hesitated, but eventually took it, his touch steady and warm compared to your trembling fingers.

Once you were standing, his eyes met yours, full of concern and determination. “Sophie,” he said gently, “this isn’t from a fall. Someone hurt you. Who was it?”

Tears stung your eyes, but you blinked them away, shaking your head. “Please, it doesn’t matter. I’m fine.”

“It does matter,” he insisted, his voice firm yet kind. “Whoever did this doesn’t deserve your silence.”

You couldn’t speak, couldn’t tell him the truth. The fear was too great, the consequences too terrifying. Instead, you clutched your basket to your chest and looked away.

“I should go,” you whispered, stepping past him.

Benjamin reached out but stopped himself, his hand falling to his side. “Sophie,” he called after you, his voice soft but filled with resolve. “If you ever need help, if you ever feel unsafe… find me.”

You paused, your heart aching at the sincerity in his voice. But you couldn’t bring yourself to look back. You hurried away, your steps quick and unsteady.

The walk back to the Cavender estate felt like the longest journey of your life. Your bruises ached with every step, and your mind raced with fear and uncertainty. Philip would surely wake up soon, and there was no telling what story he would spin to save himself.

Unbeknownst to you, Benjamin had been following from a safe distance. Something in your trembling hands, your broken demeanor, and your refusal to explain what had happened told him that you weren’t safe. The thought of leaving you to fend for yourself gnawed at him, so he stayed close, determined to intervene if necessary.

When you stepped inside the Cavender house, the first thing you saw was Philip, along with his parents and older sister. Philip was sitting on the settee, his face twisted in anger, a faint bruise on his jaw. A mark of your punch.

“There she is!” Philip shouted the moment his eyes landed on you. He pointed an accusatory finger at you, his voice loud and filled with venom. “That wench punched me! I was only trying to give her orders, and she attacked me like a savage!”

Your heart sank as his parents turned their eyes to you, their faces etched with disdain and disappointment.

“Is this true?” Lady Cavender demanded, her tone cold. “We took you in when you had nothing, and this is how you repay our kindness? By attacking our son?”

“No! That’s not what happened!” you said desperately, your voice trembling as you stepped forward. “He—he tried to—”

“Enough!” Lord Cavender interrupted, his voice booming. “How dare you slander my son? After all we’ve done for you, this is how you show your gratitude?”

“But he—”

“Silence!”

Philip smirked from his seat, satisfied that his version of the story was taking root. Your voice felt small and insignificant under the weight of their accusations, and tears welled in your eyes as you struggled to defend yourself.

However, not everyone in the room was convinced. Philip’s older sister, Lady Leonora, stood to the side, her arms crossed as she observed the scene with sharp eyes. Her glare at Philip was unmistakable, and though she said nothing, her expression made it clear she doubted his story.

Before the argument could escalate further, a loud knock echoed through the room. The butler moved to open the door, and in stepped Benjamin Bridgerton.

The room fell silent as all eyes turned to him. He was the picture of composure, his expression calm but resolute as he stepped inside. He scanned the room, his gaze landing on you. For a moment, his eyes softened with concern, but then he looked to Philip, his expression hardening.

“Bridgerton! For what is this sudden visit?” Lord Cavender asked surprised, rising from his seat.

Benjamin ignored him, his focus entirely on you. “I’ve come to retrieve my fiancée,” he said firmly, his voice carrying through the room like a thunderclap.

The room collectively gasped, including you. Your eyes widened in shock, and your heart raced as his words sank in.

“Fiancée?” Lady Cavender echoed, her voice tinged with disbelief.

Benjamin nodded, his tone unwavering. “Yes. Sophie and I have been engaged in private, but I see now that my mistake was leaving her in the care of your family. I had hoped she would be safe here, but it’s clear that your son has no respect for women nor boundaries.”

Philip shot to his feet, his face red with fury. “That’s a lie! She—”

Benjamin raised a hand, silencing him. “Do not speak another word,” he said coldly, his sharp gaze pinning Philip in place. “I saw the bruises on her arms, the fear in her eyes. She doesn’t need to explain herself. Your actions speak for themselves.”

Lady Leonora stepped forward, her voice cutting through the tension. “I believe him,” she said, her gaze steady on her brother. “We all know what Philip is capable of. This isn’t the first time he’s acted this way.”

Philip spluttered, his face growing even redder, but Eleanor’s words silenced the rest of the family.

Benjamin turned back to you, extending a hand. “Come, Sophie,” he said gently, his voice softening. “You don’t have to stay here any longer.”

You hesitated, your mind reeling from the whirlwind of events. But the look in his eyes were so kind, so protective, and it gave you the courage to move. Slowly, you placed your trembling hand in his, and he gave it a reassuring squeeze.

As Benjamin led you out of the Cavender estate, you felt the weight of fear and oppression begin to lift, replaced by a sense of safety you hadn’t felt in months.

“You’re safe now,” he whispered quietly, and it did make your chest feel lighter.

Although you still can't recover from the fact that a Bridgerton, the one you hold feelings for for years now, just lied and hastily claimed you as his fiancée.

The carriage rocked gently as it made its way toward the Bridgerton house. You sat stiffly on the cushioned seat, your mind replaying every moment of the day in disjointed fragments. Philip’s cruel smirk, his lies, the Cavender family’s accusations, and finally, Benjamin stepping in and claiming you as his fiancée. It was all too much. It's almost crazy how all of that happened in just a day.

You stared blankly out of the window, not truly seeing the passing scenery. Your hands were trembling, so you unconsciously clutched your skirt, fisting the fabric as though it might anchor you to reality. The soft sound of the carriage wheels on cobblestone was the only thing that filled the silence between you and Benjamin.

The carriage came to a stop, jolting you out of your thoughts. Your heart raced as you looked out the window to see the grand facade of the Bridgerton house. The sight only heightened your anxiety.

You turned to Benjamin, your wide, panicked eyes meeting his calm, steady gaze. “W-What happens now?” you asked, your voice trembling as much as your hands.

He reached out, gently covering your hands with his, stilling your fidgeting fingers. His touch was warm and grounding, and his eyes softened with understanding. “Now,” he said firmly but kindly, “you come inside, and I’ll take care of everything.”

You hesitated, uncertainty etched across your face.

“Just follow my lead,” he continued, his voice reassuring.

“Just follow my lead,” was the same exact thing he told you when he taught you how to dance. Your breath caught at his words. Could it be….?

You immediately shook off the idea. No, he does not know. He cannot know.

“O-Okay,” you whispered, nodding hesitantly.

Benjamin stepped confidently into the drawing room, his hand resting lightly on the small of your back. You followed him, your heart pounding as the Bridgerton family came into view, seated around the grand room with effortless poise. His mother (yeah of course you recognize his mother, why wouldn't you? she might be your future mother-in-law—) rose from her chair with a warm smile.

“Benjamin, darling,” Violet greeted, her tone filled with motherly affection. Her gaze shifted to you, her smile softening into something more curious. “And who might this be?”

Benjamin’s siblings looked up, their expressions either curious or amused. His siblings exchanged glances, their faces lighting up with interest at the event that their brother brought a lady home.

Benjamin’s hand pressed gently against your back, rubbing reassuring circles on it as he pulled you close to him, “Mother, everyone,” he began, his voice steady and confident, “allow me to introduce Miss Sophia Barrington. My fiancée.”

The room went utterly silent.

“Oh,” Violet said at last, her smile freezing in place. Her eyes flicked to Benjamin, her expression politely curious but laden with unspoken questions.

Atticus cleared his throat, his gaze assessing as he inclined his head toward you. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Barrington. I don't recall if your family name is familiar to me, are you from here or perhaps from another country?”

Your throat tightened. This is what you've been dreading, having to break it to them that their son got “engaged” to a nobody. You felt all their eyes on you, waiting. Judging.

Sensing your discomfort, Benjamin immediately talked for you. “Sophie isn’t from a noble family,” he said smoothly, his tone unwavering. “She’s from a more modest background.”

Heather innocently clapped her hands together, beaming at you. “A love that defies expectations? How romantic!”

Caleb let out a low whistle, clearly entertained by the unfolding drama and loving how Atticus and Violet's face contorted into pure shock and disbelief. “Leave it to you to surprise us all, Ben.”

“Modest?” Giovann echoed, his brow furrowing slightly.

“Yes,” Benjamin said firmly, glancing briefly at you before continuing. “Sophie was working as a maid when I met her. She’s kind, intelligent, independent, and has a strength of character that surpasses any noble woman I’ve ever met.” His voice softened slightly as he added, “I consider myself lucky to have her.”

Benjamin’s declaration hung in the air like a bolt of lightning, silencing the whole Bridgerton family.

“Oh,” Violet said softly, her smile polite but strained. Her eyes flicked between you and her son, searching for answers. “Well, this is… unexpected.”

The room remained tense. Caleb leaned back in his chair, his brow furrowed in thought. Elisa exchanged a quick glance with Giovann, who looked as if he wanted to say something but held back. Heather, perched on the edge of her seat, torn between excitement from her own hopeless romantic personality and unease from the tension in the room.

“Miss Barrington, why don’t you have a seat? You must be exhausted from your journey.” His mother gestured to the chair nearest to you, her smile still gracious. “I’ll have tea and some refreshments brought in.”

“Thank you, Lady Bridgerton,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper as you shamefully sank into the chair.

Atticus turned to his younger brother. “Benjamin,” he said, his voice clipped, “might I have a word with you?”

To which Benjamin nodded, “Of course. If you’ll excuse us.”

You watched as the two brothers left the room, Benjamin glancing back at you with a reassuring look before the door closed behind them. The silence that followed was heavy, the remaining Bridgertons exchanging wary glances.

Violet, even if she's conflicted and unapproving, still gave you a gentle smile. “Would you like some tea, Miss Barrington? Or perhaps something to eat? You must be overwhelmed by all this.”

You nodded hesitantly, your hands trembling slightly as you clutched your skirt. “Tea would be lovely,” you said softly.

As Violet signaled for refreshments, Elisa leaned forward slightly, her tone careful but curious. “So, Miss Barrington,” she began, “how did you and Benjamin… meet?”

You hesitated, the truth feeling too raw to share. “It’s a long story,” you replied, your voice shaky.

Caleb, who had remained quiet until now, spoke up with a dry chuckle. “A long story, indeed. Benjamin always did have a flair for the dramatic.”

Heather gave him a sharp look before turning to you with a tentative smile. “I think it’s romantic,” she said with such enthusiasm.

The tension in the room was palpable, and despite their politeness, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you didn’t belong here. Maybe because you don't.

You do not belong here.

In the quiet confines of Atticus’ study, Benjamin paced back and forth, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. Atticus leaned against his desk, arms crossed, his expression a mixture of disapproval and concern.

“Benjamin,” Atticus began, his voice measured but stern. “You know I’ve always supported love matches. I’d never begrudge you for choosing someone you genuinely care for over status. But this—” He gestured vaguely, clearly at a loss for words. “This is not just unconventional. It’s reckless. She’s not from a noble family. Do you have any idea how this will be perceived? How it will affect her, not just you?”

Benjamin stopped pacing and turned to face his elder brother, his jaw tightening. A simmering anger bubbled beneath the surface, and he wasn’t entirely sure why. After all, this wasn’t real. He wasn’t actually engaged to you. So why did Atticus’ words feel like a personal attack?

“Atticus,” he said, his voice low but firm, “there’s more to this than you realize.”

Atticus raised an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation.

Benjamin took a deep breath, his mind flashing back to the Cavenders’ estate. “I first saw her at the Cavenders’ estate a few days ago. Philip was… trying to force himself on her.”

Atticus’ expression darkened, but he said nothing, letting Benjamin continue.

“I stepped in,” Benjamin said, his voice laced with frustration as he recalled the scene. “I made sure she was safe that night, but I didn’t see her again until today.” He paused, the memory of your bruised and terrified face making his stomach churn. “I found her in the market, Atticus. She looked… she looked like she’d been through hell. Bruised. Shaken. And terrified out of her mind. Philip had started hitting her.”

Atticus’ jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing in disgust. “He put his hands on her?”

“Yes,” Benjamin said through gritted teeth. “And I couldn’t just stand by. I followed her back to the Cavenders’ estate, and when I saw her being cornered by that family, I made a decision. I told them she was my fiancée so I could get her out of there.”

Atticus studied his brother for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he let out a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Alright,” he said slowly. “I understand why you did what you did. But Benjamin, you’ve thrown us all into a storm now. What happens next? What’s your plan?”

Benjamin opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. The entire ordeal had been a blur of instinct and anger, a desperate need to protect you. But now that the dust was settling, he realized he had no idea what to do.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice quiet. “I just… I couldn’t leave her there, Atticus. She was in danger.”

Atticus softened slightly at his brother’s vulnerability. “I understand that,” he said. “But you’ve claimed her as your fiancée. The ton will expect answers. Our family will expect answers.”

Benjamin ran a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling to the surface. “I’ll figure it out,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction.

Atticus sighed, jaw clenched as he pushed himself off the desk. “For our family's sake I hope you do,” he said. “Because if you’re not careful, this will create another scandal for our family and it will ruin your reputation. Our reputation. She's not a noble like us.”

That sentence triggered Benjamin, despite this being a fake engagement, he cannot believe his older brother would actually oppose it if it was true. “And what if she's not a noble like us? Your wife is nowhere near a noble yet you married her and she's the Viscountess now.” He snapped, and that made Atticus’ eyes darkened. He of course knows his brother is right, he's a viscount and married a non-noble woman, Benjamin is not a viscount so there's no purpose in shaming him, “Tread lightly with your words, Ben,” he calmly warned his younger brother before turning away from him before anything can even escalate.

Eventually, his whole family was made aware of the truth of the situation and had agreed to keep you in their home. You were thankful, you've never felt this safe your whole life, and they treat you like an actual part of the family even though your engagement to Benjamin is nowhere near real.

They even insisted not to make you work, but you stood your ground in wanting to work as a maid for them in order to repay their kindness.

Benjamin, on the other hand, does not fail to make you fall deeper,

You were dusting the shelves in the drawing room when Benjamin walked in, his hair still slightly disheveled from sleep. He paused, leaning against the doorframe with a teasing grin.

”You’re up early,” he said.

You turned, slightly startled. “I’m a maid, sir. I don’t exactly get to sleep in.”

He chuckled, stepping closer. “I meant no offense, though I wonder how you manage to always look so... meticulous.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the faint smile on your lips. “A noble complimenting a maid? Should I be suspicious?”

Benjamin raised his hands in mock surrender. “Pure honesty, I assure you. Though if I’m being honest, I could use your meticulousness to find my missing cufflinks.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Perhaps if you kept your room tidy, sir, you wouldn’t lose things.”

He gave you a playful glare before laughing with you.

and deeper,

It had been raining all afternoon, and you were outside fetching linens from the line in a hurry. By the time you reached the back entrance, your dress was soaked, and your hair clung to your face.

Benjamin appeared from the hallway, a brow raised. “Care to explain why my 'fiancée' looks like a soaked kitten?”

You frowned, hugging the damp linens to your chest. “The rain doesn’t care about dignity.”

Without a word, he took off his coat and draped it over your shoulders. You tried to protest, but he shook his head. “No arguments. You’ll catch a cold.”

For a moment, you stood frozen, staring at him. His kindness always caught you off guard.

”Thank you,” you murmured softly, feeling the warmth of his coat seep into your skin.

until you're in so deep,

One quiet afternoon, you found Benjamin in the garden, sitting on a bench with a book. He waved you over.

“You like stories, don’t you?” he asked, holding up the novel.

You hesitated but sat beside him, keeping a polite distance. “I do, but I rarely have time to read.”

He smiled and opened the book. “Then I’ll read to you. Consider it a break.”

You stared at him, surprised. “You’d... do that?”

He shrugged casually. “Why not? You deserve some moments of peace too.”

As he read aloud, his voice calm and steady, you felt a strange sense of comfort. It was a moment you’d treasure quietly.

that you can't climb out from how far deep you're already in.

Late one evening, you were tasked with returning Benjamin’s cleaned brushes to his art room. You had heard rumors from the other servants that Benjamin enjoyed painting, but you had never ventured into his creative space before.

When you entered quietly, the soft sound of a brush against canvas caught your attention. You froze in the doorway as you realized Benjamin was there, standing before an easel. His brow was furrowed in concentration, and he didn’t seem to notice you at first.

“Sir,” you called softly, not wanting to startle him.

He turned sharply, eyes wide, but his expression quickly softened when he saw you. He instinctively moved to cover the canvas with his body, though his flushed cheeks betrayed him.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, clearing his throat.

“I— I brought your brushes,” you stammered, holding up the items in your hands. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

He sighed and gestured for you to enter. “Well, now you know. Come in, but don’t—”

Before he could finish, your eyes darted to the canvas behind him. The faint colors and soft lines were unmistakable. He had been painting you.

“Is that... me?” you whispered, stepping closer.

He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze. “Yes, well... I find inspiration where I can. You have an... interesting light about you.”

“Interesting?” you echoed, raising a brow.

He chuckled nervously. “Beautiful, then, if you want me to be blunt.”

You felt heat rush to your cheeks, and you weren’t sure how to respond. Finally, you said softly, “You could’ve asked.”

Benjamin met your eyes then, his usual confidence faltering. “Would you have said yes?”

After a moment’s pause, you nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I would’ve. You didn’t need to sneak around.”

He exhaled a laugh, relief softening his features. “Well, I suppose I owe you an apology... and maybe the chance to sit for me properly next time.”

“I’d like that,” you admitted, surprising even yourself.

No matter how good enough the secret of you and Benjamin’s claim of "engagement" was concealed, it still got out, spreading like wildfire, because nothing can forever stay a secret for the ton.

It all started with the soiree.

Benjamin was silently nursing a glass of champagne, not bothering to dance with anyone for the reason that he holds loyalty for you even if you're not actually engaged and that nobody in the ton knows that he's even engaged.

It was Violet who first noticed the Cavenders. They approached with that same saccharine smile they always wore, but there was an edge to their gazes, something that Benjamin immediately picked up on.

“Well, if it isn’t the Bridgertons,” Lady Cavender crooned as they closed the distance. “And Mister Bridgerton, how lovely to see you again.”

Benjamin inclined his head politely. “Lord Cavender, Lady Cavender.”

“Oh, but where is your fiancée?” Lady Cavender asked, her voice deceptively sweet and intentionally loud. “You know, our... former maid.”

Her words hung in the air like a gauntlet thrown to the ground. A ripple of poorly concealed amusement spread among the small group that had gathered, their snickers echoing faintly, whispers of gasps at the revelation that Benjamin Bridgerton is already engaged. Benjamin, however, remained unbothered.

He smiled—a practiced, effortless expression that betrayed none of the irritation simmering beneath the surface. “She’s resting,” he replied smoothly. “She wasn’t feeling well enough to attend tonight.”

One of the bystanders, a young lord with a smug grin, tilted his head. “What a pity. Perhaps at the next event, you’ll bring her along?”

Benjamin’s smile sharpened ever so slightly. “Of course. I wouldn’t dream of disappointing such... curious company.”

The Cavenders' facade faltered for just a moment, but they recovered quickly, offering polite nods before excusing themselves.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Violet leaned closer to Benjamin, her expression carefully composed but her tone sharp. “I do hope you’re prepared for the aftermath of that.”

Benjamin sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Let them talk, Mother. It’s all they’re good for.”

And talk they did. Because by the next morning, Lady Whistledown’s latest column was the talk of the ton:

“The Bridgertons, gentlest readers, has once again did not fail to provide us with the juiciest scandals of the season. This time, it seems the second Bridgerton son has betrothed himself to a young lady from a most... undesirable background. Whispers of her origins only add curiosity to an already intriguing tale. One wonders, will he finally reveal this mysterious fiancée at the next soiree? Or will the ton’s curiosity remain unsatisfied?”

When Benjamin read it over breakfast, he merely smirked and set the paper aside. He could already imagine the dramatic reactions at the next event. And he honestly does not care, he will never regret getting into this kind of mess just to save you.

You on the other hand, being a big fan of Lady Whistledown, your eyes almost jumped out of their sockets in surprise when you read her latest issue, featuring you in it as the ‘Mysterious fiancée of Mister Benjamin Bridgerton.’

No… This can't be… How did they even know? This wasn't supposed to happen. The sham engagement was only supposed to be just known to the Cavenders in order to help you escape their care.

You rushed to finding Benjamin, and you found him sitting, calmly sipping coffee in the terrace.

You marched to him with urgency, “Benjamin! Lady Whistledown—” but before you can even finish your sentences, he looked up to you and smiled, cutting you off. “Has written about us, I know. And that is why I will be taking you with me on the next social event, to introduce you to the ton and maybe even to the Queen herself if she attends. So please, calm down and sit beside me.”

Your eyes widened even more if that's possible because of his words, “Benjamin are you insane? You're being judged! And now you're actually going out and introduce me to everyone, declaring our sham engagement—” he once again cut you off, this man won't let you finish a sentence.

“My wife,” he started with a gentle voice that made your heart leap, and he held your hand, “Our engagement is not a sham. You not need to worry too much about what other people say. Now please, come sit beside me for a cup of coffee.”

You were left stunned and speechless, the wires in your brain short circuiting you didn't even noticed how Benjamin successfully pulled you to sit down on the chair beside him and pouring you a cup of coffee.

After recovering from the initial shock, you turned to him, “Benjamin, you are serious?" He only gave you a nod before answering, “Mother and Heather will accompany you to the modiste later for your tailored gowns.”

“Gowns? Just for me?” Benjamin chuckled at your questions, finding it absurd that you think his fiancée deserves anything less. “You are my wife-to-be, I am offended you even think I will make you wear an ordinary dress.”

You chuckled softly, looking around the terrace. Without thinking, you said, “This reminds me of when we were also alone on a terrace during the masquerade ball.”

The words slipped out so naturally, you didn’t even register their weight until the silence that followed grew heavy.

Your breath hitched. Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

You dared a glance at Benjamin. He had frozen, his coffee cup hovering midair, his dark eyes locked onto you. His brows furrowed as if he was replaying your words in his mind.

“What did you just say?” he asked, his voice calm but laced with curiosity.

Your heart pounded. You scrambled for an explanation, any excuse, but your mind betrayed you. “I—uh—well, it’s just…”

He set his cup down slowly, leaning forward slightly after putting the pieces together. “You were the lady in silver.” It wasn’t a question.

You swallowed hard, feeling the blood drain from your face. “I—”

“It was you,” he said again, softer this time, as if puzzling it out for himself. His expression shifted, his usual composure cracking as surprise, intrigue, and something you couldn’t quite place flickered across his face.

“I didn’t mean for you to find out like this,” you blurted, your voice trembling. “I—I didn’t think you’d even remember. It was just one dance, and—”

“One dance?” he interrupted, a dry laugh escaping his lips. “It was anything but ‘just one dance.’”

You bit your lip, unsure of how to respond. The memory of that night came rushing back—the way his hand had lingered on yours, the way his eyes had lingered even longer. You hadn’t dared to believe he’d held onto it too.

“I didn’t know it was you,” he admitted, his tone softer now. “Not until just now.” He leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face as if trying to process the revelation. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You hesitated. “I didn’t think it mattered. And then, with everything that’s happened…” You trailed off, feeling a wave of vulnerability wash over you. “I didn’t think I was allowed to matter.”

His gaze snapped to yours, and for a moment, the intensity in his eyes made it impossible to look away. “You matter,” he said firmly. “You’ve always mattered.”

The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten. For a moment, the world seemed to shrink, leaving only the two of you on that terrace, the air thick with unspoken feelings.

Benjamin exhaled deeply, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what to make of this, but I do know one thing,” he said, his voice steady. “That night—I haven’t been able to forget it. And now, knowing it was you…” He shook his head, as though trying to clear his thoughts.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, feeling the sting of tears behind your eyes.

“Don’t be,” he said quickly, his tone softening. “I’m not mad.”

You looked up at him, surprised. He offered you a faint, almost shy smile.

“After that night, I tried so hard to search for you���” he paused for a moment with a light chuckle before continuing, “And now you're– wow.”

Both of you chuckled at his reaction, as if he can't believe the odds of him finding you again in the most bizarre way.

You do admit, getting that secret off your chest feels like a breath of fresh air, you really don't feel good lying to Benjamin.

Tonight was the first ball you will ever attend as the fiancée of Benjamin Bridgerton.

Benjamin stood beside you, handsome as always in his tailored suit. His presence is the only thing keeping you calm. Sensing your nerves, he turned to you, offering a reassuring smile. “You look breathtaking,” he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

You swallowed, giving him a small smile in return. “I’m not sure I can do this.”

“You can,” he said firmly, offering you his arm. “And if anyone dares to make you feel otherwise, they’ll have me to answer to.”

Taking a deep breath, you nodded and looped your arm through his. Together, you stepped into the ballroom, the hum of conversation dipping momentarily as faces turned toward the two of you. The stares of the ton were unmistakably curious, judgmental, envious. You forced yourself to keep your head high, leaning on Benjamin’s confidence as he guided you through the crowd.

As you were introduced to various members of the ton, you noticed a recurring theme, the smiles were too wide, the compliments too practiced. “Oh, what a charming couple!” one lady exclaimed, her eyes darting between you and Benjamin with thinly veiled skepticism.

“How fortunate you are, Miss... I mean, Lady Bridgerton-to-be,” another chimed, the emphasis on “fortunate” sharp enough to cut.

You nodded politely, offering quiet thanks each time. Benjamin kept the conversations brief, steering you away before anyone’s words could sting too deeply and affect you. Still, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being an outsider, a spectacle to be judged rather than celebrated.

It was during a brief lull in the introductions that a young lady with a glittering smile approached you. “Miss… oh, pardon me, Mrs. Bridgerton-to-be,” she began, her tone light and inviting. “I’m Lady Vienna Hans. My fiancé is the Duke of Sommerset. May I steal you away for a moment?”

You hesitated, glancing up at Benjamin. His brow furrowed slightly, but when Vienna added, “We’d love to welcome you into our circle of betrothed ladies,” his expression softened.

“I think it might be a good idea,” Benjamin said gently. “You’ve been doing wonderfully. Go on.”

You nodded reluctantly, offering him a small smile before allowing Vienna to guide you toward a table. Several other women were seated there, each one more radiant and intimidating than the last. They greeted you with polite smiles and warm words, and for a moment, you began to relax.

The conversation started innocuously enough. They asked about your engagement, complimented your dress, and shared stories about their own betrothals. “It’s so refreshing to meet someone new,” one of them said, her voice syrupy sweet. “You bring a unique perspective, I’m sure.”

You weren’t entirely certain what she meant by “unique,” but you decided to take it as a compliment. Slowly, you began to trust the group, finding yourself laughing softly at their jokes and even sharing a few words about your own experiences.

It wasn’t until one of the ladies, Lady Bella, stood to pour herself a glass of wine that the atmosphere shifted. “Oh, let me get you some as well,” she said, reaching for your glass.

Before you could respond, her hand slipped—an action that seemed far too deliberate—and the dark red liquid splashed across your bodice. Gasps echoed around the table as you stared down at the stain spreading across the delicate lavender fabric.

“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry!” the blonde exclaimed, though her laughter betrayed her true feelings. “What a clumsy mistake!”

The other women began to titter, their whispers and giggles cutting through you like knives. “Such a shame,” one of them murmured, her eyes glinting with amusement. “That was such a lovely and expensive dress.”

You felt your cheeks burn as humiliation clawed at your throat. The room seemed to close in around you, the whispers growing louder, harsher. Without thinking, you pushed back your chair and bolted, barely registering Vienna’s genuinely worried faint call of, “Wait, don’t leave!”

You didn’t stop until you were outside where the carriages are parked, the cool night air hitting your face like a splash of water. Your breaths came in ragged gasps as you pressed a trembling hand to your chest, feeling yourself about to have a panic attack.

“Sophie!”

Benjamin’s voice cut through your trance. You turned to see him striding toward you, his expression a mixture of concern and anger. “What happened?” he demanded, stopping just short of you.

You shook your head, unable to find the words. “I—I shouldn’t have come,” you choked out. “I don’t belong here, Benjamin. I never did.”

He reached for you, his hands firm yet gentle on your shoulders. “Don’t say that,” he said, his voice low and fierce. “You belong wherever you choose to be. And anyone who makes you feel otherwise is a fool.”

Tears spilled over before you could stop them. “They spilled wine on me,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “On purpose. They laughed.” You said as your voice cracked in pain, and you sobbed like a helpless child.

Benjamin’s jaw tightened, his eyes darkening with anger. “I’ll handle them,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“No,” you said quickly, gripping his arm. “Please. Just take me home, I wanna go home.”

His expression softened as he looked down at you, the anger melting into something tender. “Alright,” he said quietly. “Let’s go.”

He left for a moment and returned with the carriage and footman. Benjamin guided you gently into the carriage, his hand resting protectively on the small of your back. Once inside, you instinctively moved to sit on one side, but to your surprise, he slid in right beside you.

“Wait,” you said, looking at him with wide eyes. “You’re coming home with me?”

He nodded, his expression resolute. “Yes. I’ve already informed my mother and siblings. They’ll understand. Right now, I need to make sure you’re alright.”

His words made your chest tighten, and you could only nod, unable to speak past the lump in your throat. The carriage started moving, and the silence between you was heavy with the weight of the evening’s events. Your tears started falling again, soft and uncontrollable. Without hesitation, Benjamin slipped an arm around you, pulling you gently into his side.

“It’s alright,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “You’re safe now.”

You buried your face in his chest, his steady heartbeat grounding you as the tears flowed freely. He didn’t speak further, simply holding you close and letting you cry. The ride back felt both too long and too short, a blur of quiet sobs and his comforting presence.

When the carriage arrived at the Bridgerton residence, Benjamin helped you down, his hand firm around yours as he led you inside. The household was quiet, most of the family still at the ball, and you felt a wave of relief at the absence of curious eyes.

“Come,” Benjamin said softly, guiding you up the stairs. Instead of taking you to your guest room, he brought you to his.

“Benjamin…” you started, hesitant.

“I want you to be comfortable,” he said firmly. “And your room is so far away from everyone else. If you need anything tonight, you won’t have to call out.”

You swallowed hard, nodding. He opened the wardrobe, pulling out a simple nightgown and robe. “These are from Dorothea’s old closet,” he explained, handing them to you. “They should fit well enough.”

You took the clothes with trembling hands. “Thank you,” you whispered.

“The bathroom is through there,” he said, gesturing to the adjoining door. “Take your time.”

You slipped into the bathroom, grateful for the privacy. As you changed out of your ruined gown and into the soft nightclothes, you couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of emotions like humiliation, gratitude, and something warmer, something you couldn’t quite name.

When you emerged, the room was dimly lit by the soft glow of a bedside lamp. Benjamin was sitting on the edge of the bed, his coat and cravat discarded, his shirt sleeves rolled up. He looked up as you entered, his expression gentle.

“Come here,” he said, patting the space beside him.

You hesitated for only a moment before crossing the room and sitting down. As soon as you were close enough, he wrapped an arm around you, pulling you into a hug. His hand rested on the back of your head, his touch feather-light as he stroked your hair.

“They’re cruel, and they’re wrong,” he whispered, his voice firm but soothing. “You don’t deserve any of this, Sophie. Not their words, their actions, or their judgment.”

You pressed your face into his shoulder, letting his warmth envelop you. “I don’t belong in their world, your world,” you murmured, your voice muffled against his shirt.

“You belong wherever you choose to be,” he countered, echoing his earlier words. “And if their world doesn’t see that, then it doesn’t deserve you.”

His words stirred something deep inside you, a fragile sense of hope that you clung to desperately. “Why are you being so kind to me?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to meet your eyes. His gaze was steady, filled with an emotion you couldn’t quite name. “Because you deserve kindness,” he said simply, and his next words made you stop breathing for a moment.

“Because I hold feelings for you.”

You froze, your breath catching in your throat as the weight of his confession sank in. Your heart hammered wildly against your chest, each beat louder than the last. For a moment, you weren’t sure if you had heard him right, you were convinced you're starting to hallucinate due to sadness.

“You…” Your voice faltered, barely audible. “You hold feelings for me?”

Benjamin’s expression softened, his gaze never leaving yours. He nodded, his lips quirking into a bittersweet smile. “I do. And it’s not something I can deny anymore.”

The vulnerability in his tone struck you like a thunderclap, and your breath hitched again as you saw how genuine he is by his eyes. Before you could find the words to respond, he rose from the bed, moving with purpose. Your gaze followed him as he opened the drawer of his bedside table, his movements steady but charged with an air of nervous anticipation.

“Benjamin?” you whispered, your voice trembling as your heart raced with uncertainty and hope.

He turned back to you, a small velvet box held firmly in his hand. Your eyes widened as he returned to the bed, sitting down beside you once more. His hands trembled ever so slightly as he opened the box, revealing a delicate gold ring inside. The intricate design seemed to catch the dim light, glinting softly as if it held a life of its own.

Your breath caught in your throat, your hands instinctively moving to cover your mouth.

“Sophie,” he began, his voice steady but thick with emotion. He met your gaze, his brown eyes full of warmth, sincerity, and an unmistakable longing. “I’m done with the lies. I don’t want to pretend anymore. You’ve become someone I can’t imagine my life without.”

Your tears, which had only just begun to dry, welled up again as his words poured over you.

“I want to make you my real fiancée, not just for show,” he continued, his voice cracking slightly as he spoke. “And while I’m not thankful for the cruelty you’ve endured, I am thankful that it brought me to you. Even if it meant meeting you in the most unconventional way, even if I had to declare a false engagement to protect you from the Cavenders, I can’t bring myself to regret it.”

His voice softened, his hand inching closer to yours. “Because that moment gave me the chance to find you, and now, it’s giving me the chance to make this all real.”

The world seemed to fall away as he held the ring up, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Will you marry me? In truth this time.”

The question hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Your vision blurred as tears spilled over, you can feel fear, hope, disbelief, love, all at the same time.

You reached for him instinctively, your fingers brushing against his as he held the box. “Benjamin…” you whispered, your voice breaking.

He leaned closer, his free hand reaching up to gently cup your cheek. “You don’t have to say yes,” he murmured, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. “I’ll understand if this is too much, too fast. But I need you to know that my feelings are real. You are real to me.”

Your lips trembled as you tried to form a response. His hand on your cheek was steady, grounding you as you searched his gaze for any sign of doubt. There was none, only an open vulnerability that made your heart ache.

“Yes,” you finally breathed, your voice shaky but resolute. “Yes, Benjamin, I’ll marry you.”

Relief and joy washed over his face as he exhaled deeply, his lips curving into a radiant smile. He slipped the ring onto your finger with so much joy in his face that made your chest tighten, the gold band fitting perfectly.

As soon as it was in place, he pulled you into a tender embrace, his arms encircling you as if he never wanted to let go. You buried your face in his shoulder, the tears flowing freely now, but this time, they were tears of happiness.

“I promise,” he whispered into your hair, his voice filled with quiet determination. “I will spend the rest of my life proving to you that you belong, that you are loved, and that you’ll never have to face anything alone again.”

You clung to him, your heart full to bursting. For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt not only safe but cherished, as if you had finally found a home. A real home, not just one composed of walls, but a home with a man holding you so tightly and accepts you as a whole.

Then all of a sudden, you did something that defied all the rules of decorum he held so dear. You kissed him, boldly, without hesitation, as if you hadn’t a care in the world for the dozens of etiquette books gathering dust in their library. And poor Benjamin? Well, let’s just say the man was thoroughly unprepared.

Benjamin was never one to lose his composure. No, he was the embodiment of regality and restraint, a man whose every movement was calculated to exude propriety. The epitome of a gentleman. Until now.

For a fraction of a second, he froze. Perhaps his brain short-circuited. Perhaps he was simply marveling at the audacity. But then, oh, then—he kissed you back. And not just any kiss, mind you. This was no chaste peck or hesitant brush of lips. No, this was passionate, unrestrained, and utterly scandalous.

You felt the hesitation melt away as he leaned into you, his hands sliding up to cradle your face with a tenderness that made your heart ache. But you weren’t done breaking the rules, were you? No, not even close.

In one fluid motion, you shifted your weight, urging him to sit back fully on the bed. He followed your lead, wide-eyed and breathless, until you climbed into his lap, straddling him with a confidence that had his ears burning crimson.

“Wait,” he managed, his voice a little more gravelly than usual, his chest heaving as he pulled back just an inch. “This... this isn’t proper. We are not yet wed.”

Proper. Always with the propriety. But how could he resist when you tilted your head ever so slightly, your voice as soft and sweet as a summer breeze?

“Benjamin… please?” you murmured, the single word laced with enough longing to make even the stoniest heart crumble.

And crumble he did. With a groan that sounded suspiciously like surrender, he surged forward, capturing your lips again as though the very act could tether him to the earth. His hands, now trembling with unspoken need, roamed up your back, pulling you closer, as though the space between you was a personal affront.

Soon, the two of you tipped backward, his head hitting the pillow with a soft thud as you remained perched atop him. The bed creaked beneath your combined weight, a scandalous symphony to accompany the rapid beat of your hearts.

Benjamin was gone now—lost in you, in the moment, in the sheer impossibility of denying himself this small taste of what would soon be his forever. And as you leaned down to kiss him again, he swore silently that not being a gentleman is not as bad as he thought it would be.

Clothes lay scattered across the room, each discarded carelessly in the heat of your embrace. Bare skin pressed against bare skin, and the world outside ceased to exist, you're thankful it's just you and him in the house right now. Benjamin’s hands trembled as they slid over your curves, uncertain, as if afraid he might break you.

You sat up, straddling his hips, your hands resting lightly on his chest. His breath hitched. For a man who usually carried himself with the confidence of a seasoned gentleman, Benjamin looked utterly lost. His gaze wandered over you—your flushed cheeks, your tousled hair, your swollen lips—and he swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Y-You…” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. His face turned red as his eyes darted away. “You are… breathtaking.”

A laugh escaped you, soft and endearing, and you leaned forward slightly, letting your fingertips trace the outline of his jaw. “You can look, Benjamin,” you teased gently, tilting his chin to face you. “I’m yours, aren’t I?”

That broke him. A sound slipped from his lips. His hands found your hips, his fingers sinking into your soft flesh as if he couldn’t bear the thought of you slipping away.

“You’re too much,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “Too beautiful. I—I don’t know how to…” His words trailed off, replaced by a shaky exhale as he pulled you closer, his grip firm but trembling.

The movement caused your body to shift against his, your exposed core brushing over his bare length. The reaction was instant. His head fell back against the pillow, and a sharp gasp escaped him, followed by a low groan that he bit back almost immediately.

You couldn’t help the smile that curved your lips. Leaning down, you pressed a featherlight kiss to his cheek before whispering against his ear, “What’s the matter, my love? Lost for words?”

Benjamin’s eyes fluttered open, meeting yours with a mix of embarrassment and desire. “I fear I’ve never been more undone in my life,” he admitted, his voice cracking slightly.

Your heart swelled at the honesty in his tone, and as you pressed another kiss to his lips, you started grinding your core on his manhood. Each subtle grind sent sparks through your bodies, your gasps and his trembling moans blending into a symphony of shared ecstasy. Benjamin’s hands, initially so hesitant, were now desperate to memorize every inch of you, as though he feared this was a fleeting dream.

Your lips found the sharp edge of his jaw, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses along his skin down to the neck. He shuddered beneath you, his breath hitching as your teeth lightly grazed the sensitive spot on his neck.

“Benjamin,” you murmured, your voice low and intoxicating, the way it always made his heart stutter. You reached for his hand, guiding it upward, your fingers curling around his as you brought it to your chest. “Touch me.”

The words, soft yet commanding, shattered whatever composure he had left. His hand trembled against your skin before finally cupping one of your boobs fully, his fingers pressing with unrestrained need.

“God, forgive me,” he whispered, though the way his thumb rolled over the sensitive peak betrayed no remorse. “I— Sophie—” The rest of his sentence dissolved into a loud whimper that made him hide his flushed face on your neck, getting shy at the sound he made.

The sound of your name falling from his lips, broken and needy, sent a fresh wave of warmth coursing through you. His voice cracked, almost on the verge of tears, as though the pleasure was too much for him to bear. His hand on your chest grew bolder, squeezing and kneading with an affectionate aggression that sent your head tipping back, a moan escaping your lips before you could catch it.

You grind down against him again, the friction sending him spiraling. “Please,” he breathed, his voice barely audible, almost begging as he gazed up at you with wide, tear-filled eyes. “Please… I don’t know how to stop—don’t want to stop.”

His words struck something deep within you, his vulnerability mirrored in your own. You leaned down, brushing your lips against his in a kiss that was equal parts soothing and claiming. “Then don’t,” you whispered against his mouth, the promise laced with both love and longing.

Clarity mingled with chaos as Benjamin’s soft cries broke the rhythm of your movements, his fair skin flushed with a deep blush that crept to his neck. His helpless, needy state was too much to bear. This sight of him, the reddened cheeks, the way his lashes glistened with unshed tears, his lips trembling as though struggling to hold himself together, it was a plea you couldn’t ignore.

Without warning, your hand slid behind his head, tangling in his hair as you guided his mouth to your chest. “Sophie–Hmph!” He yelped in surprise, his protests muffled against your skin as his lips parted instinctively around your nipple.

“Shh, Benjamin,” you murmured softly, your voice a soothing balm to his frazzled nerves. “Let me take care of you.”

His response was immediate. His lips latched onto your nipple with a fervor that bordered on worship, his cries muffled now by the way he suckled at your peak, each movement both hesitant and desperate. His hands trembled where they gripped your waist, grounding himself as his breaths grew ragged against your skin.

Your free hand moved lower, tracing the taut muscles of his abdomen until you reached his manhood. The moment your fingers wrapped around it, he froze, a sharp intake of breath breaking the rhythm of his lips. His manhood was everything you’d imagined as you looked down on it in your hand, fair and beautiful, with a flush of rosy pink shade at the tip.

“You’re perfect,” you whispered, your words more to yourself than to him.

His whimper in response was a broken sound, halfway between disbelief and surrender, as you raised your hips. His eyes flew open, wide and alarmed, when he felt you brush the tip of him against your entrance, the sensation sending a shiver through both of you.

“W-wait,” he stammered, his voice cracking as his hands gripped your waist tighter. “What are you—”

You silenced him by feeding your mound to him again as you murmured, “Trust me, Benjamin.”

He trembled beneath you, his body tense as he fought to reconcile propriety with the unbearable need coursing through him. The teasing glide of your body against his was almost too much, pulling him deeper into the moment with every second. His hands clung to you, his breath coming in shallow gasps, his control hanging by a thread.

The teasing friction of his tip brushing against you had drawn a symphony of shallow breaths and soft moans from both of you, building the tension until it became unbearable. Taking a deep breath, you finally began to lower yourself onto him. The sharp, unexpected pain made you wince, a soft gasp escaping your lips as you froze mid-motion.

Benjamin’s wide, panicked eyes shot to yours, his hands immediately coming up to steady your hips. “Wait—are you hurt?” he asked, his voice trembling, his worry palpable. In his panic, he instinctively shifted his hips, attempting to withdraw, but his tip was already nestled deep inside you.

You shook your head, determined, your hands pressing against his chest to keep him from retreating. “I’m fine,” you reassured him softly, though your voice wavered just slightly. “It’s just… new.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, his brows furrowing in concern. “You didn’t let me prepare you,” he murmured, almost scolding, but his hands were gentle as they slid down to your thighs.

Despite the nervous blush staining his cheeks, Benjamin’s thumb moved with surprising confidence, circling your sensitive clit with delicate precision. The touch sent a shiver through you, your body instinctively relaxing under his ministrations.

“Let me help,” he whispered, his voice soft and full of earnest care. “Just take your time.”

Encouraged by his touch and his words, you slowly began to ease yourself down, the discomfort gradually giving way to a fuller, deeper sensation. His length stretched you in ways that left your head spinning, but Benjamin’s careful thumb never ceased its soothing rhythm, coaxing your body to adjust.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his gaze never leaving your face, his concern laced with awe. “You’re doing so well.”

You couldn’t help but smile faintly through the haze of sensations, your hands clutching his shoulders as you finally settled onto his lap, your bodies fully joined. He groaned softly, the sound vibrating deep in his chest, his head falling back against the pillow as he whispered your name like a prayer.

You leaned forward, your body hovering just above his as he reclined against the pillows, his golden hair a mess against the fabric. The closeness made your breaths mingle, shallow and erratic, as you took a moment to savor the intimacy of the moment. Your lips parted, a soft, melodic moan spilling from you as your hips found a slow, deliberate rhythm, moving forward and backward against him instead of the expected bounce.

The shift in motion drew a sharp gasp from Benjamin, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment before snapping open, locking onto yours. His hands instinctively gripped your waist, his fingers digging into your soft flesh as if anchoring himself to reality. The new angle was overwhelming for both of you, the friction so deliciously torturous it sent waves of heat spiraling through your body.

The sensation made your head spin, every roll of your hips igniting fireworks of pleasure that left you breathless. You couldn’t help but lean closer, your lips brushing the corner of his mouth, teasing but not quite kissing. The vulnerability in his expression—the way his brows knitted together, his lips parted slightly as if trying to catch his breath—only fueled your desire.

“Benjamin,” you murmured, his name a sultry whisper that seemed to unravel him further.

His hands slid up your back, one resting between your shoulder blades, the other tangling in your hair as though he couldn’t bear to let you drift even a fraction away. His breaths came out in shallow pants, his chest rising and falling beneath you as he tried to keep up with the sensations washing over him.

“You’re… you’re perfect,” he managed to choke out, his voice shaky, almost as if the words physically pained him with how true they felt.

Your lips curled into a wicked smile, a quiet laugh escaping you as you trailed featherlight kisses along his jaw, savoring the way his breath hitched every time you moved. “And you’re mine,” you whispered, each word punctuated by a slow, deliberate roll of your hips.

The way Benjamin filled you was indescribable, a perfect fit, snug and warm, his every movement pressing against spots that made your body tremble and ignite with pleasure. It felt like you were made for each other, two pieces of a puzzle finally coming together.

Your lips ghosted over the sides of his mouth, teasingly close but never fully capturing his, planting wet, deliberate kisses that left him gasping softly. His fair, beautiful face was flushed with a deep crimson, his eyes glistening with tears of overwhelming sensation. You couldn’t help but admire him, this respectable, composed gentleman who now lay beneath you, utterly undone, reduced to a needy, blushing mess by your touch.

As your fingers traced the elegant line of his jaw, he whimpered softly, a sound so vulnerable it sent a shiver down your spine. His hand slid between your bodies, resting between his chest and yours, trembling as though hesitant to ask for more but too desperate to resist. The gesture was wordless but clear, his palm pressed softly against your boob, silently pleading for what he craved.

You smiled, your expression tender as you whispered, “You want it?”

His only response was a pitiful sound, somewhere between a sob and a moan, his hand squeezing your boob as though trying to coax you closer. The need in his eyes was palpable, and you couldn’t deny him, not when he looked so utterly lost in the moment, so desperate for comfort and connection.

Gently, you guided him, his lips latching onto your nipple again, he sucked like a hungry man so harshly that it made your breath hitch.

“It’s all right,” you murmured, threading your fingers through his hair as he nuzzled against you. “I’ve got you, Benjamin.”

A growing tension coiled tightly in your lower stomach, demanding release with every movement. You began to roll your hips faster, the rhythm becoming more desperate, seeking that elusive something that felt so close yet maddeningly out of reach. The friction, the fullness, the heat, it all threatened to drown you in a wave of pleasure so intense it made your head spin.

Biting down hard on your lower lip, you stifled the moan that threatened to spill from your mouth. The last thing you needed was for a maid passing by in the hallway to hear the sinful sounds of your shared indulgence. But the effort to stay quiet only heightened your awareness of everything else: the soft gasps escaping Benjamin's lips, the way his hands gripped your waist to steady you, his hips instinctively rising to meet yours.

His face was a beautiful contradiction, flushed with embarrassment and pleasure, his eyes glassy yet focused entirely on you. “Y-you’re trembling,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice tinged with concern and awe. His thumb brushed against your waist, a soothing gesture despite the storm building between you.

You managed a shaky smile, leaning forward until your lips hovered near his ear. “It’s because of you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible but heavy with meaning.

Benjamin shuddered beneath you, his grip tightening, his chest heaving as though your words had rendered him completely undone. His lips parted, but no sound came out, only a sharp inhale as your movements grew more erratic, each roll of your hips pushing both of you closer to the edge.

The moment you gasped out, “Benjamin, I think I’m getting close,” his reaction left you stunned.

Without a word, he stilled your hips, his firm grip halting your rhythm entirely. Before you could even question his intent, he braced his feet against the mattress, planting it. Then, with a move so uncharacteristically bold for the shy, blushing gentleman beneath you, he leaned forward, capturing your peak in his mouth once again.

The soft suction was quickly replaced by a sharp nip of his teeth, biting on it, a sensation that sent a jolt of pleasure and shock through your body. “B-Benjamin!” you stammered, but before you could gather your thoughts, he began to move.

His hips snapped upward with a force and speed you hadn’t anticipated, the suddenness making you lurch forward, your hands catching yourself on the pillows on either side of his head. Each thrust was sharp and precise, his length filling you so completely it left you gasping for air.

The newfound intensity was overwhelming, his movements almost desperate, as if he couldn’t hold back any longer. His mouth remained latched onto your peak, his tongue soothing where his teeth had bitten moments ago, his muffled moans vibrating against your skin.

“Benjamin!” you cried again, your voice trembling as pleasure coursed through you like a tidal wave. The combination of his relentless hips and the stimulation from his mouth sent you spiraling, your body trembling above him as you struggled to hold on.

“I… I can’t stop,” he whispered against your nipple, his voice low and ragged, his breaths uneven. His hands gripped your waist tightly, holding you in place as he continued his upward thrusts, his pace desperate. “You feel too good.”

"F-Fuck, s-stop! Oh God, it's too much!" you cried out, your voice trembling as your body jerked forward with every deep, merciless thrust. His length hit places so sensitive, so overwhelming, it left you gasping for air, your hands clawing at the sheets to anchor yourself against the relentless pleasure.

Benjamin's eyes widened at your words, his expression a mix of worry and helpless need. "I-I'm sorry," he mumbled breathlessly, his voice barely audible over the wet sounds of your bodies moving together. He kissed fervently along your breasts that's bouncing right above his face, his lips brushing against your heated skin, trying to soothe you even as his hips refused to still. "I can't stop… I can't. Please, forgive me."

Each kiss and apology was swallowed by his desperate drive to push both of you to the edge, his movements erratic yet devastatingly deep, his hips angling to bury himself further inside you, hitting your cervix this time. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes as the intensity built unbearably, your cries growing louder with each thrust, your voice trembling as pleasure and pain blurred together into something so profound you couldn’t form coherent words.

Your body arched violently, your head falling back as a loud, uncontrolled scream tore from your lips. The dam finally broke, your release crashing over you in waves so intense it left you trembling, tears spilling from your eyes as you gushed around him. The sudden tightening of your walls around his length was too much for Benjamin.

His gasp was strangled, his brows knitting together as his hips snapped forward one final time, burying himself impossibly deep inside you. “Oh shit—!” he choked out, his voice breaking as he came undone, spilling hot, thick ropes into you with a force that left him shaking beneath you.

Both your bodies trembled as you rode out the aftershocks of your shared high, the room filled with the sounds of your ragged breathing and the faint rustling of the sheets. For a moment, there was only silence, save for the pounding of your heart against your chest and Benjamin's soft, shaky exhales beneath you.

But then, as the haze of passion began to clear, you felt Benjamin stiffen. He blinked up at you, his flushed face going pale as his expression shifted from bliss to sheer panic. “Oh, my God,” he whispered, his voice cracking. He scrambled to sit up slightly, his hands nervously brushing over your waist. “I—I finished inside you. What have I done? We’re not even married yet. Oh, heavens, I’ve—”

You couldn’t help it. A laugh bubbled out of you, light and unrestrained, breaking through his frantic apologies. Benjamin froze, his wide, mortified eyes meeting yours as you tried to stifle your amusement.

“Benjamin,” you said softly, cupping his cheek to steady him. “It’s fine. Truly, it is. I don’t feel defiled or disrespected in the slightest.” Your smile softened as you leaned closer, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. “In fact, I feel grateful. To have shared something so intimate with you… it’s a gift.”

His brows furrowed, his lips parting as if to argue, but he stopped when he saw the sincerity in your eyes. Slowly, the tension in his shoulders eased, though the blush on his cheeks remained as fierce as ever.

“You’re certain?” he asked hesitantly, his voice small, almost boyish. “You’re not… ashamed of me?”

You brushed your fingers through his sweat-dampened hair, shaking your head. “Never. You’re the man I love, Benjamin. Nothing about this feels wrong.”

His gaze softened, a shy but relieved smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around your waist as the two of you settled back into the pillows. His touch was tender now, his fingers tracing idle patterns along your spine as you basked in the quiet intimacy.

He broke the cuddle after awhile to stand up and fetch a wet towel in the bathroom. He returned to you and settled between your legs, spreading you open and carefully cleaning you up using the towel. You whined as your sensitive folds came into contact with the wet towel, but he continued to clean you up gently, parting your folds and making sure all the stains of his release are wiped away.

While he was focused in cleaning you down there, you broke the silence, your voice tinged with curiosity. “So… how do we tell your family? Do we announce it before or after the wedding plans are finalized?”

Benjamin chuckled softly, the sound low and comforting. “We’ll announce it as soon as possible. Atticus will insist on handling the arrangements immediately since he's the viscount of this household, and Mother and the rest of my siblings… well, they’ll be relieved to see I’ve finally settled down.”

You hummed thoughtfully, resting your chin on his chest. “Speaking of arrangements… you know I don’t have a dowry to offer. I don't have a family to arrange that—”

“Stop,” he interrupted gently, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “You think I care about a dowry? I don’t need gold or land or titles. All I need is you.”

His words made your heart swell, and you couldn’t help but smile as you nestled closer to him. “Well,” you teased lightly, “I suppose I’ll have to make up for it by being the most loving wife you could ever hope for.”

Benjamin’s laugh was soft, his arms tightening around you. “You already are,” he murmured, his voice warm and earnest.

He stilled for a moment, his hand pausing as he brushed his thumb along your thigh.

"If you don't mind me asking, where is your family?" he asked carefully, his voice soft and hesitant, as though he feared what the answer might be.

You inhaled deeply, bracing yourself. “I… don’t have a family anymore.” The words came out in a quiet, almost detached tone, but they hung in the air with heavy finality. You glanced away from him, unable to meet his gaze as you continued. “I grew up at Penwood Estate, but not as a daughter of the house. My mother left me on the doorstep when I was a baby. She disappeared, and all she left behind was a single truth: the Earl of Penwood was my father.”

Benjamin’s expression darkened, his brows furrowing as his grip on you tightened slightly.

“Being a bastard meant I was never truly acknowledged,” you said bitterly, the shame weighing heavily on your words. “The housemaids took care of me, out of kindness more than duty. And when the Earl remarried and eventually passed… everything changed.”

His jaw clenched, but he remained silent, letting you continue.

“My stepmother made sure I knew my place. I wasn’t a daughter to her; I was an inconvenience. She locked me away, treated me like a servant, and when it came time to divide my father’s will…” You let out a humorless laugh. “Let’s just say, I wasn’t considered part of the family.”

Benjamin’s hand moved to cradle your face, his touch gentle yet firm. “You were his child,” he said, his voice trembling with restrained anger. “How could they…”

You shook your head, cutting him off. “That’s just how it is. It doesn’t matter anymore.” You hesitated, your voice softening as you finally looked into his eyes. “When you met me at the masquerade, Benjamin… that was the first time I ever left the estate. I’d sneaked out, desperate to feel something other than loneliness.”

His lips parted, as if to say something, but he didn’t. His eyes searched yours, his anguish palpable.

“That night cost me everything,” you continued, your tone tinged with a mix of regret and defiance. “When I returned, my stepmother found out. She threw me out, penniless, with nowhere to go. I ended up working at the Cavenders’ house. That’s where you found me.”

Benjamin exhaled sharply, his forehead pressing against yours. “You’ve endured so much,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I can’t… I can’t imagine how lonely that must have been.”

You smiled faintly, your hand coming up to cup his cheek. “It doesn’t matter now. I don’t have a family, but I have you. That’s more than enough for me.”

His eyes glistened with unshed tears as he pulled you into a fierce embrace. “You’ll never have to feel alone again,” he vowed, his voice steady despite the tremor of emotion beneath it. “I’ll be your family. My family will soon be yours too. I’ll give you everything you’ve been denied.”

You were struggling to keep the tears in at his words, you just can't believe someone came into your life to heal every trauma you've experienced.

Everything went by in a flash, and soon enough his whole family knew, and were delighted at the news, not surprised though, they already saw it coming from how inseparable you and Benjamin are. They were also made aware of the situation, your past, yet they don't care and were just genuinely happy to accept you as another member of their family.

The preparation for your wedding in months is underway. And just when you thought everything couldn't get any better, it did. It did when you were called to the drawing room, saying you have a visitor and found Rosemary when you walked in.

Yes, Rosemary, your stepsister. She looked up at you and smiled widely, immediately getting up from the couch to hug you.

“There you are!” she exclaimed, crossing the room in a flurry of motion. Before you could fully process her presence, she wrapped her arms around you in a warm embrace.

“Rosemary?” you managed, your voice trembling.

“It’s me,” she said, pulling back slightly to look at you. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

Her words made your heart constrict. For so long, you had convinced yourself that the family you once lived with had forgotten about you, erased you from their lives. Yet here she was, holding onto you as though you might vanish again.

“I– what are you doing here?” you asked softly, overwhelmed by the surge of emotions.

She stepped back, her hands still resting lightly on your arms. “Come, sit with me,” she said, gesturing to the couch. You followed her lead, settling beside her.

“I heard you were here,” she began, turning her body to face you fully. “It was at a ball a few weeks ago—one my mother decided not to attend, of course. But someone mentioned your name, and when they said you were engaged to Benjamin Bridgerton, I knew I had to find you.”

You stared at her, stunned into silence. It felt surreal, hearing your name spoken with such warmth after years of cold indifference from the family you’d left behind.

“Why would you look for me?” you asked hesitantly, unsure of what to make of her sudden reappearance.

Rosemary hesitated, her expression shifting to something more serious. “Because I needed to see you,” she said, her voice quieter now. “And because I found something. Something important.”

The gravity in her tone made your heart skip a beat. “What is it?” you asked, leaning slightly closer.

Rosemary glanced around as if to ensure no one else was listening before she turned back to you. “I found your father’s will,” she said carefully.

“M-my Father?” Your breath hitched. “You knew?”

“Not at first,” she admitted. “But recently, I came across his will while going through some old papers in my mother’s office. That’s when I realized when I read it…” She paused, searching for the right words. “The Earl left you a dowry.”

You felt as though the air had been knocked out of your lungs. “A dowry?” you repeated, your voice barely above a whisper.

She nodded, her grip tightening on your hands. “Yes. A significant one, a hefty sum of money and decent land, it’s enough to ensure you’d be comfortable for the rest of your life.”

Tears welled up in your eyes as you struggled to process her words. “Then why…” You swallowed hard. “Why didn’t I know?”

Rosemary’s face darkened, her brows furrowing in anger. “Because of my mother. She knew all along, and she kept it from you. That’s why she always treated you horribly. She didn’t want you to claim what was rightfully yours.”

Your chest tightened, a mix of anger and heartbreak threatening to overwhelm you. Rosemary reached out and pulled you into another embrace. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured, her voice heavy with guilt. “For everything. For how my mother treated you. For how Rosamund mocked you all those years. You didn’t deserve any of it.”

You clung to her, sobbing quietly as years of buried pain rose to the surface. “Thank you,” you said through the tears. “For telling me. For coming here.”

After Rosemary's visit to you, you immediately told your fiancée about everything, and together with his mother, they assured you they will handle this.

And they did, before the wedding, the dowry and the property left by the Earl to you had finally been transferred to your rightful name. You and Benjamin decided to use that property after the wedding, it's where you and he will reside, building your own family.

Your wedding came faster than expected, and after such a beautiful ceremony is of course the reception that is held by his family at the Bridgerton House, a grand celebration filled with laughter, dancing, and joy that lasted for quite a long time.

By the time the guests began to trickle out one by one, you found a quiet moment for yourself by a small table near the edge of the hall. A glass of wine in hand and chewing a small pastry in your mouth while the faint hum of music is still playing in the background.

It wasn’t long before the first of his siblings approached. Atticus and his wife Kate strolled over to congratulate you. “Congratulations, Sophie,” Kate said with a radiant smile.

“Welcome to the family,” Atticus added, nodding with approval.

You returned their smiles, bowing your head slightly. “Thank you, Viscount and Viscountess Bridgerton. It’s truly an honor.”

Kate laughed lightly. “Oh, please. Just Kate and Atticus. We’re family now.”

After a few more kind words, they excused themselves, and shortly after, Heather and Elisa approached you, their smiles excited as they hugged you and welcomed you to the family.

Giovann and Caleb followed, who kept the mood light with their teasing. “If you can survive being married to Ben, you’re stronger than all of us combined,” Caleb joked, earning an approving laugh from Giovann.

“Hey don’t scare her off,” Giovann said, though his grin betrayed him.

When Giovann and Caleb finally left, you let out a soft sigh of amusement. But your reprieve was short-lived. Violet and Dorothea appeared next, their smiles warm and welcoming.

“Congratulations, my dear,” Violet said, pulling you into a gentle hug. “And welcome to our family.”

“Indeed, we are so happy Benjamin married you,” Dorothea chimed in, her tone brimming with cheer.

“Thank you,” you replied sincerely.

Violet lingered, her expression shifting into something more uncertain. She glanced at Dorothea, who raised a brow in encouragement. After a brief pause, Violet began to speak, her words halting and uncertain. “Well, since your mother isn’t here to guide you through… certain topics, I suppose the responsibility falls to me…”

You tilted your head slightly, unsure of where this was going.

Dorothea rolled her eyes, clearly impatient with her mother’s hesitance. “What Mama means to say is that you should be prepared for certain… things on your wedding night.”

Realization dawned on you, and a flicker of amusement danced in your eyes. You smiled warmly, hoping to spare them the awkwardness. “Oh don’t worry,” you said lightly, “I know. We’ve already done that.”

The effect was immediate. Violet’s face froze in mid-smile, her mouth slightly ajar and eyes wide as saucers. Dorothea’s reaction was no less dramatic, her eyes widened, and her expression turned to one of pure shock.

Before you could say anything further, a snicker sounded from behind you. Turning, you saw Giovann and Caleb lingering near the pillars, having clearly overheard the conversation. They were doubled over in laughter, barely able to stand upright.

At the same moment, Benjamin appeared from beside his brothers, his smile softening as he took in the sight of you. But his expression quickly shifted to confusion as he noticed the stunned looks on his mother and sister’s faces, coupled with the hysterics of his brothers.

“What’s going on?” he asked, coming to stand beside you. He leaned down to kiss your cheek before looking between the group.

“Oh, nothing,” you said nonchalantly, setting your glass down. “Your mother and sister were just trying to explain the marital act to me and I told them there was no need because we already did it.”

You watched as the words sank in. Your husband’s smile faltered, and his expression twisted into one of sheer horror. “Heavens,” he muttered under his breath, his hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

His brothers’ laughter grew louder, prompting Benjamin to turn and smack both Giovann and Caleb on the back of their heads. “Would you two shut up?” he snapped, though his reddened ears betrayed his own embarrassment.

But Caleb wasn’t done. Still laughing, he managed to choke out, “Mama, at least there’s a chance you’ll have a grandchild from Ben in less than nine months, seeing as they’ve already done the act of making one long before!”

Giovann’s laughter reached new heights, and he nearly doubled over, tears streaming down his face.

Violet recovered enough to glare at both of them, her voice sharp. “That’s enough, you two! We should be escorting them out of the house now and bidding our goodbyes.”

Turning back to his mother and sister, Benjamin mustered a sheepish smile. “Excuse us, Mother, Sister,” he said hurriedly, taking your hand. “The carriage is waiting to take us to our new house. We should be going- uh thank you for hosting the celebration for us.”

Once outside, you squeezed Benjamin’s hand. “You’re not mad, are you?”

He sighed, shaking his head with a rueful smile. “Not at you,” he said. “But I’m never going to hear the end of this from Giovann and Caleb.”

You laughed softly as he helped you into the carriage. “Well, it’s not entirely my fault. They were the ones eavesdropping.”

He smiled at you, his earlier embarrassment fading. “True. But next time, maybe keep some things between us?”

You grinned, leaning against him as the carriage began to move. “Where’s the fun in that?”

He playfully groaned and rolled his eyes, wrapping an arm around you. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he said, his tone affectionate.

“Oh you love it,” you teased, earning a soft kiss on your forehead from him.

When you arrived at the new house, it was everything you’d imagined it to be. A beautiful estate left to you by your father in his will, with a field wide enough to build a garden in.

After hours of settling in and organizing, the last task for the night was converting one of the rooms into an art studio for your husband.

Together, the two of you worked to arrange the space. You helped him unpack his brushes, paints, and canvases, carefully placing each item in its rightful spot. A few of his paintings that he had brought along, found their new home leaning against the walls, waiting to be hung. Despite your tiredness, you found yourself smiling as you watched him inspect the room with a spark of satisfaction in his eyes.

When the final item was placed, you let out a small sigh and moved to the window. The night sky outside was calm, stars faintly visible through clouds. You realized it had grown quite late, it was a good thing you were already in your nightgown ready for bed.

Turning back to the room, you noticed that your husband had mysteriously disappeared. A small frown crossed your face as you glanced around, wondering where he’d gone. Deciding to look for him, you were about to leave the art room when the door creaked open, and there he was.

He stepped inside, pushing a dark red chaise sofa into the center of the room. His strength made the task look effortless as he positioned it directly in front of his easel. You tilted your head, furrowing your brows in curiosity.

“What’s that for?” you asked, a smile playing on your lips as you watched him with amusement.

He slowly walked toward you, a handsome smile playing on his lips, his eyes glinting with both affection and a spark of lust.

He leaned down, peppering soft, slow kisses along your cheeks. With each kiss, he whispered, his voice low and tender, “This, my love, is my wedding present for you.”

You chuckled softly, your curiosity piqued. “And that is?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

Instead of answering right away, his hands came up to rest gently on your arms before gliding to your shoulders. His touch was deliberate, sending a shiver down your spine. Then, with a practiced ease, he untied the straps of your nightgown, making you gasp. The smooth silk slipped down your body and pooled around your feet.

He grinned as he took in the sight of you, his suspicions confirmed, you're wearing nothing underneath. His expression was pure satisfaction, as though this was exactly how he envisioned the moment.

Gently, he guided you toward the chaise sofa and helped you sit. You followed his lead, your voice confused but trusting as you called out to him, “Darling?” The cool air kissed your bare skin, making you shiver slightly as you adjusted to the sensation.

Standing before you, he leaned down, brushing your hair back and tucking it neatly behind your ear. His hand lingered in your hair, his touch both soothing and possessive. He lowered his voice to a near whisper, his lips just grazing the shell of your ear.

“You,” he murmured, his hand caressing your cheek, “will pose naked for me, and I will paint you.”

Your heartbeat quickened, the sound echoing in your ears as his words sank in. Your body betrayed you and made your arousal evident from the way your peaks hardened against the cool air and the subtle tremble that coursed through you.

He noticed it all. Of course, he did. The way his eyes darkened with desire and his lips curved into a knowing smirk told you he relished every reaction he pulled from you.

“One more thing,” he whispered again. Without warning, his lips found a spot on your neck, his mouth working with harsh, deliberate urgency. You gasped softly as he sucked at your skin, his teeth grazing just enough to send sparks of heat rushing through you. When he pulled back, a satisfied grin adorned his face as he admired the bruised hickey he left behind.

“Perfect,” he said, his voice tinged with pride.

Straightening, he walked back to the chair behind his easel, the wooden frame of the canvas standing tall between you. He adjusted his materials, the anticipation in his expression obvious.

Finally, he sat down, leaning back slightly as he picked up his brush, his eyes locked on you with an intensity that made you feel as though the rest of the world had melted away. “Stay just like that,” he commanded softly, as you shifted into a comfortable pose, laying down on your side facing him.

Dearest Readers,

It is with a heart full of gratitude and joy that I pen this letter, for the life I lead now is a testament to how the most struggling beginnings can turn into the most beautiful of endings. Though I was once but a bastard turned maid with no freedom and family, I now find myself surrounded by a family I never dared dream of.

In truth, my past was not an easy one, for I was brought into this world without the guiding presence of my real mother, and my father not acknowledging me for I am his bastard. I endured many trials and tribulations, most are from the hands of my own stepmother, but I am grateful for each one, as they led me to the life I live today. The love of my husband, Benjamin Bridgerton, has healed the wounds of my past, and together we have built a life full of love, laughter, and boundless blessings.

We have been graced with four children who bring immeasurable joy to our days. Our eldest, Carl Bridgerton, was conceived during our first time together before marriage, that he arrived just seven months after our wedding—a truth that never fails to bring a blush to my cheeks and a fond chuckle from my husband, seeing as to how we unknowingly spent our honeymoon while our first child was already in my womb.

Our second, Alexander Bridgerton, is a printed copy of his father. Though I bore him for nine long months, it seems Benjamin’s likeness was so strong that I, alas, see none of myself in him save for his love for books. He is the very image of his father, a fact Benjamin takes no small amount of pride in.

Our third child, William Bridgerton, is a delightful blend of us both, with his father’s amber eyes and my unruly curls. His mischievous nature keeps us on our toes, yet his tender heart is a weakness to all who know him.

And then, when I believed our family is already complete, my husband convinced me otherwise. “Just one more,” he said, his eyes bright with hope. He wished for a daughter, and so we dared for one more blessing. Thus, our youngest, Violette Bridgerton, came into the world, a shining star in our lives. She bears the name similar to her grandmother, who welcomed me into her family with open arms and taught me what it meant to be truly loved by a mother.

Life in our home is never dull, for with four children and a husband who matches their playful spirits, the days are filled with laughter, chaos, and, on occasion, a paint-throwing battle that disrupts even my quiet moments of writing. As I speak, dear readers, my peace is being rudely interrupted by the very culprits I describe. Benjamin, who was supposed to be the disciplining adults in this situation, has now encouraged our kids to involve me in their messy paint battle, and I fear my gown will not survive unstained.

And so, I must bid you farewell, with this final piece of advice: never let the hardships of life make you lose sight of what could be. Do not stop fighting for your freedom, and for what's rightfully yours. Hold fast to hope, dear reader, and cherish the people who make life worth living.

—From Sophia Carrie Bridgerton née Barrington-Penwood to you.

series taglist: @iarainha @firstclassjaylee @mheretoreadff

[soulessien]

𓍼 ⋮ DUTY AND DESIRE ( P.JS )

𝒾 : may i present to you dearest reader, Atticus, Viscount Bridgerton, a man of undeniable charm and stubbornness whose responsibilities are endless. his attitude might just be the biggest headache of your life. 【 ˚⊱☁️⊰˚ 】 ♯ 𝒿𝒶𝓎 𝔁 𝓯𝓮𝓶!𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻 | 𝓌 : 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭, 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞, 𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧, 𝐮𝐧𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐱, 𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭, 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬, 𝐦𝐝𝐧𝐢.

disclaimer ‣ this fanfiction is inspired by the viscount who loved me, originally from the bridgerton series book and show. most elements are purposely altered.

𝓌𝒸 : 23.1k

( ‧˚꒰🦪꒱༘⋆ ) write to lady whistledown ✒️៹

Atticus has always been known for his disinterest in marriage and responsibilities. But now he's no longer young, he's 26 and doesn't have the time to fool around anymore. Atticus Bridgerton has finally decided to find a wife to claim the title of Viscountess alongside him and settle for life.

Today's the day of another season to start where two Bridgertons would dip their feet into the waters of the marriage mart. The debut to society of Elisa Bridgerton and the Viscount Atticus Bridgerton in search of a wife.

He sat comfortably on one side of the carriage, while his younger brothers, Benjamin and Giovann, occupied the seat opposite, their expressions mischievous.

"My task this season is not that hard," Atticus declared with an easy smile, folding his arms across his chest. "My best friend managed it, and with our little sister, no less. How hard can it be?"

Benjamin let out a low chuckle, his lips curving into a smirk. "Aww, look at him speaking with such... conviction," he quipped, drawing a mockingly affectionate expression that immediately mirrored onto Giovann's face.

"Aww," Giovann chimed in, pitching his voice higher in mock sentimentality. "Such feelings, dear brother. So admirable."

Atticus shot them both a wry look, though it was clear from the slight upward twitch of his lips that he wasn’t truly offended. He leaned forward, gesturing slightly as he continued. "What I need is what I already have, a list. My wife should be someone tolerable, dutiful, suitable enough hips for childbearing—"

At this, Benjamin sputtered into laughter, and Giovann’s eyes widened with delighted amusement. "Hips?" Giovann interjected. "Did he just say 'suitable enough hips'?"

Undeterred, Atticus pressed on, though his brothers’ laughter was quickly escalating. "Yes, hips," he said firmly. "And at least half-a-brain. And that last part," he added, raising a finger for emphasis, "is not so much a requirement but a preference, in fact."

That was the breaking point. Both Benjamin and Giovann burst into uncontrollable laughter, Benjamin doubling over as Giovann clutched his side.

"Childbearing hips!" Benjamin howled, gasping for air between his laughter. "You’ve truly set the bar high this time, brother."

"Oh, poor women of London," Giovann added between giggles. "They’ll have to measure themselves by Atticus Bridgerton's exacting standards. Half-a-brain, or none at all!"

Atticus shook his head, "You two are insufferable," he muttered, though it was drowned out by another chorus of laughter.

The event of the debutants to society began but was shortly cut upon the Queen's request. Elisa stood in the center of their drawing room, her face pinched in concentration as she attempted to follow Giovann’s lead in a simple waltz. Her brows furrowed, and her tongue poked out slightly, a sure sign of her determination. Giovann, for his part, was doing his best to keep their movements fluid, though his grimaces suggested her steps were anything but graceful. While their mother, Violet, is also in grimace watching her daughter mess up a simple waltz so badly.

From the corner of the room, Heather leaned against the arm rest of the couch, her sharp gaze fixed on Elisa's efforts. "I do not think she’s very good," she said bluntly, her voice carrying across the room.

"She can hear you, you know," Benjamin pointed out from where he lounged on the opposite couch, pencil in hand, sketching aimlessly.

"I can hear you," Elisa shot back, her tone clipped as she tried to focus on her footing. "Elisa, watch my feet!" Giovann urged, but a moment later, he yelped, "Oww!" as her foot landed squarely on his.

At that moment, the door swung open, and Atticus strolled in while yapping, "Is anyone else aware that dear Caleb has apparently decided to add Albania to his itinerary as he gathers about the world?"

His mother took one last glance at Elisa before turning her head to him, "Joining us for tea, Atticus?" she asked. "I’m afraid not, Mother," he replied, shaking his head. "Too many calls on my funds today. Now that the season has started, I’ll need to fill your coffers at the Modiste and oversee the hiring of future staff. And your ring, I shall need it."

Violet arched a brow. "You’re requesting my ring?"

"Father’s betrothal ring," Atticus clarified. Benjamin perked up, smirking. "Did someone catch your eye at the debut today, brother?"

"Hardly," Atticus scoffed. "I simply like to be prepared for when the opportunity presents itself."

"The opportunity?" Violet echoed, her amusement barely concealed.

"I’ve already compiled an index of the season’s eligible misses and have arranged interviews," he announced, with the same pride one might reserve for solving a complex puzzle.

At that, Violet couldn’t contain her laughter. "Interviews?" she repeated, covering her mouth delicately with her hand. Composing herself, she added, "Dearest, I shall be more than happy to give you my ring when you find someone with whom you are very much in love. Besides, it is in safekeeping in your father and I’s old house at Aubrey Hall."

Benjamin chuckled softly to himself, while Giovann muttered something under his breath about the absurdity of "interviews." Elisa, however, seemed too focused on avoiding Giovann’s toes to pay much attention.

Violet slowly walked to where Benjamin was sprawled on the couch, his sketchbook balanced on his knees. Leaning down, she whispered, "See that he is quite well."

Benjamin groaned, throwing his head back in mock protest. "Me?"

"I am in no need of coddling," Atticus interjected firmly. Straightening his jacket, he glanced around the room. "I assure you all, everything is in order."

But as he turned on his heel to leave, the collective smiles and knowing glances from his family suggested they’re nowhere near convinced.

The names of this season’s eligible young ladies were carefully compiled, each paired with meticulous notes on their family lineage, education, and accomplishments.

It began with the best intentions. Each interview was conducted with the utmost formality. He would meet with each lady at balls, garden parties, promenades, and private calls, armed with charming conversation and a practiced smile. But as the days wore on, his pen moved steadily across the list, striking out one name after another.

Lady Eleanor? Too timid. She barely uttered a word throughout their meeting, her gaze fixed on her lap, her responses monotonous. Miss Eden? A lovely conversationalist but lacked the "appropriate" family connections. Miss Genevieve? Intelligent, witty, and accomplished, but her laugh—sharp and shrill—had grated on his nerves, and he could not envision enduring it for a lifetime. Lady Matilda? A graceful dancer, yes, but when he asked her opinion on a recent parliamentary matter, she had giggled and said, "Oh, I don’t trouble myself with such dull things!"

One by one, they fell short of his impossibly high standards. Hips too narrow, humor too dry, voice too loud, too quiet, too uninspiring, lacks intelligence. His list grew shorter, his frustration deeper. He began to wonder if any woman could meet the exact image he had built in his mind. All while the demands of his new title weighed heavily on him.

His desk was now a sea of paperwork. Accounts, ledgers, property disputes, tenant grievances, every waking moment seemed consumed by numbers, letters, and signatures. The Bridgerton estate was vast, and its endless riches unfortunately is accompanied by a lot of responsibilities.

By day, he drowned in his duties. By night, he sought an escape in the company of mistresses, women who asked nothing of him but coin and pleasure. They were beautiful and fleeting, each a brief reprieve from the pressure that threatened to crush him. In the chambers of London’s high-class brothels, he indulged in the momentary release they offered.

He paid them generously, always ensuring they left with no lingering expectations. But even as he found brief relief in their arms, he could not ignore the growing emptiness within him. The list was now reduced to a few names, and even those he stared at with little hope. His standards, once a source of pride, now felt like chains binding him to an impossible ideal. He was the Viscount, the head of the Bridgerton family, a man of power, influence, and riches, but in his pursuit of perfection, he was slowly realizing how isolated he had become.

It was early dawn when you decided to take your horse out for a ride, to explore the green fields of London in your first day here. You had just arrived in the city last night with your mother and little sister from Wales. The purpose? Well, to join in on London's season and have your little sister find a match that can set her for life.

You had always looked out for your little sister, you wish nothing but for her not to be wasted. She's an intelligent and sweet young lady and she should not follow your footstep as a spinster. Now that she's 18, you're determined to help her find a titled man. To make sure she won't end up like you, 26 and unmarried. There's no longer a hope for you.

Atticus let out a deep sigh, savoring the peace. Until it was shattered by the piercing neigh of a horse, fast and frantic.

He turned his head sharply toward the noise, his eyes narrowing in concern. In the distance, a figure on horseback was racing through the open field, their coat billowing behind them. “Woah, miss! Are you in trouble?” he called out, spurring his horse into action.

The figure did not respond, their horse continuing at a reckless pace. Determined, Atticus urged his own steed into a gallop, the powerful horse closing the distance between them. “Come on,” he murmured to his horse, his voice steady yet urgent.

The chase was swift, the wind biting against his face as they chased through the expanse of trees and fields. Ahead, he noticed a torn bush sprawled across the path, its brambles jagged and high enough to deter a cautious rider.

“Careful now!” he shouted, his voice carrying over the thundering hooves. But the rider ahead showed no hesitation. With an impressive display of skill and fearlessness, they urged their horse forward, leaping over the bush with graceful precision. The horse landed cleanly on the other side, its rider steady and composed.

“Woah there!” Atticus exclaimed, pulling his horse to a halt just before the bush. His breath caught as you finally turned, pausing momentarily.

You reached up, pulling back the hood of your coat to reveal yourself. You gave him a simple nod as a greeting, your lips curled up into a cocky smile.

Atticus, was left stunned, admiring you. Without a word, you turned your horse and continued forward, disappearing into the distance to get away from him. You absolutely have no interest in befriending any man this season.

For a long moment, Atticus remained where he was. Then he chuckled softly to himself, shaking his head in amusement. “Well then,” he murmured to no one in particular. “Who might you be?” He adjusted his reins and urged his horse forward to follow you.

As you ride forward, you thought the encounter had ended, convinced you’d left the weird man behind. But just as you are already enjoying your peace once again, he appeared out of nowhere, startling your soul out.

“Enjoying your victory lap?” he called out, a teasing edge to his voice.

“Oh, fuck it,” you muttered under your breath, trying not to roll your eyes.

“Apologies, sir,” you said, feigning politeness as your horse slowed just slightly. “I did not mean to cause any of this concern.”

“Does your maid know you are riding astride?”

“I have no maid,” you replied sharply, refusing to look at him.

“Ah, then you’re married,” he said confidently, as if his deductions were always correct.

The corners of your mouth threatened to twitch, but you kept your face perfectly neutral. You were trying very hard not to laugh at his assumptions.

You? Married? As if.

When you said nothing, he smiled, getting the hint that his confident assumption was wrong. “Forgive me. Then you are lost.”

“I am not lost either,” you answered firmly. “I am on my way back to Mayfair. It is just ahead.”

His brow arched, eyes twinkling at the place you mentioned. “Mayfair? Well then—”

“I appreciate your attention, sir,” you interrupted before he could continue. “But I assure you, I am perfectly safe. Perhaps we pretend this encounter never took place? You allow me to go my way, and you go yours.”

“You worry about being seen?” he asked, tilting his head slightly as if your concern amused him.

“I worry about being seen meeting a strange man at parks at dawn who fail to leave me alone with all of their questions,” you shot back.

“Your secret is safe with me,” he replied with a chuckle. “I shall not tell a soul.”

“How grateful I am,” you said dryly, your voice laced with sarcasm.

You urged your horse forward, eager to put distance between yourself and his infuriating smirk, but his voice called out again.

“Mayfair is not right ahead. It is the other way entirely.”

You froze, your mouth parting slightly in shock. Heat crept up your cheeks, and you cursed under your breath. Turning your horse around with as much dignity as you could muster, you refused to look at him.

As your horse began to gallop again, you heard him shout behind you, “We have not yet been introduced!”

Without looking back, you called out, laughing as you rode away, “I am afraid that is not possible! Not when I have a victory lap to enjoy!”

As the first ball of the season finally started, you stood near the edge of the bustling floor together with Eve, your mother, and Lady Danbury. A cluster of eligible young men and women danced on the dance floor. Everlyn was practically vibrating with excitement, her eyes twinkling as it moves from one gentleman to the next like a butterfly sampling flowers.

Lady Danbury leaned in and began her usual assessments. "That one," she gestured with her cane toward a blond gentleman near the orchestra, "is Lord Wentworth. His family has title but little fortune. A charming sort, though. Spends too much time at White’s gambling away what little they have left."

Everlyn whispered, "But he’s so handsome!"

"And utterly useless," Lady Danbury sniffed. "No substance beneath the gloss. Move along, my dear."

The game continued as she pointed out another: "Viscount Stanley. His estates are in good order, though his mother is said to be meddlesome. You’d be marrying the whole family, mark my words."

You tuned out slightly, your gaze wandering around the crowd. The air buzzed with excited whispers, but one particular ripple of conversation drew your attention. Heads turned toward the grand doors as a family entered, their arrival like a fresh gust of wind through the ballroom.

The Bridgertons had arrived.

It wasn’t just their impeccable timing that made them the topic of every whispered conversation, no. It was him. Viscount Atticus Bridgerton, tall, responsible, and impeccably handsome, surrounded by eligible ladies like they're moths and he's the warm glowing flame.

Your breath hitched the moment your eyes landed on him. He was the man you encountered this morning, his face was unmistakable. Every bit of his move screams elegance and attractiveness.

You couldn't help but blurt out while staring at him, “I know that man.”

Everlyn’s brows shot up. “Who?”

Before you could respond, Lady Danbury followed your gaze. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and a smile tugged at her lips. “The Viscount Bridgerton,” she declared, as though presenting the crown jewel in a display case. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of introducing you yet, but you do have a keen eye, my dear. Viscount Bridgerton is one of the most eligible gentlemen this season. Wealthy, has a lot of connections, and hailing from one of the ton’s most illustrious families. And, as it seems everyone in this room already knows, the man has finally declared his intention to marry.”

You turned back to him, the corners of your lips lifting into a soft, almost involuntary smile. “He is…” you hesitated, the word almost tasting strange as it left your lips, “…handsome.”

Everlyn, who had been equally entranced, nodded in emphatic agreement. “Very handsome.”

The two of you stood there, transfixed, as if caught in some spell by the Viscount himself. You barely noticed the way the other ladies swarmed around him, vying for his attention. You only knew that, for a moment, the crowded ballroom seemed to fade, and the Viscount’s presence was the only thing that remained in your eyes.

You hadn't even noticed how your sister was asked by another gentleman and already joined on the dance floor. You simply stood and admired.

You even watched every move he makes as he dances with ladies with such disinterest on his face. As he finally got tired, he stepped out before the next song starts, bowing respectfully at the lady he was dancing with and going out.

For whatever reason you have, you decided to follow him out, ensuring to maintain quite a number of paces behind him so it wouldn't be that obvious. He went out of the venue and conversed with the group of men hanging around outside as they drink and smoke.

You also stepped out and turned your head to the left where the men are gathered including Atticus. You quietly walked to the bushes so you can hide yourself while eavesdropping on their conversation.

“Well, Bridgerton,” one of them, Lord Whitby, said with a grin, clapping him on the shoulder. “So it’s true, then? You’re finally in search of a wife?”

Atticus tilted his head slightly, a smile playing on his lips. “It appears so.”

Lord Whitby let out a chuckle. “About time. Though I’ll admit, it’s a surprise to hear you finally relent. I was beginning to think you’d hold out forever.”

Another of the men, Sir Eric Hayes, chimed in with a teasing tone. “What changed your mind? Surely, it’s not romance? A love match, perhaps?”

Atticus’ smirk deepened as he shook his head. “Hardly. A love match is the last thing on my mind. What I hope for is practicality. My children must be of good stock. For that, the mother must be of high quality—a pleasing face, exceptional wit, genteel manners. Enough to credit a Viscountess. Shouldn’t be too hard to find.”

His companions chuckled, Lord Corning shaking his head in amused disbelief. “You make it sound like you’re choosing a racehorse.”

Atticus casually shrugged, unfazed. “It’s no different. The right match is a matter of precision, not sentiment.”

Sir Eric, leaned in conspiratorially. “Well, if you’re determined to find the best, why not save yourself some effort and wait for the Queen to name the Diamond of the Season? It would narrow your search, wouldn’t it?”

The suggestion was met with nods of agreement. Atticus considered it for a moment, then his lips slowly curved into a confident smile that shows a man who never doubted his abilities.

“Perhaps,” he said, his tone light and assured. “But wooing the gem is another matter entirely.”

The men laughed in unison. Lord Whitby raised his glass. “Ah, but that wouldn’t be a problem for you, would it, Bridgerton?”

“Not in the slightest,” Atticus replied smoothly, his confidence shining brighter than the chandeliers above. The group erupted into hearty laughter once again as they talk how a wife should just be wed, bed, and bred.

Not long after, the men invited Atticus into the smoke room to which he only responded with “I’ll follow later.”

They nodded and walked away continuing the conversation amongst themselves as Atticus turned to supposedly go back inside the venue.

But with how unlucky you are as you walked the other direction to get out of the bushes, you accidentally kicked a watering can and it made a loud noise, alerting Atticus of someone else's presence behind the tall grass.

“Who is that? I can hear–” he rounded the bush to investigate in a hurry and found you, “–you.”

You froze. He had found you. How infuriating this night is. Damn it. Curse whoever's making you so unlucky.

Slowly turning, you watched as Atticus smiled in amusement as he recognizes you, his dark eyes gleaming with a mix of intrigue and surprise at having the fate to encounter you again after what happened this morning.

“Pardon me, my lord,” you said, your voice cool and steady despite your rapidly beating heart.

“I never got your name,” he said, his tone casual but his gaze glued on you. “I was wondering if we’d meet again.”

“Why?” you asked, arching an eyebrow. “So you can see if my wit is acceptable? My genteel manners?”

His lips twitched. “You were eavesdropping?”

“It was hardly an effort,” you shot back, crossing your arms. “Seeing as you were proclaiming your many requirements for a wife loud enough for the entire party to hear.”

He tilted his head, a small smirk forming on his lips. “You take issue with my requirements?”

You stepped closer, challenging him. “I take issue with any man who views women merely as chattels and breeding stocks!”

His smirk faltered, just slightly, accompanied by his eyes widening at your words. “I didn’t mean it like that—”

“Oh, didn’t you?” you interrupted, your words cutting and sharp and you took another step closer to him, “Viscount Bridgerton, yes? When you manage to find this paragon of virtue, what makes you think she will accept your suit? Are the young ladies of London truly so easily won by a pleasing smile and absolutely nothing more?”

For a moment, he looked taken aback. Then, to your absolute irritation, his smirk returned, only more cocky now. “So you find my smile pleasing?”

You blinked at him, caught off guard for a fraction of a second before regaining your composure. “I find your opinion of yourself entirely too high,” you retorted. “Your character is as deficient as your horsemanship. I shall bid you goodnight.”

And with that, you walked past him, your skirts swishing as you strode back inside the ballroom. You didn’t dare look back, but you could feel his gaze on you, and you couldn’t deny the thrill of leaving the Viscount speechless.

You stepped back into the ballroom, adjusting your gown while scanning the crowd to look for your mother and sister. You easily spotted them by the refreshments as Eve is conversing with a gentleman.

You walked to them and suddenly, a ripple of silence spread as the musicians abruptly stopped playing. Whispers bubbled up, eyes turning toward where the Queen is standing.

Your brows furrowed for a fleeting moment until it occured to you what this will be about.

Ah, of course. The Queen’s announcement which is eagerly awaited by everyone. You suddenly felt an unexpected pang of nerves. Your gaze darted to Eve, who stood beside you, her face calm but her hands gripping the skirts of her dress tightly.

“Do not be nervous,” you whispered to her in jest, though now you were gripping your own skirts and what you said is sounding more of an assurance to you than to your sister.

The Queen raised her hand, silencing the murmurs entirely. Her eyes swept over the crowd, lingering on the young women in their dazzling gowns. Her expression remained stoic as if unimpressed.

“Your presence is noted. And your queen most appreciative,” she began, her voice ringing clear now that everyone is completely silent, “Allow it to now be my honor to present to you the season's diamond. Miss Everlyn Sheffield.”

Your breath hitched. For a moment, you thought you hadn’t heard her correctly. But then the room erupted into applause, heads turning toward your sister, and it became clear.

Eve stood frozen for half a heartbeat, her eyes wide with astonishment. Then she dipped into a graceful curtsy, her face radiant with both shock and joy.

You couldn’t help it, your eyes widened, and a proud, wide smile formed across your face. “She did it,” you murmured, your heart swelling with delight.

The applause grew louder, and you joined in enthusiastically, clapping until your palms stung. The Queen’s choice was nothing less than a triumph, and for it to be your sister felt like the crowning jewel of the evening.

You didn’t care about the stares from others as you smiled openly at Eve, catching her gaze just long enough to wink at her. She gave you a small, nervous laugh in return, her cheeks flushed as the spotlight now firmly rested on her.

You cannot even imagine. I mean, The Diamond of the Season is your sister? Oh you couldn't be more proud. Years of training her to be a flawless and sweet young lady is finally paying off much to your satisfaction.

It is truly a moment of pride for you, isn't it? So why is there an odd pang lingering in your chest? It wasn’t jealousy, no, how could it be? Eve deserved every ounce of praise she was receiving. And yet, as you watched her walk toward the Queen, poised and flawless, the flutter of something unexplainable stirred within you. Maybe it's protectiveness. You had care for your sister since the day she was born and perhaps deep inside, you are not willing to see her get taken and swept away from you. You'd miss her. Truly.

And then, out of nowhere, he appeared. Viscount Atticus Bridgerton.

You couldn’t help but raise a brow as you observed the scene unfold. The Queen, to your surprise, acknowledged him almost immediately, her lips curving into an amused smile as she introduced the Viscount to your sister. A sense of unease tightened in your chest, though you weren’t entirely sure why. It wasn’t your business who the Viscount mingle with.

Still, when he bowed to Eve and asked for a dance, and the Queen herself encouraged your sister with an approving nod, the unease grew sharper, almost gnawing at you.

This is irritating. Why would you feel this way? You're going crazy. Yeah you definitely are.

Eve curtsied with her usual grace, accepting his offer, and the two moved to the center of the ballroom.

You stood in a distance, arms crossed, your expression unreadable but for the slight furrow of your brow. You couldn’t hear their conversation over the music and distance, but it was clear they were conversing easily, perhaps even too easily.

When the music ended, you decided it was time to intervene. You and Lady Danbury moved toward the pair.

It did not take long for Eve to notice you approaching and lit up. “Kate! Lady Danbury!” she exclaimed cheerfully.

Lady Danbury’s cane tapped lightly against the floor as she inclined her head toward the Viscount. “Ah, Viscount Bridgerton, I see you’ve had the pleasure of meeting Miss Everlyn. And this,” she said, gesturing toward you with a faint smile, “is her–”

“Her sister,” Atticus finished sharply, his tone dripping with disdain and shock.

Your lips curved into a smug smile as you ddn't even bother to bow, “Miss Katherine, my lord,” you said, your voice even and polite, though your eyes and smile displayed the opposite thing, like you're taunting the Viscount.

His gaze locked with yours intensely, he easily saw through your sarcastic mocking smile, making his forehead crease and eyes twitch in annoyance as if he had just encountered his greatest enemy.

He actually did, no doubt.

After what felt like an eternity of a staring competition with Lady Danbury looking back and forth between the two of you, clearly weirded out. You finally released a breath you didn't even know you were holding.

You took Eve’s hand in the middle of her ramblings in giving compliments to how much of a great dance the Viscount is, completely oblivious to how you and him killed each other with looks. “Join me in the retiring room, sister.”

You managed to pull Eve away, and she finally noticed there's something wrong with how rushed you dragged her away with a clenched jaw, looking straight ahead as you walked with her dragged behind.

“Is something wrong, Deirfiúr?” she asked in a worried voice, trying hard to keep up with how fast you are walking right now you might as well just run or maybe even fly. “You are never to go near that man. Do you understand?” You declared while looking sternly at her beside you, emphasizing the word never.

She tried to open her mouth again to press further but shut it immediately, knowing better than to agitate you.

Atticus on the other hand, stared in awe even as you dragged your sister away from sight. From their conversation, he is quite taken by her, by how she answered his questions without finding it weird and even complimenting him for knowing exactly what he wants. She was the first girl to not question his weird interview, and also the first one who's both beautiful and intelligent. Has accomplished several studies, plays multiple instrument, and wants nothing more than to have kids no matter how many.

She ticks every box on his list. She is perfect, and this is the perfection Atticus has been seeking. “She is who I shall marry,” he declared while his mother, Violet, is beside him. Her smile faltering a bit as she looks at her son with furrowed brows. It is only the first day they met, and she knows her son well enough to know that Atticus is only declaring this because she has perfect qualities for a Viscountess. And Violet hates to witness one of her children falling into a solely beneficial marriage instead of a love match.

Dearest reader, it has been said that competition is an opportunity for us to rise and stand ready before our greatest of challenges. Well, if what this author hears in the story is true, then a great challenge concerning this season's Diamond has been set forth. Any suitor wishing to gain an audience with Miss Everlyn Sheffield must first tame the overprotective prickly spinster of a beast, otherwise known as her sister.

Benjamin inspected his reflection in the mirror with idle amusement. Atticus is seated right beside him rambling on about the events they'll be attending this season. “The whole family is to attend the race this afternoon, we need to be there as a whole.”

Benjamin hummed in response, “Sure but you seem quite taken with this season’s diamond,” he remarked, his voice carrying a teasing hint to it.

Atticus exhaled through his nose, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Taken is too strong a word. I simply recognize that Miss Everlyn possesses all the qualities one could ask for in a viscountess. Grace, beauty, poise, and the endorsement of Her Majesty herself. She’s the ideal candidate.”

Benjamin chuckled, clearly entertained. “Grace, beauty, poise.” he mocked, “You sound like you’re shopping for the finest horse, not courting a wife. You realize you must first ensure Miss Everlyn is also interested to marry you, yes? Otherwise, even the Queen’s endorsement won’t save you.”

Atticus’ smirk deepened as he leaned back, allowing the barber to work along his jawline. “Winning Miss Everlyn’s favor will be no great challenge,” he said, his tone full of confidence. “She is intelligent enough to recognize a good match when she sees one. I offer wealth, connections, a title, what more could she possibly want?”

“Miss Everlyn is not who you shall put an effort in,” Benjamin suggested, the grin in his voice unmistakable. “I heard that the only opinion she values and follows is her sister’s. That is what you should put your most effort into.”

At the mention of her, his expression darkened. “Miss Katherine,” he muttered, as if her name alone was enough to sour his mood.

Benjamin tilted his head, intrigued. “Ah, so you have given her some thought. I take it she made an impression.”

“A most unfavorable one,” Atticus retorted. “She’s sharp-tongued, insufferably opinionated, and seems determined to make herself a thorn in my side. Were it not for her presence, I would already have Miss Everlyn’s approval.”

Benjamin laughed outright at that, earning a disapproving glance from his brother. “A thorny rose, is she? From the looks of you, it seems like you hate her so much already.”

Atticus’ jaw tightened as the barber cleaned the last traces of soap from his face. “I’ll not concern myself with her,” he said dismissively. “Miss Katherine may be an irritation, but she is of no real consequence. I’ve dealt with far thornier obstacles before, and I’ll not let her dissuade me from pursuing the most suitable wife for my position.”

Benjamin hummed thoughtfully as he leaned back in his chair, clearly unconvinced. “If you say so, brother. But be careful, with the way that you'd be courting Miss Katherine more just to gain Everlyn’s favor, you might end up falling in love with the wrong sister.”

Atticus scoffed loudly, waving the comment off with an easy air, rising from his chair as the barber finished his work. “Heaven forbid, I would never. She’s just another obstacle to be dealt with. Nothing more.”

Never huh? Well let's see if the Viscount can actually stand for his words. Or if he'll just end up swallowing it.

During the race in the afternoon where most ladies carried a parasol on them due to the heat of the sun, you stood beside Lady Danbury and Everlyn. Everlyn is currently conversing with Lord Lumley, a young gentleman you’d personally vetted as an acceptable candidate for her. He had a good head on his shoulders, a respectable fortune, and an admirably low tolerance for nonsense. A solid choice for someone as bright and charming as your little sister.

And yet, as you stood there, smiling politely at the unfolding spectacle, another gentleman approached.

“Lady Danbury,” he greeted with a deep bow. “A pleasure to see you here. Might I trouble you for an introduction?”

Lady Danbury, being the social conductor that she is, didn’t miss a beat. “Ah, Mister Thomas Dorset, how delightful to see you as well. Allow me to introduce Miss Everlyn Sheffield, our diamond of the season, and her sister, Miss Katherine Sheffield.”

You and Eve inclined your heads politely, a well-practiced smile on your lips. “Sir Dorset, it's a pleasure to meet you but I do have to apologize, my sister is already with an escort for the afternoon.”

He returned the gesture, but his attention lingered with interest. “That is very well,” he began, “Though I was hoping it is you I speak to, Miss Katherine.”

Everlyn’s head snapped to you so fast you thought it might dislodge from her own body. Lady Danbury raised her brows in delight, her expression practically screaming, “Well, isn’t this interesting?”

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “Oh,” you managed, glancing at them. Eve and Lady Danbury, wiggled their brows at you in unison, their teasing smiles unmistakable.

A chuckle bubbled up before you could help it, and you shook your head. “Well, then,” you said lightly, “how could I possibly refuse after such a request?”

With that, Sir Dorset offered his arm, and you took it, the two of you strolling past the lively crowd.

“So, Miss Katherine,” Sir Dorset began the conversation, “Lady Danbury mentioned you’re from Ireland. I had the pleasure of visiting some years ago. Such a beautiful country. Do you miss it?”

Your smile softened as memories of home appeared on your mind. “Oh every moment of the day,” you admitted.

Your eyes randomly darted to the other side where you caught Atticus staring at you. You squinted your eyes, internally groaning while he just gave you a faux smile and nodded at you in acknowledgement which of course you did not return.

You only turned your attention back to the man you're conversing with, suggesting that you two should find your seats to which he gladly agreed.

You sat in the shaded pavilion alongside Everlyn, Dorset, and Lumley, exchanging light conversations while waiting for the race that is about to start in a few minutes. It was a pleasant scene until an unwanted presence disturbed your group, the Viscount.

“Ah, I see I’m in good company,” Atticus declared as he approached, you noted with annoyance that his gaze lingered on Everlyn just a little too long.

Dorset and Lumley rose politely, each introducing themselves briefly. Atticus responded kindly, “Atticus Bridgerton,” he said with a smile that is undeniably charming but for some reason, does nothing but piss you off.

With a glance at the table, he added, “Ladies, I couldn’t help but notice you don’t have lemonades. On a day this warm, that seems like a grievous oversight.”

Lumley’s face lit up. “Quite right! I’ll fetch some immediately. We wouldn’t want the ladies to suffer in this heat.” He gave a quick bow and dashed off before anyone could object, leaving an opening that Atticus wasted no time in taking advantage of.

Sliding into the vacated seat between you and Everlyn, he turned his attention to her, his voice lowering to a murmur. “I must say, the odds for this race have me quite intrigued. Have you placed a bet, Miss Everlyn?”

Everlyn smiled as she responded, “I haven’t, though I am curious. Which horse have you chosen, my lord?”

“The Nectar,” Atticus replied confidently, leaning back as though the matter was already settled. “Strong, agile, and consistent. A clear choice for victory.”

You snorted before you could stop yourself. “The Nectar? A clear choice? That’s an interesting way to describe a horse that struggles in this kind of heat.”

His head turned sharply toward you, his brows arching in disbelief. “Struggles? The Nectar is the finest horse in the field, its record speaks for itself.”

“Yes, when the weather is cooler,” you shot back. “Today’s temperature is far from ideal for a horse with a heavier build. High Flyer, on the other hand, is lighter, faster, and has performed exceptionally well in similar conditions.”

Atticus chuckled, though there was no real humor in it. “High Flyer? That over-eager sprinter? It’ll burn itself out before the halfway mark.”

“And The Nectar will be panting by the first turn,” you retorted, sitting up straighter. “High Flyer is built for endurance, not just speed.”

The two of you leaned closer, your voices overlapping as you threw statistics, race histories, and breeding details back and forth with increasing tension.

“It’s not just about build, Miss Katherine. Training plays an equally significant role, and The Nectar—”

“—hasn’t seen a victory on a track this length in months, my lord. Meanwhile, High Flyer—”

“—is a gamble, an unproven risk—”

“—is the only sensible choice under today’s circumstances!”

Everlyn looked between the two of you with wide eyes, her lips twitching as though suppressing a laugh while witnessing the verbal sparring match. Sir Dorset on the other hand has his head tilted, observing a particularly entertaining duel.

Finally, your sister raised a hand, her voice putting a stop to your bickering. “My lord, Kate, perhaps we’ll let the race decide who’s right? There’s no need to wage a second war before the horses have even left the gates.”

You leaned back with a huff, crossing your arms but unable to hide the spark of satisfaction in your eyes. “Very well. We’ll see soon enough.”

Atticus, for his part, gave you a tight smile, his jaw ticking as though he’d just tasted something sour. “Indeed, we will.”

As the starting trumpet blared in the distance, signaling the riders to their positions.

The sound of galloping hooves echoed across the track as the race began, and the crowd erupted into cheers. You found yourself standing, along with everyone else, yelling encouragement for High Flyer at the top of your lungs.

Beside you, Atticus was equally invested, his shouts for The Nectar adding to the din. The two of you were so close to the point that an elbow nudge could send one of you tumbling over.

Everlyn on the side leaned back to glance nervously at Thomas who was on the other end beside you. “Should we separate them?” Thomas leaned back too, speaking just loudly enough for Eve to hear over the noise.

Everlyn sighed, shaking her head. “I don’t think we can interfere at this time.”

On the track, The Nectar was pulling ahead, leading the race by a comfortable margin, while High Flyer followed closely. You clenched your fists, leaning forward, and then you couldn’t help it any longer, you whistled sharply, shouting, “Come on, High Flyer! Let’s go!”

Atticus froze mid-cheer, his head snapping toward you, the words baffled and appalled clearly written on his expression. You could almost hear him mouth “What the hell?”

But for some reason, it's like a response to your enthusiasm, High Flyer accelerated. The crowd grew louder, and in a stunning final stretch, High Flyer surged past The Nectar, crossing the finish line first.

You turned triumphantly toward Atticus, a smirk spreading across your face before sticking your tongue out childishly. “Hah, I told you so!”

Atticus only rolled his eyes at you with so much attitude before Eve spoke up, pointing at the horse, “Kate, the Nectar does look like the horse we had when we were younger, doesn’t it?”

Atticus, recovering from the shock of defeat, offered her a charming smile and his arm. “Perhaps you’d like to see him up close, Miss Everlyn? I’d be delighted to accompany you.”

Everlyn eagerly took his arm, and you glared daggers into his back. Your victory over him is now marred by his continued efforts to charm your sister.

Left behind in the stands, Thomas turned to you and asked curiously. “You seem particularly irritated by Bridgerton. May I ask why?”

You huffed, folding your arms. “If he’s truly serious about my sister, he won’t back down just because of me.”

Thomas chuckled softly, shaking his head. “The viscount does not like to lose a challenge. He’s never stomached it since we were at Oxford.”

You froze, narrowing your eyes at him. “I thought you two just met today.”

Thomas visibly hesitated, his calm demeanor faltering as he tried to backtrack. “Well, I—what I meant was that we’re acquainted through… mutual circles.”

The pieces clicked in your mind. “He used you,” you said, your tone sharp. “He used you to distract me.”

Thomas’ eyes softened. “While that might be true, I assure you my interest in you today is genuine—”

But you weren’t buying it anymore. Without another word, you turned on your heel and marched toward Everlyn and Atticus, who were still chatting by the edge of the track.

“Muirín,” you firmly called to your sister. “We are leaving.”

Atticus raised his brow and scoffed as he turned to face you. “I’ve heard of a sore loser, Miss Sheffield, but never a sore winner.”

You met his gaze with a cold, serious expression. “Do not speak to me or my sister ever again.”

Everlyn blinked in confusion, looking between the two of you. “What’s going on?”

You quickly explained the situation, your voice laced with anger. Everlyn’s face fell as she turned toward Atticus, her disappointment clear. Without another word, she stepped away from him and followed you out of the bleachers, leaving the viscount standing there, looking defeated.

The clash of swords echoed through the open field. Atticus skillfully parried a lunge from Benjamin, his expression a mixture of focus and frustration. Caleb leaned casually on the bench nearby, smirking while observing the match.

Atticus' words cut through the rhythm of their fencing out of nowhere. “She is pompous and arrogant, and quite sure she knows best in every situation.”

Benjamin sidestepped gracefully, raising a brow. “Miss Katherine? She sounds like you.” He said in an obviously sarcastic tone.

Atticus glared at him briefly. “Less talking, more fencing, brother.”

They exchanged blows, swords clinking with precision. Atticus stepped forward, pressing his advantage. “Do you know why I win every time?”

From the bench, Caleb chuckled, folding his arms. “Because every time you lose, you claim we cheated.”

“You should've stayed in Greece instead of coming back here, Caleb.” He sidestepped Benjamin’s strike and launched into his explanation. “Because I know my duties. What my purposes are, and how to obtain them. Which I will do when I make Miss Everlyn my Viscountess. Miss Everlyn and I are well-suited. She’s a lovely young lady. She wishes for children. To make a perfectly agreeable wife.”

Caleb raised a brow, unable to resist the chance to jab at his older brother. “Perhaps your life might be easier if you pursued someone with a less disagreeable sister.”

Atticus’ movements grew sharper, his irritation becoming more evident. “But why should I be the one to admit defeat?! Regardless of which young lady I had chosen to pursue, there would have always been some obstinate father or meddlesome aunt in the picture. I shall certainly not let some sister keep me from getting what it is I want.”

Benjamin smirked, seeing an opening. “Who you want, you mean?” He jabbed Atticus on the side with a swift, precise move, causing his brother to stumble back slightly.

Benjamin lowered his sword, smiling victoriously. “Match point.”

Caleb laughed from the bench. “Is this still a friendly match, or do we need to find some armor?”

Atticus’ expression darkened as he removed his mask, clearly displeased. “Perhaps next time, I’ll find worthier opponents.”

But neither Benjamin nor Caleb took his grumbling seriously, only looking at each other with knowing glances as they leaned back and prepared for more of their brother's frustrated musings over you.

Lady Danbury has decided to invite every interested gentleman to her home to show off their desirability to the diamond of the season, your sister. So now here you are, in the drawing room filled with subdued chatter as gentlemen showcased their talents one by one, each performance more strange than the last. One man attempted an operatic aria that cracked on the high notes, while another displayed his questionable skill of balancing a teacup on his forehead. You bit back a smile, trying to maintain composure as Lady Danbury observed the proceedings with a sharp-eyed amusement.

A quiet chuckle from your side drew your attention. Turning slightly, you noticed a young lady suppressing her laughter, her hand covering her mouth.

“You too?” you whispered, raising an eyebrow.

The girl grinned. “How could I not? This is absurd, isn’t it?”

You let out a soft laugh, careful not to draw attention. “If it weren’t so ridiculous, it might even be entertaining. All this pomp just to woo a lady for her beauty, as though her heart or mind is of no importance.”

The girl tilted her head, her amusement deepening. “Finally, someone who gets it. Society really has its priorities upside down.”

Intrigued, you asked, “You seem far too sensible for this circus. May I know your name?”

“Elisa,” she said with a warm smile, then hesitated before adding, “Elisa Bridgerton.”

Your eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Ah. The viscount’s sister.”

Elisa made a face of disgust. “Please, don’t hold that against me. I promise you I’m nothing like him.”

Her assurance made you smile. She is indeed far from how Atticus is like. “You’ll find no judgment from me. If anything, I could write volumes about your brother’s arrogance.”

Elisa’s eyes lit up with merriment. “Please do. I’d happily contribute.”

The two of you laughed quietly, your shared disdain forming a quick bond. But your conversation was interrupted as Lady Danbury began to address the room, signaling the end of the evening.

But before she could conclude, the doors to the drawing room swung open dramatically. All heads turned as Viscount Atticus Bridgerton strolled in.

You narrowed your eyes. Of course, he’d arrive late, making a spectacle of himself. Typical.

“My lord,” you said sharply, your voice low enough not to disrupt Lady Danbury but firm enough to make your point. “You’re late. The evening is concluding.”

Effectively ignoring you, Atticus smiled and stepped forward. “My apologies, but I couldn’t miss the opportunity to share something with Miss Everlyn.” He paused, looking directly at Eve. “An original poem, if she would do me the honor of hearing it.”

Eve looked at you, her eyes twinkling before she smiled and nodded. “Of course, my lord.”

You opened your mouth to interject, but Lady Danbury, clearly entertained by the drama, stepped aside, allowing Atticus to take center stage.

He began reading from a small piece of paper, his tone flat and hesitant, lacking any real passion. A few lines in, he stopped abruptly, crumpling the paper in his hand.

“I cannot do this,” he said, his voice louder now, drawing the full attention of the room. “I cannot claim these words as my own. They belong to another. And truth be told, I am not a man of poetry.”

A hush fell over the room as Atticus addressed Eve directly. “Words of flattery are beautiful and sweet, but they are also hollow unless accompanied by action. Miss Everlyn, I could stand here and pretend to be someone I am not, to want the same things as you, but that would be a lie. I may not offer you the passionate displays you deserve, but I assure you, when it comes to action and duty, I will never be found lacking. I hope that will speak louder than any pretty words ever could.”

With that, he gave a slight bow and walked off to a distance. The room is in stunned silence. A soft, hesitant applause broke out, and you noticed Eve watching him with an expression you didn’t like. One of awe.

As she stood, clearly intent on following him, you stepped in her path to block her. “Muirín, you heard him. He cannot give you the love you deserve.”

Eve turned to you, her eyes stubborn and decided. “Does that make him a bad man or an honest one?”

You hesitated, searching for a response, but she cut you off. “Honesty is the mark of a true gentleman, Kate. Just as Father used to say.”

Before you could speak, she stepped around you and followed Atticus to the refreshments table. You stood frozen, a mix of frustration and worry churning inside you. How could she be so blind to what you saw so clearly?

You stood at a distance, your arms crossed tightly as you watched them conversing. There was something in his posture, perhaps an unusual ease, and in the way Eve smiled at him, her soft laughter drifting toward you. It made your stomach twist, though you couldn’t quite understand why.

And then, he glanced your way. Just for a moment, his eyes softened, and that unfamiliar feeling, the one that had been gnawing at the edges of your resolve ever since you met him, had bubbled up in your chest. It climbed higher, constricting your breath until you felt as though you were drowning.

It was unbearable. You turned sharply, your heels clicking against the polished floor, desperate to escape the suffocating swirl of emotions. In your haste, you didn’t notice the footman coming your way until it was too late.

You collided loudly with his tray, the clatter of silverware and dishes echoing through the drawing room. Gasps filled the air, and a mortified flush crept up your neck as the footman scrambled to gather the fallen items.

Everyone’s eyes followed you as you strode away, too embarrassed and overwhelmed to offer an apology.

You didn’t stop until you were out of sight, your chest heaving as you leaned against a cool wall for support. Back in the drawing room, Violet and Lady Danbury exchanged a knowing look. It was too obvious for them.

Dorothea entered the drawing room of Aubrey Hall, surprising everyone. Violet rose immediately, concern etched across her face but the smile on her lips tells another story.

“Dorothea, my dear, are you well? You gave birth to Bernadeth only a month ago. Should you be up and about already?”

Dorothea smiled warmly, easing her mother’s worry. “I am perfectly fine, Mama. I would not miss the family tradition for the world.”

She made her way to the sofa and settled gracefully across from Atticus, who had been lounging with a glass of wine in hand. The rest of the siblings exchanged subtle glances, already intrigued by the conversation to come.

“Enjoying your brief respite from the ferocious pack of mamas, brother?” Dorothea teased curiously.

Atticus sighed, swirling his glass. “Quite the opposite, sister. In fact, I have invited one young lady and her family to join us today.”

Dorothea’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Atticus has invited a lady to Aubrey Hall? My word!” She leaned forward with a grin. “Well, I cannot wait to meet the woman who has captured you. Tell me, what is she like?”

Atticus straightened formally as if he's about to rehearse a speech. “Miss Everlyn is the picture of grace, beauty, and charm.”

Dorothea raised an impressed brow but remained silent, sensing there was more to come.

“Unfortunately, she has the most annoying older sister who has styled herself as something of a gatekeeper.” His tone grew more exasperated. “I’m afraid I must enlist you all to help me win over both sisters if I am to secure my bride.”

Dorothea’s gaze flicked to their other siblings, each giving her knowing looks. The silent communication was clear: this back-and-forth between Atticus and Everlyn’s sister had been going on for some time.

“And now you appeal for help?” Dorothea’s smile turned sly. “My, you must be smitten with Miss Everlyn.”

Atticus narrowed his eyes at her teasing tone. “I simply know when the odds are stacked against me.”

Dorothea leaned back, “Well since you were such a help to me in finding the love of my life, who just so happens to be your best friend, it would only be fair of me to return the favor.”

Atticus regarded her warily. “Is that a promise or a threat?”

Dorothea shrugged, her smile playful. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

The carriage you are in arrived at Aubrey Hall with Lady Danbury exiting first, greeting the Bridgertons who are waiting. Atticus just invited your sister and the family to spend days in their home as a part of his courtship to Eve. You stepped out after, your eyes immediately drawn to the beautiful estate covered in vines of purple heathers. A small smile tugged at your lips as you admired the breathtaking scene.

Unbeknownst to you, Atticus caught sight of your smile from where he stood with his family, his own lips twitching into an unconscious grin. Instead of joining the rest of the introductions centered around Everlyn, he made his way to you.

“Ah,” he remarked as he approached, “you’re smiling. I see my plan to win you over is already working.”

You turned to him, your smile fading into a wry expression. “I am smiling because of the view.”

A footman approached, holding a small corgi in his arms. “Miss Sheffield, your dog.”

“Thank you,” you said, taking Newton’s leash with a soft pat on the dog’s head.

Atticus raised an amused brow. “Oh, you brought your dog?”

“Yes.” You glanced pointedly at him. “Newton is an excellent judge of character.”

With a hint of determination, Atticus crouched to greet Newton, only for the corgi to bark loudly at him, the sharp sound echoing in the air.

You shrugged with mock innocence. “See?”

Standing back up, Atticus smirked. “Mark my words, Miss Sheffield. By the end of your stay, your opinion of me will be much improved.”

“I did not think you were such an optimist,” you replied, folding your arms as Newton sat obediently at your feet.

Before he could reply, a melodic voice cut in. “And you must be Miss Everlyn.”

Dorothea stepped into the scene excitedly as she gave you a hug.

Atticus glanced at you. “No. This is her sister, Miss Katherine Sheffield.”

“Oh, forgive me, Miss Katherine,” Dorothea said politely as she stepped back.

You tilted your head slightly. “I am entirely flattered, Your Grace. Allow me to introduce my sister, Miss Everlyn,” you added, raising your voice slightly to catch Eve’s attention.

Eve approached swiftly, bowing slightly. “Your Grace, it is an honour.”

Atticus offered his arm to Everlyn, and she took it with a soft smile. “This is a beautiful home, my lord,” she said sincerely. “Thank you so much for inviting me. I very much look forward to spending time with you and your family.”

Atticus nodded graciously, his gaze momentarily flicking toward you as Violet stepped forward, ushering everyone inside.

Everyone gathered around outside for the very own traditional Bridgerton family game of pall-mall. Dorothea took center to explain the rules to the guests who are not used to this game. You and your sister.

Thea clasped her hands together. “Now, pall-mall is a game of skill, strategy... and just the right amount of chaos. The rules are quite simple. You may use your turn to try and get your ball through the wicket or,” her grin turned mischievous, “you may use your turn to knock another player’s ball as far away as possible, preferably into the hedges or, even better, the pond. In that way, the player cannot retrieve their ball and would have to quit.”

You couldn’t help but grin at the thought, your mind already spinning with possibilities. “That sounds delightfully devious,” you said, your eyes sparkling.

Dorothea chuckled, sharing your enthusiasm. “It is. Infuriating your opponents is practically tradition.”

Everlyn, on the other hand, appeared less than amused. “Isn’t that rather... unsportsmanlike?”

“It’s the point of the game,” Dorothea said with a wink, clearly unbothered by Everlyn’s disapproval. “Shall we proceed to the picking of the mallets?”

The group shuffled over to the mallet stand. All of the Bridgerton siblings were present except little Heather, who was too young to play. Elisa immediately began bickering with Atticus over who should have first pick.

“You promised you'd let me pick first this time!” Elisa declared, holding her ground.

Atticus raised an eyebrow. “I don't recall saying such thing.”

Before their argument could escalate, Dorothea intervened. “Now, now. Let’s be civilized for once. The guests will pick first. And they will have the honor of the first strike.”

Eve stepped forward and carefully selected the light blue mallet. She examined it with a satisfied nod before retreating to her spot.

You, however, wasted no time in striding forward and grabbing a sleek black mallet with silver linings making Elisa gasp dramatically.

“The mallet of death!” she exclaimed, pointing at you. Caleb doubled over with laughter.

“Wouldn’t you look at that, brother,” Caleb said, slapping Atticus on the back while still laughing. “She’s claimed it.”

You glanced at Atticus, holding the mallet with an arrogant smirk. “Is this yours?”

“Not at all. Feel free to use it,” Atticus replied smoothly, though his tone betrayed a hint of reluctance.

Benjamin leaned in with mock betrayal. “You threatened to beat me the last time I even touched that mallet.”

Atticus glared at his younger brother. “You exaggerate.”

With a teasing tilt of your head, you asked, “Are you the superstitious kind, my lord? The type who cannot perform without their familiar tool? Like a child without their blanket?”

The Bridgerton siblings erupted into laughter, a chorus of teasing “oohs” echoing around you. Elisa elbowed Dorothea and whispered, “I knew I like her.” This made Dorothea smirk as she responded, “So do I.”

The game began. Balls flew across the field, players shouted and strategized, and laughter filled the air. You quickly proved your competitive spirit, hollering whenever you landed a shot and throwing playful taunts when you knocked an opponent’s ball astray. Your sister, however, looked increasingly out of place. Her movements were stiff, and her expressions showed her discomfort as the game devolved into a mayhem.

Eventually, Everlyn excused herself from the game, retreating to the refreshment tent where the mothers and Lady Danbury were seated along with little Heather. You, on the other hand, were thriving, finding yourself at ease with the Bridgertons’ spirited antics.

Then disaster struck, or rather, a twist of fate. Both your ball and Atticus’ were sent flying out of bounds, far into the nearby forest.

“Well,” you said, determined. “I’m not giving up that easily.”

“Nor am I,” Atticus replied with a grin. “Shall we retrieve them?”

The two of you ventured past the edge of the field, into the trees. The forest air was cooler, the ground soft beneath your shoes. You bickered, as expected, debating whose ball had gone farther and who should retrieve theirs first. It wasn’t long before you found the culprit—a patch of mud where both balls had landed, half-submerged.

“Wonderful,” you muttered.

Atticus crossed his arms. “Are you giving up?”

“Not a chance.”

With a determined glint in your eyes, you stepped forward, sinking your heel into the mud, and Atticus followed. You both crouched, attempting to free your balls, only to end up covered in mud as you stubbornly pushed them loose using the mallet.

When the balls finally rolled free and you were about to follow Atticus as he walked away from the muddy puddle, your foot feels as if it's stuck. You tried to pull it free, you wobbled, to no avail. Atticus looked back, noticing how you're grunting and instinctively reached out to pull you out. Except his grip caused him to lose his balance as well, making the two of you tumble into the mud, laughing helplessly.

Lying in the mud, you both caught your breath, the laughter faded, and a rare sincerity hung between you.

“What must I do to win your approval?” Atticus asked quietly.

You glanced at him, surprised. “My approval?”

“Yes,” he said, his voice serious now. “For your sister. You want her to have a love match, to be happy. Surely you understand a love match is almost impossible, but I can offer her a stable and safe life.”

You sighed, considering his words. “I only want Eve to be with someone who will truly love her. You have sisters that I'm certain you'd also want to be with someone they love. Surely you understand my side.”

For once, Atticus nodded without retort. He offered you his hand, “Truce?”

“Truce,” you agreed, shaking his muddy hand.

But just as the moment settled, his gaze shifted, his expression darkening as he stared toward a particular spot behind a tree. Without a word, he stood and walked away, leaving you puzzled.

Instead of following him, you went to where he was staring, weaving through the trees until you reached the place that had caught his attention. It was a small clearing, marked by a simple bench beneath the shade of a tree. And there, nestled in the grass, was a gravestone.

The inscription was clear: Ethan Bridgerton, The 8th Viscount. Beloved Husband and Father.

Your breath caught as you realize. His father's grave. For the first time, you saw a different side of Atticus, a man who is probably still weighed down by grief.

The next morning you had decided to wander early outside. You hadn’t expected to find anyone else wandering as early as you, least of all Atticus, who stood among the flowers. He looks soft, and calm, which is entirely out of character.

“Miss Sheffield,” he greeted without turning, his voice laced with mild surprise, though he didn’t sound displeased.

“Lord Bridgerton,” You replied stiffly, stopping a few feet away from him.

Atticus turned to face you, his expression neutral. “And how is your sister this morning? I trust she’s well-rested after retiring early from the game.”

“She’s feeling unwell. That’s why she’s stayed in bed.”

“Unwell?” A flicker of concern crossed his features. “Is it serious?”

“No,” your tone came out sharper than intended. “She just needs rest. Which, I suppose, is a blessing, as it gives me the opportunity to ask what exactly you’re doing.”

Atticus arched a brow, clearly unimpressed. “What I’m doing?”

“Yes,” You stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “You claim to be courting my sister, yet all I’ve seen is you playing games. You haven’t even proposed. What exactly are your intentions, Lord Bridgerton? Or are you simply toying with her?”

Atticus stiffened, his expression cooling. “Toying with her? That’s a rather bold accusation, Miss Sheffield.”

“Is it?” You challenged, her chin tilting defiantly. “You can’t expect me to believe you’re sincere when you haven’t taken a single meaningful step toward securing her future. My sister deserves better than half-measures and vague affections.”

“I beg your pardon,” Atticus shot back, his voice rising, “but I don’t recall appointing you as the judge of my courtship.”

“Well, someone has to hold you accountable,” you retorted. “You can’t just waltz into her life with your charm and your title and expect that to be enough.”

“Perhaps you should consider that your sister doesn’t need you meddling in her affairs,” he snapped.

“Oh so now you're acting as if you know my sister better than me?!” You fired back.

“You seem awfully invested in this for someone who claims to dislike me,” Atticus said, his tone biting.

“I dislike you because you give me every reason to!” You exclaimed frustratedly.

“The only feeling you are in fact capable of, my lord,” you added, voice rising with every word, “is that of discontentment. You are impossible to please, impossible to reason with, and frankly—”

Your words faltered as Atticus’ eyes widened in horror. His gaze was now fixed on your shoulder, and before you could ask him what is wrong, his hands gripped your arms firmly.

“Stand still. Damn it, Kate, stand still!” His voice was low and urgent, laced with a panic you had never heard from him before.

“What on earth are you—” You decided to follow his gaze, looking down at your shoulder only to find a bee.

Obviously your first instinct was to brush it away, your hand lifting instinctively, but Atticus’ fingers wrapped around your wrist tightly, stopping you mid-motion.

“No!” he exclaimed, his tone very desperate. “Do not move! Leave it—just leave it.”

His voice trembled while his grip tightened on your wrist as though his life depended on it. For a moment, you were stunned, your breath caught in your throat, not understanding the reason for the intensity of his reaction.

“It is just a bee,” you calmly said, tilting your head slightly, but his grip only tightened further.

“Do not move, Kate,” he snapped, his voice cracking because of something you couldn’t name. His entire demeanor had shifted; the usual confidence and sharpness in his eyes from the former argument were gone, replaced by pure fear.

“It will sting me if I—”

Before you could finish your sentence while trying to free yourself from Atticus’ grip, the bee flew directly to the skin of your neck stung you. You let out a wince, your hand flying to the spot. “Ow! It’s only a sting!”

But his reaction was far from composed. His face became white as a sheet of paper, all drained of color. He stepped forward, his hands coming to your shoulders as if to keep you steady. His breathing was shallow, eyes frantically darting from your neck to your face.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded, his voice rising. “Can you breathe?”

“Of course I can breathe,” you replied, bewildered by his reaction. “It’s only a bee sting, my lord.”

“Are you certain?” His words came faster now, his hands trembling slightly as they hold you so close to him. “No, no, breathe. Breathe with me, don't pass out. Don’t—”

You frowned, noticing the way his chest heaved, the way his gaze seemed unfocused, as though he were trapped in a memory far more terrible than the present moment.

“Atticus,” you called out softly, trying to snap him out of his panicked state. You held his hand gently and guided it to your chest. “I am unharmed.”

“Breathe with me,” you continued to instruct him, your voice calm and soothing. You squeezed his hand that was on your chest, “Feel my heartbeat? I’m fine. It was just a bee.”

He stared right into your eyes, his lips parting to attempt to argue with you, but your touch, oh your touch did nothing but tether him down. All the words to argue with you dying down on his throat. Slowly, he exhaled, mirroring your deep, measured breaths. Your foreheads touched as you murmured softly, counting your breaths together.

“That’s it,” you whispered. “Breathe with me, Atticus. It’s over. I’m fine. See? Nothing happened.”

His forehead rested against yours, your faces so close while his body trembled slightly as the image of his father’s death on his mind began to fade. It was a fleeting moment, but it lingered, suspended in the air between them.

Atticus suddenly realized how close you two are, his hand wrapped around your waist to keep you pressed against him while his other hand on the softness of your bosom.

He quickly pulled away, “This was a mistake,” he muttered, his voice strained. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode away.

You stood there, your heart pounding in your chest. You tried to make sense of what had just transpired, but you couldn't put the pieces together. You were just as confused as him when he suddenly realized the position you two are in. You mentally slapped and asked yourself what on earth was that. And why was he so panicked about a bee sting like you'd die from it.

Ever since that happened, you and Atticus avoided each other like the plague. Your mind has been flooded non stop, day and night, by the thoughts of Atticus.

The voice of your sister snapped you out of your daze and brought you back to the present where you're standing in the corner of the ballroom while most people are dancing on the dance floor. “Kate,” your younger sister suddenly appeared at your side, her cheeks rosy with excitement. “You should dance with Lord Bridgerton.”

You almost choked at your own saliva at her morbid suggestion, your face contorted in a startled expression. “What? Why in great heavens would I do that?”

“Because,” Eve said softly, she has this hint of hope in her eyes. “I think he’ll propose soon. And when he does, he’ll need your blessing. A dance would be the perfect opportunity for you two to talk.”

Propose? PROPOSE?! Your mind went into havoc as you hesitated, heart thudding uncomfortably in your chest. “Eve, I don’t think—”

But before you could protest further, Atticus appeared and Eve eagerly pulled him, giving you an encouraging nod. “My lord, you should dance with Kate,” she suggested cheerfully. Atticus was about to open his mouth to refuse but seeing the excited smile on Eve’s face made him guilty. So he approached you ith purpose, bowing slightly and extending his hand.

“Miss Katherine,” he said, though you can't help but notice how his gaze lingered on yours a moment too long. “May I have this dance?”

You have no choice but to nod, barely able to breathe as you allow him to lead you onto the floor. The music shifted into a softer, slower rhythm as he took your hand in his and rested his other lightly on your waist. His hold makes your skin burn but also comforts you.

His gaze was locked on you, dark and intense, but his expression was unreadable. You took a deep breath, determined to break the heavy silence between you.

"Do you have something you wish to ask me, my Lord, regarding my sister?" you asked in a calm tone, only hoping that Atticus won't feel how your heart beats so hard on your chest you can almost feel it leap out.

He stiffened for a moment before relaxing again. "If I were to ask for her hand, would you give me your permission?"

The question struck you like lightning. Nothing could have prepared you for this day to come. You held his gaze, trying so hard to remain composed, but your throat tightened at what his words implied.

"I want to make my sister happy," you said, your voice soft but firm.

"Do you think I can make her happy?" he asked.

It was not the question you expected, it pierced through your defenses. You think hard of your next words, and opted out to answer his question with another question. "That is a better question for you. Can you make her happy?"

He was silent. His lips parted slightly in an attempt to speak, but no words came. "If your silence is any indication," you said, bitterness creeping into your tone, "you are reconsidering your declaration—"

"Does that mean you want me to reconsider?" he interrupted, eyes searching yours as he pulled you closer, your bodies flushed against each other now.

Your mind raced with thoughts, breathing heavily now as the question struck deeper than you expected, twisting in places you did not know could ache such as your stomach. The nervousness and pain is so intense you feel like you're about to throw up.

Compose yourself, Kate. You tell yourself. "It does not matter what I want,"

"I do not think that is true," he said. You drew a slow breath, straightening your spine as you're about to break the news to him. "I am to return to Ireland the moment my sister marries."

His furrowed brows are enough to tell you he didn't like what he heard. "You will abandon her?"

"Far from it, my Lord," you said quietly. "She will be fine. She will not need me. There will be no more reason for me to stay. It was the plan all along."

Something in his expression shifted. The hurt in his eyes was brief but searing before he turned away abruptly. His hand left yours, the absence of his warmth startling.

He walked off without another word, leaving you standing on the dance floor, breathless and aching in ways you could not explain.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Eve approach, her face etched with concern. "What happened?" she asked, her voice laced with confusion.

You shook your head, "I don’t know," you murmured. "Stay here. I’ll go after him." With that, you turned, your steps swift and determined as you followed after him, your heart pounding with an urgency that you could not ignore.

You stepped inside his room, shutting the door behind you with a forceful click. Atticus paced back and forth, his frustration evident in every sharp movement, his hand running through his disheveled hair. His expression was a storm, and the sight of him like this only stoked the fire simmering in your chest.

"Why are you so in distress?!" you demanded, your voice sharp enough to cut through his agitated silence.

He stopped, spinning to face you, his eyes blazing. "You’re going back to Ireland for good? Right after your sister marries?"

"Yes!" you replied, exasperation creeping into your tone.

He took a step closer, his voice rising. "What about you? Do you not want to set yourself up with a match?"

"How is that any of your business?!" you shot back, your words laced with incredulity.

He closed the distance between you, his presence overwhelming. His frustration spilled over, his voice raw as he asked, "Why do you hate me so much, Kate? What have I done to deserve this constant hostility?"

Your breath caught, your heart pounding in your chest. "Because!" you retorted, your voice trembling, "You don’t know what you do to me!"

The room fell into a charged silence. His jaw tightened, his gaze boring into yours, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "And what about you?" he asked, stepping closer, his eyes dark and unreadable. "You also do not know what you do to me."

Your breath hitched as his face was suddenly inches from yours, his intensity stealing the air from the room. You froze as his forehead brushed against yours, the intimacy of the moment leaving you weak.

"What... what are you doing?" you managed to ask, your voice barely a whisper.

His hands found your waist, firm and unyielding as he pulled you flush against him. His breath ghosted against your ear as he spoke, his voice a low, tempting murmur. "Say you do not care for me," he whispered, each word slow and deliberate, "Tell me you feel nothing, and I will walk away."

Your eyes fluttered closed, his words destroying every ounce of resistance you had left. You opened your mouth to protest, to say something, but nothing came. The truth clung to you like a vice, unspoken and unbearable.

Just as the moment threatened to shatter the fragile barrier between you, the door burst open.

"Oh!" Dorothea's surprise yelp interrupted the haze, her eyes widening at the sight before her. She froze, her expression shifting from shock to immediate regret. "I—apologies," she stammered, stepping back quickly and disappearing just as fast as she had come.

The spell broke. Atticus released you abruptly, his hands falling to his sides as he turned to follow his sister without a word.

You stood there, your body still humming with the closeness, your mind reeling. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you alone with nothing but the echo of his whispered words. It was too overwhelming that you have no way of denying it anymore, not even to yourself.

You love Atticus Bridgerton.

Dorothea heard her brother's hurried footsteps from behind but she did not bother to look back and spare him a glance. Instead, she poured herself a generous glass of whiskey, the amber liquid sloshed slightly as she brought it to her lips and took a long sip.

“Thea,” Atticus began, eager to explain the scene his sister just walked in on.

She set the glass down with a sharp clink. “Spare me the explanations, Atticus. I’ve seen enough.”

He exhaled sharply, stepping further into the room. “I wasn’t going to offer explanations, only to tell you that you’re mistaken.”

“Mistaken?” Dorothea’s laugh was short and humorless. She finally looked back to face him, her eyes sharp. “Atticus, you might be able to fool yourself, but you cannot fool me. I knew from the start. The way you watch her. The way you speak to her. And now, I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Tell me, brother, how long do you plan to deny the truth?”

“There is no truth to deny,” Atticus snapped, his jaw tight. “I have begun courting Everlyn, and I will honor that. It is my responsibility, my commitment.”

Dorothea raised her brows, unimpressed at his stubbornness. “Your responsibility? Your commitment?” She scoffed, shaking her head. “And what of your heart, Atticus? Where does that lie?”

“That doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice low, strained. “What matters is that I have made my intentions clear, and I will see them through. I will not disgrace Everlyn by turning back now.”

“Your heart always matters!” Dorothea shot back, her voice sharp with conviction. “You think sticking to a courtship you don’t believe in will do anyone any good? Let me tell you something, dear brother, this is exactly what happened to me. I convinced myself I should marry the Prince. He was perfect on paper. He had everything anyone could ever want. And yet... I couldn’t stop thinking about Sebastian. I couldn’t stay away from him. No matter how much I tried.”

“This is different,” Atticus protested, his voice faltering slightly.

“It isn’t,” Dorothea said firmly, stepping closer. “I fought it, too. I told myself it was just a passing feeling, that I could push it aside. But it doesn’t work that way, Atticus. Love doesn’t simply disappear because you will it to. It resurfaces, no matter how hard you try to bury it.”

Atticus swallowed hard, looking away. Her eyes softened, but her tone remained firm. “Do you think Everlyn won’t notice? She’s not blind, Atticus. No woman is. Sooner or later, she will see where your heart truly lies, and it will hurt her far more than if you admitted it now.”

“I cannot...” he began, his voice breaking slightly.

“You can,” Dorothea interrupted, her gaze unwavering. “You have to. Otherwise, this will end in heartbreak for all of you. For Everlyn, Kate, and yourself. Do something about it now. You owe it to all of you to face the truth, before it’s too late.”

He stared at her, his fists clenched at his sides, as though warring with himself. But Dorothea didn’t relent, her eyes locked on his, daring him to argue further.

“Think about it,” she said softly, lifting her glass again. “Because one way or another, this love of yours will find its way back. And when it does, it won’t wait for permission.”

Atticus turned, his shoulders rigid, and left the room without another word. But Dorothea knew her words had hit their mark. It was only a matter of time. And how she does hope that her words were actually enough to slap some sense to him.

It is the day where the Bridgertons bid you and the others farewell. The carriages were lined up, the horses stamping impatiently against the gravel. You stood beside your sister, “I am sorry things did not turn out as expected, muirín,” You softly said, voice filled with regret with the knowledge that you're the reason why your sister did not get the proposal from the viscount that she expected. You looked at your younger sister’s reassuring smile with tender eyes, guilt gnawing at your heart.

“It is not your fault, deirfiúr,” she replied in acceptance, but you can sense the obvious disappointment in her tone.

As she was about to step into the carriage with you behind her, the faint sound of hurried footsteps broke the stillness. You paused and turned around only to see Atticus running towards your direction. He looks determined and desperate.

“I need to speak with you,” he called out loud enough for everyone to hear. You turned fully facing him and responded, “Of course, my lord.”

But he brushed you off, “No, not you,” and came to a halt in front of you and your sister. Without a word, he dropped to one knee, his eyes fixed solely on Everlyn.

Gasps rippled from everyone as Atticus reached into his coat pocket, retrieving a small velvet box. His movements were quick, almost frantic as he spoke.

“Miss Everlyn, I... I know this is sudden, but I cannot allow another moment to pass without securing what I hope will be my future. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

The world seemed to blur and crash on you, leaving you suffocated. You told yourself to look away, to turn your back and let the moment pass, but your feet stayed rooted in place, forcing you to bear witness to the most gut wrenching and soul wrecking scene.

He knelt before her, the man who had filled your nights with restless thoughts and your days with stolen glances. The man who had whispered truths, showed you secrets and sides of him he dared not reveal to anyone else.

And now, he knelt for her. For your sister. Not for you, but for your sister.

Your heart twisted, aching in a way you hadn’t thought possible. Despite knowing this moment would come inevitably, nothing could have prepared you, nothing could have softened the blow.

You felt so betrayed, not from him, but from your own heart for daring to feel love for him, for daring to hope he'd finally be sure enough to choose you instead of your diamond sister.

And you have to accept this, because love, for all its beauty and all its pain, was not something you could claim. Not here. Not now. Not with him. Not in this life. Not ever.

With a bright smile, Eve nodded. “Yes,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Yes, of course, my lord!”

Cheers erupted from the Bridgerton family, the sound of Violet’s delighted laughter mingling with Dorothea’s glare and disappointed hum. With one last murmur of, “What an idiot,” Dorothea immediately stormed back inside the house, not wanting to witness this sham of a proposal.

You watch as Eve extended her hand for Atticus to slip the ring on her finger. You forced a smile, though it did not reach your eyes.

You wanted nothing more than to scream, but when you saw how your sister was practically glowing with joy, you told yourself this was worth it. Your sacrifice is worth it.

It was the day of the wedding yet the disinterest is so evident around the house. Caleb and Benjamin sat slouched in their chairs, cheeks red and whispering jokes to one another, clearly under the influence of last night's brandy. Giovann, meanwhile, darted around the room like a mischievous sprite, holding a handkerchief just out of reach as ten-year-old Heather chased after him, shouting threats to smack him if he didn’t give it back.

“Giovann Bridgerton, enough of this nonsense!” Violet snapped, her tone sharper than usual as she smoothed her already perfect gown. “Heather, behave yourself, young lady. Goodness, why doesn’t anyone look ready for this wedding?”

Dorothea frowned while massaging her temples. “Maybe because no one actually likes this wedding.”

Elisa was sprawled beside her sister in the most unladylike manner imaginable, one leg crossed over the other and her arms resting on the back of the couch as if she owned the place. She leaned her head back to look at her mother upside down, while laughing loudly, “Thea’s right, Mother.”

Violet sighed heavily, her daughters weren’t wrong. Her instincts, as a mother, had never failed her before, and today they are screaming at her that something was amiss. This wasn’t how it was supposed to feel on her eldest son and first born’s wedding day.

The church was filled with the sound of the organ as entourages walked the carpet one by one. You stood at the altar, opposite to Atticus, your hands clasped neatly in front of you as you tried your best to appear composed. Your gaze remained forward, telling yourself not to glance at him.

As your sister finally walked down the aisle in a beautiful white dress, you couldn't help but smile genuinely, feeling happy for your sister, at the very least.

The archbishop began the ceremony after Eve reached the altar, facing her husband-to-be. But Atticus’ eyes kept on drifting away from his bride, unable to stay fixed on Everlyn for long. His gaze was constantly returning to you who's standing behind your sister as the maid of honor.

And when the archbishop asked Atticus to repeat after him, he didn’t respond, too focused on you to even hear anything. “Atticus,” the archbishop prompted gently but Atticus seemed lost, caught in a vision only he could see. To him, it wasn’t Everlyn standing before him. It was you. He imagined you as his bride, wearing the white dress, your hand in his, and the thought consumed him.

Everlyn tilted her head, her expression shifting into one of confusion and growing concern. She turned slightly, catching the direction of his gaze. Following it, her eyes landed on you. And then she saw it—the longing in both your eyes. It was as if the entire world fell silent except for the unspoken connection between you and Atticus, a connection neither of you could deny nor conceal in that moment.

“Atticus,” Everlyn said softly, trying to get him back to the present. “The archbishop said to repeat after him.”

Atticus finally snapped out of his trance, his mouth parting as if to apologize. “Oh,” he murmured, nodding quickly. The archbishop tried again, but no sooner had the words been spoken than Atticus found himself lost in your gaze once more.

You fidgeted nervously, your fingers toying with the bangle on your wrist. The anxiety twisting in your chest made it difficult to breathe. Suddenly, the bangle snapped, tumbling to the floor with a loud clink that echoed loudly through the church.

The noise jolted Atticus, and without hesitation, he stepped forward. The moment your hands met the ground, reaching for the broken piece, his hand brushed against yours. His touch lingered as he lifted the bangle.

“Allow me,” he said, his eyes locked with yours as he gently took your hand in his. Carefully, he clasped the bangle back onto your wrist, his fingers brushing against your skin in a way that sent your heart into a spiral. The world seemed to slow down and blur everyone else. You wanted to cry, and throw yourself into his arms. You wanted nothing more but to be the one standing in place of your sister, but you couldn’t. You could not afford this love.

The scene did not go unnoticed. Everlyn stood frozen, watching the two of you. Suddenly, every piece started to fall into places, the subtle touches, the yearning stares, the so-called hatred for each other that always made them argue like cats and dogs. Her chest tightened, and realization dawned on her like a storm. The disdain that you both hold for each other—it wasn’t hatred, but something deeper, something dangerous.

Her breath quickened, her chest heaving as her panic overtook her. “I need a moment!” Everlyn cried out, her voice high and trembling.

The gasp that rippled through the church was sharp and collective. Everlyn turned on her heel, lifting her skirts as she ran down the aisle, tears threatening to spill. Anne, her face pale with concern, followed swiftly, while you, panic-stricken and guilt-ridden, ran after your sister without hesitation.

The guests were left stunned. Dorothea’s glare was sharp enough to pierce through stone as she watched the entire event unfold. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes flickering briefly toward Atticus, whose shoulders slumped down at how the wedding turned out.

Eve bolted into the dressing room, the door slamming shut behind her as she clutched at her chest, gasping for air between choked sobs. You and your mother followed closely, your heart pounding as you watched your sister crumble on what's supposed to be the happiest day for her.

“Breathe, Eve,” Anne said soothingly, kneeling beside her trembling daughter. “It is just nerves. We will call for tea, and once you have something in your stomach, you will be strong enough to go back out there.”

“It is not tea that I want!” Eve snapped, her voice breaking as she wiped her tear-streaked face with shaky hands. “What I want is the truth.”

Her gaze turned sharply toward you, and for the first time, your sister looked at you like you're the worst person in her life. At this point, you might actually be.

You were unable to speak, mouth opening and closing as tears welled in your eyes. “Oh, suddenly your words fail you, sister?” Eve’s voice dripped with bitterness.

Anne straightened, looking back and forth at you and Eve with confusion. “Eve, Kate, I am not sure what is going on—”

“I’d like to tell you what is going on, Mama,” Eve interrupted, her voice trembling as she turned to her mother before looking back at you with an accusatory glare. “After a lifetime of filling my head with nonsense, all this talk of great, gallant notions... You have feelings for him! All this time, you wanted him for yourself!”

Your breath hitched, and you shook your head frantically, your voice barely above a whisper. “No, that is not—”

“Oh, you cannot deny it now, Kate!” Eve’s voice rose, filled with anger and betrayal. Tears streamed down her face as she hiccuped through her sobs. “You lied to me, again and again. You told me! You told me we would never keep secrets from each other, but no!”

Your throat tightened, and your vision blurred with tears welling up in your eyes. “Eve—”

“You said you only wanted the best for me!” she yelled, her voice breaking into a more violent sob.

“And that is true, muirín!” you cried, your voice cracking because of your own guilt. “That is the reason why I hid this from you.”

Eve turned to fully face you, her chest heaving with ragged breaths. “Do you love him?” she demanded.

“What?” The word barely escaped your lips, your mind reeling from the question.

“Do you love him?!” Eve screamed, her voice shattering the room’s silence.

You stared at her, lips trembling as no answer came. The truth clawed at your throat, but the shame and pain of saying it aloud made you keep it trapped inside. Your silence was damning.

Eve slumped onto the nearby couch, burying her face in her hands as her sobs overtook her. Anne rushed to her side, wrapping her arms around her youngest daughter and offering whatever comfort she could.

Your mother’s gaze lifted to you, her expression tinged with sadness. “You’ve done enough for today, Kate. Go. Go anywhere else, but not here.”

Her words pierced through you like a dagger. Nodding silently, you turned and walked out of the room. You have no choice but to face the shame, guilt, and the possibility that you have ruined your bond with your sister for good.

You wandered aimlessly until you found yourself in an empty cellar room. Closing the door behind you, you leaned against it and slid down to the floor, you wrapped your arms around yourself, as the sobs you had held back finally broke free.

Atticus finally decided that he would need to talk to Eve after cooling off. He stepped inside the room, finding Eve seated on a chair, zoned out with tears silently rolling down her cheek.

“Eve,” he began carefully, “I want to reassure you. You are my choice. You have always been my choice. Nothing can change that.”

Eve raised her head slowly before standing up to face him, her gaze searching his eyes for the sincerity of his words. “Then why, Atticus?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Why do I feel as though... I am not the one you truly want?”

Atticus stepped closer, taking her hands in his. “Because this has been overwhelming for all of us. But you must understand, everything has already been set into motion. The Queen herself has endorsed this match, Eve. You’re her diamond. This union is not just a personal matter, it is a duty to both of our families and to society.”

Eve pulled her hands back, her expression conflicted. “And where does my sister stand in all this, Atticus?” Her voice grew firmer. “When we’re married, where does she belong?”

The question hung in the air as Atticus raked his mind for an answer. His jaw tightened, and he cleared his throat, “She is nothing but a thorn that we would need to remove from our blossoming lives. She is to go back to Ireland after we marry.”

Eve’s lips parted in shock, her face pale as if the words had physically struck her. “You would send her away? Alone? After everything she’s done for me—everything she’s sacrificed?”

“She has caused too much disruption, Eve,” Atticus replied sternly. “For our marriage to succeed, she cannot remain here. It’s the only way to ensure peace. It wouldn't be too hard since that was her plan all along, to get you married and leave to go back to Ireland.”

Eve’s hands trembled as she clutched the back of a nearby chair, her mind reeling. She couldn’t imagine abandoning you, her dearest sister, for the sake of a marriage. Sure angry is an understatement for what she's feeling right now but that doesn't mean she resents you to the point of completely cutting you off for good.

But the people's expectations, the eyes of the Queen, and the whispers of society who are already expectant of this match. The perfect match of a diamond and a viscount. What is she to do?

“I need time,” she finally said, her voice cracking. “Time to think this through. This isn’t something I can decide on a whim. And whatever I choose, Atticus, you will respect it.”

Atticus regarded her answer for a moment before nodding curtly. “Very well. I will patiently wait for your answer.” He said before turning around to leave the room.

The church was now empty and silent except for the faint echo of footsteps when you entered after a footman gave you a short letter sent by someone telling you to meet at the church, you were suspicious because it's already night but your feet somehow still brought you here. Moments later your gaze landed on Atticus who's standing by one of the pews. He turned at the sound of the footsteps, his expression mirroring your confusion.

“Why did you send for me?” you asked cautiously, stopping a few feet away from him.

“I didn’t send for you,” Atticus replied, furrowing his brows. “I assumed you sent for me.”

Your lips parted, but before either of you could say more, the sound of another approaching footsteps interrupted. You both turned to see Eve stepping into the church, her white dress trailing behind her.

“Eve,” you said softly, your heart lurching as her now composed face came into view. “What are you doing here?”

“I sent for you both,” Eve announced, her voice steady despite the tension hanging in the air. She walked toward you and Atticus, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. “Because I have made my decision.”

Eve turned her gaze to him, her chin lifted confidently at her final decision. “I cannot marry you, Atticus Bridgerton.”

Atticus stiffened for a moment before relaxing, giving her an understanding nod. He had already braced himself for when Eve decided on this, and she did.

“I simply refuse to betray myself,” Eve continued, “I will not marry into a loveless union, no matter how much society expects it of me. I owe it to myself to marry for love. And I know—” she paused, her voice softening, “—you will never look at me the way you look at Kate.”

You froze, your breath hitching as her words pierced through your already guilt filled stomach. “Eve…”

“No, Kate, please,” Eve interrupted, turning to you with a faint, bittersweet smile. “Let me finish.”

She took a deep breath, her gaze softening as she addressed you. “My whole life, you’ve sacrificed everything for me. You’ve taken on every burden, every responsibility, just to ensure I had a chance at happiness. But in doing so, you’ve denied yourself the things you truly want. The things that make you happy.”

You shook your head, tears pricking your eyes. You do not want your sister to think that she's robbed you of happiness. “That’s not true—”

“It is true,” Eve insisted gently, stepping closer to you. “You’ve always put me first. But I’m a grown woman now, Kate. I’m capable of making my own decisions. And today, I’ve chosen myself. I’ve chosen to walk away from a marriage that would only bring me misery.”

Her voice wavered, but she pressed on. “And now, I want you to do the same. I want you to choose yourself, Kate. Please.”

Eve reached out, taking your hands in hers. “You deserve to be happy, Kate. And so does Atticus. You both deserve a love that’s real. So don’t let this mistake hold you back any longer.”

Atticus, who had been silent, finally spoke, “Eve, I never meant to hurt you.”

“I know,” she said softly, turning to him with a faint smile. “But your heart was never truly mine to begin with. And that’s okay. You were never mine to lose in the first place.”

With that, she released your hands and stepped back, her gaze sweeping over both of you one last time. “I’ll leave you two to sort out the rest.”

As Eve turned and walked out of the church, the heavy doors closing behind her, silence filled the space once more. You stood frozen, your heart pounding as you avoided Atticus’ gaze, unsure of what to do or say.

You decided to take a walk to the garden instead, the soft glow reflecting off the still water of the nearby fountain is the perfect scenery for a perfect escape for you to take a breather. You leaned against the railing of the pavilion breathing deeply, attempting to steady your thoughts amidst the overwhelming chaos that happened in just one day.

The sound of approaching footsteps broke the fragile silence. You turned sharply, your breath hitching as Atticus stepped into the pavilion. His presence was unmissable, commanding even in the quiet of the night.

“You followed me,” you accused, your tone clipped.

He stopped in his tracks, his brows furrowing in confusion. “I did not.”

“You did,” you insisted, arms crossing defensively. “You always seem to find me when I need a moment to myself.”

His lips curved into the faintest hint of a smirk, though his voice remained calm. “Perhaps that says more about you than it does about me.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but he raised a hand, silencing you before you could unleash whatever sharp comment was on your tongue. “If you must know, I needed air. The church was stifling.”

His honesty gave you pause. Slowly, you nodded, retreating to the chair beneath the pavilion’s canopy. Sinking into the cushions, you leaned back, letting the softness envelop you. He watched you for a moment before taking the seat opposite yours, his movements deliberate, controlled.

For a while, the two of you sat in silence, the only sounds coming from the distant hum of crickets and the occasional rustle of leaves.

“You are quiet,” he said, breaking the stillness.

You cast him a sideways glance. “And you are talkative.”

“Then I will make myself scarce,” he said, rising to leave, though the softness in his tone suggested he had no real intention of going.

But before he could step away, you stopped him. “No.” The word was quiet, almost reluctant. “Stay, if you wish. I will not stop you.”

His gaze lingered on you, dark and intent, before he sat down again.

“Why are you like this?” you asked suddenly, the question slipping out before you could stop it.

“Like what?”

“Frustrating. Maddening. Constantly hovering.”

His smirk returned, though this time it held something more than amusement. “Perhaps it is because you seem to bring out the worst in me.”

You scoffed, though the sharpness in your voice wavered. “How charming.”

The air between you shifted, the teasing lightness giving way to something heavier, something neither of you could name.

“You drive me to distraction,” he said softly, his voice low, as though confessing a great sin.

Your heart skipped, your fingers curling against the fabric of your gown. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why not? It is the truth.”

“Because…” You hesitated, the words caught in your throat. “Because it complicates things.”

His chair scraped against the stone floor as he stood, slowly closing the distance between you. “Things are already complicated. And I am no longer betrothed to your sister.”

You swallowed hard, your breath quickening as he reached for you, his hand extending toward yours. “Stand,” he said, his voice a command wrapped in velvet.

Your legs trembled as you obeyed, his fingers brushing yours as he helped you rise. Before you could form a coherent thought, his lips were on yours, his kiss firm and demanding. Your hands clutched his shoulders instinctively, grounding yourself as the world seemed to tilt.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the cool night air. “I was raised a gentleman,” he murmured, his voice thick with restraint. “I was taught to honor women, to respect them. And you… you deserve nothing less than the highest regard.”

You felt the weight of his words, the sincerity in his tone making your knees weak.

“But right now,” he continued, his voice dropping to a husky whisper, “that honor is hanging by a thread.”

You swallowed hard, nerves coiling tightly in your stomach. Your voice was barely audible when you whispered, “Then let the thread snap.”

His breath caught, his eyes searching yours for any trace of hesitation. Finding none, he cupped your face in his hands and kissed you again, deeper this time.

Atticus’ lips never left yours for long, trailing down your neck and across your collarbone as if memorizing every inch of your skin.

His hands were steady, reverent, as they explored your curves, his touch igniting fires wherever it lingered. Slowly, piece by piece, your clothes fell away, leaving you bare to the cool night air and his lustful gaze. He, too, shed his garments, revealing the sight of his body that made you almost salivate. It was too perfect, and he is well endowed.

But even in his desire, he was a gentleman. He turned his attention to the thick fabric draped over the chair, swiftly pulling it free and spreading it across the pavilion's smooth stone floor. His movements were deliberate, careful, as though constructing a sanctuary meant only for the two of you. He arranged the cushions with equal care, his gaze flicking to you, full of tenderness and restraint.

“Come here,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate, reaching out to take your hand.

You let him guide you down, his arms cradling you as he eased you onto the makeshift bed. The cool fabric beneath you contrasted with the warmth of his body as he hovered above, his weight supported by his forearms. His lips found yours again, but they did not linger long. He began a slow, deliberate path downward, pressing kisses to your jaw, your neck, and the hollow of your throat.

“You are breathtaking,” he whispered, his voice filled with awe. “Do you know that? Every inch of you… perfection.”

His lips continued their journey, brushing softly across your skin as he uttered words that felt like a prayer. He worshipped you with every touch, every kiss, as if you were a rare and precious treasure placed in his hands.

“You deserve to be adored,” he said against your skin, his voice shaking slightly. “To be loved without reservation. Without fear.”

You shivered beneath him, your fingers threading through his hair as his words wrapped around your heart. Every touch, every caress, felt like a vow, as though he were promising with his body what he could not yet bring himself to say aloud.

When his eyes met yours again, they were dark with desire, but also brimming with something deeper—something that frightened and thrilled you all at once.

The cool night air kissed your exposed skin, sending a shiver up your spine as his lips continued their reverent path down your body. His hands, strong yet tender, traced lines of fire along your sides, his soft touch keeping you sane as his lips pressed closer to your inner thighs.

When his mouth reached the sensitive folds still covered by your underwear, your breath hitched. You felt a sharp scrape of his teeth as he bit down lightly, his teeth catching the upper edge of your underwear.

You watched, mesmerized, as he slowly pulled the delicate fabric down with his teeth, his gaze never wavering from yours. The sheer intensity in his eyes, dark with desire and command, sent a wave of heat through you.

“Don’t look away,” he said, his voice a low growl, more a command than a request.

You nodded, your breath coming in shallow gasps as he settled between your thighs. His tongue moved with precision and purpose, tasting you in a way that made your back arch and your fingers claw at the fabric beneath you. He never looked away, his hands steadying your hips as his mouth worked magic, drawing sounds from you that you couldn’t suppress even if you tried.

His hands roamed, fingers brushing over the curves of your breasts, teasing the pebbled peaks. The sensations were overwhelming, his tongue alternated by swirling, sucking, and then slurping lewdly at your core, building tension inside you to a point you felt you could finish at any moment.

But just as you were about to tip over the edge, he stopped. The loss of contact was sharp, and you let out a frustrated whine before you could stop yourself.

His response was immediate. He surged up, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss before trailing down to your neck, sucking gently at the sensitive skin there to leave a mark. “Shh,” he murmured against your ear, his voice low and calming yet tinged with amusement. “Patience, my love.”

Atticus hovered above you, his eyes searching yours with care and tenderness. His hands cupped your face, his thumbs softly brushing your cheeks as though grounding you for what was to come.

"Are you ready?" he asked, his voice a low murmur, filled with reverence and patience.

You nodded, though the vulnerability in your gaze didn’t go unnoticed by him. He pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there as though to reassure you. “Tell me if it’s too much. We’ll go slow.”

His hand moved to guide himself, and you felt the first press of the head of his manhood against your entrance. The sensation was foreign, and your body instinctively tensed. He noticed immediately, pausing and leaning down to press a series of gentle kisses along your jawline.

“Breathe, Kate,” he whispered against your skin. “Just breathe. I’m right here.”

You nodded again, your fingers gripping his shoulders as you took in a deep breath. He began to push forward, his movements careful and measured. The stretch was too wide and uncomfortable at first, and your face reflected the unfamiliarity of the sensation. He paused, his brows knitting with concern as he brushed a strand of hair from your face.

“Look at me,” he urged softly, his voice steady and comforting. “I’ve got you. Just focus on me.”

You met his gaze, his deep, steady eyes anchoring you as he moved again, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust to him. His lips found yours, slow and coaxing, as though to distract you from the discomfort. “You’re doing so well,” he praised between kisses, his voice filled with awe. “So perfect. Just let me in, my love.”

Eventually, he was fully sheathed within you, you swore you could almost feel him at your stomach. He stilled, giving you a moment to acclimate, his hands stroking soothing patterns along your sides.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, his forehead resting against yours.

You shook your head slightly, though the feeling was still strange. “Not hurt,” you murmured. “Just… different.”

He smiled, his expression soft and reassuring. “It will get better. I promise. Just tell me if it’s too much, and I’ll stop.”

You nodded, and he began to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate, watching your face with every shift of his hips. The discomfort started to subside, replaced by something enjoyable. He never stopped whispering to you, his words like a steady stream of devotion.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured, his lips brushing yours. “This is yours—every part of me is yours.”

As the rhythm grew steadier, the sensation shifted again, pleasure beginning to coil low in your belly. Your nails dug into his shoulders, and you felt yourself start to relax, your body responding to his in a way that felt instinctive and natural.

“That’s it,” he said softly, his tone filled with both pride and love. “Just let go, Kate. Let me take care of you.”

Atticus had been steady and gentle, his movements precise as he worked to guide you into comfort and pleasure. But the moment the first loud pleasured moan escaped your lips, everything shifted. His lips curled into a devilish smirk, a spark of something darker flashing in his eyes.

"That’s it," he murmured, his voice still sweet but laced with an edge of mischief. Without warning, his pace quickened, his hips snapping against yours in a brutal way that made your breath hitch.

Your body jerked at the sudden change, a scream leaving your lips before his hand clamped over your mouth. “Shh, love,” he cooed, his tone soft but the rhythm of his thrusts relentless. “We wouldn’t want anyone hearing, would we?”

The gentleness he had shown moments ago was now replaced with something animalistic and untamed. His grip on your hips tightened, the bruising hold ensuring you stayed exactly where he wanted. His lips traveled down your chest, and his teeth found one of your sensitive nipples, biting just hard enough to make you gasp against his palm.

“Mine,” he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. “Every inch of you is mine.”

Your thighs quivered as he pulled back slightly, his hand coming down in a sharp slap against the soft flesh of your inner thigh. You yelped into his palm, your body arching off the makeshift bed beneath you. He chuckled low in his throat, clearly relishing your reactions.

“You’re perfect like this,” he muttered, his lips brushing against the reddened skin he had just struck. “So responsive, so beautiful.”

You felt the tension coiling tighter within you, the overwhelming sensations building with every thrust and touch. His fingers found your sensitive nub, and he pinched it just as your body clenched around him. The wave of release hit you like a torrent, your cries muffled against his hand as your body trembled helplessly beneath him.

“Look at that,” he chuckled darkly, his voice thick with satisfaction as he watched the evidence of your pleasure spill over. “Such a good girl, coming undone just for me.”

Even as you panted and writhed in the aftermath, he didn’t slow down. His thrusts grew erratic, his breathing heavier as he chased his own release. His hands gripped your hips tightly, holding you in place as he drove into your swollen pussy like you were bunnies trying to breed.

Atticus gently raised your hips, his strong hands holding you securely as he shifted his position. The angle left you breathless, your body bending to his will as he knelt, planting his feet for leverage. He continued pounding, your legs almost giving out limply from exhaustion until he pulled out in a hurry, leaving your hole empty and fluttering.

With a low groan, he wrapped his hand around himself, pumping fast while his face contorted in a desperate expression, biting his lips while his brows furrowed. The release came swiftly, painting your stomach in warm streaks that contrasted against the chill of the night air. Atticus’ breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling as he admired the sight of you, your flushed skin, the way your body seemed utterly spent, your hair splayed messily around you like a halo.

Something stirred deep within him. Seeing you in such a state, ruined yet radiant, it ignited a spark that refused to fade. His body responded almost instinctively, and he groaned as he felt himself harden once more. Without hesitation, he slid back inside you in one thrust, filling you completely.

Your eyes, which had been closed in exhaustion, flew open at the sudden intrusion. A mix of confusion and surprise danced across your face, and your lips parted as if to speak, to protest. But before you could say anything, Atticus leaned forward, brushing the damp strands of hair away from your forehead with a tenderness that made you blush.

“Everything is fine,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. His lips brushed against your temple in a fleeting kiss as his hands settled on your waist, anchoring you. “One more, alright?”

Atticus started moving again and he was unrelenting, his hips snapping against yours as he pulled you into a rhythm that was almost overwhelming. Yet his lips softened the blows of his passion, pressing kisses to your jaw, your temple, and the sensitive curve of your neck.

“Atticus,” you whimpered, your voice trembling as you clawed at his shoulders, trying to anchor yourself. His name on your lips was music to his ears, and he responded with a low groan, dipping his head to capture your mouth in a rough messy kiss.

“Say it again,” he whispered against your lips, his tone almost desperate as he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes.

“Atticus,” you moaned, your voice cracking slightly, and he smirked, his gaze dark and full of desire.

“That’s my good girl,” he murmured, his hands gripping your hips tightly, pulling you against him in a way that made you gasp. The pressure, the fullness, it was all-consuming, and you felt your body arch beneath him as he continued to drive into you with precision.

As the coil built within you once again, he could feel it too, and his words softened, becoming a litany of praise. “You’re perfect. So beautiful. Taking me so well.” Each word was punctuated by a kiss on your body until you finally cried out, your body tensing and shuddering as you reached your release for the second time.

But Atticus didn’t stop. He groaned as he felt you clench around him, and his movements grew even rougher, his grip bruising as he chased his own release. His pace was relentless, but his lips remained soft, brushing over your heated skin as he muttered, “We’re not done yet.”

By the time he finally finished, only this time he didn't bother pulling out and decided to just spill inside you, filling you to the brim with his warm load.

You were in the middle of catching your breath when you noticed the hunger in his eyes hadn’t faded yet. Before you could protest, he repositioned you again, his hands sliding beneath your thighs to lift you closer to him and fold you into complete half this time.

“Wait Atticus no–” you gasped, your hands bracing against his chest, but he only leaned down to kiss you deeply, silencing any protests before they could form.

“Last one, I promise.” He whispered against your lips, his voice dark and commanding. “You can take it, right? You're my girl.”

His movements were slower this time, deliberate, as if savoring every moment. You could feel every inch of him, the way he filled you completely, and despite the exhaustion in your limbs, you found yourself aching and craving for more.

“Please,” you moaned, your fingers tangling in his hair as his thrusts grew deeper, hitting a spot that made you see stars.

“Found it,” he rasped, his lips capturing yours again. This new deeper angle and the way he's abusively hitting that one spot on repeat made your eyes roll back with a desperate sob.

Oh well, you two decided to continue until you've reached four rounds. And the only reason you both stopped at the fourth round is because you passed out, no longer enduring his impossible stamina.

You woke up early and found yourself tangled into the sheets laid out on the ground of the pavilion. You sat up with a soft groan at the ache in your muscles and the sharp sting on your private part. Beside you was Atticus, who was still sleeping. Remembering everything from last night, you sighed and ran your fingers through your hair. You really have no shame, do you? Moments after your sister's failed wedding you decided to sleep with her ex fiance. It is truly sinful to think of, oh but his touch, his kisses, it all felt heaven to you.

You hadn’t planned on leaving Atticus behind before he can even wake up so recklessly, but staying in that space with him was unbearable. And that's what led you to dress up and steal a horse from a nearby stable to ride in the middle of a storm. You didn't care, you needed to be alone, to clear your thoughts. To escape.

“Kate!” a voice called out behind you, barely audible through the deafening rain. You clenched the reins tighter, ignoring it. You knew who it was. You couldn’t face him, not after what had happened between the two of you in the garden under the cover of night. Not after the way you’d give your body so foolishly.

“Kate!” his voice was louder this time, desperate for you to stop. Your chest tightened as you pressed your heels against your horse, urging it to pick up speed. You didn’t dare to look back.

“Stop, Kate!” he shouted, his voice closer now. You could hear the thunder of his horse catching up, but you pushed yours harder. The rain blurred your vision, the cold numbing your hands, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t care.

And yes you indeed do not care because you didn’t see the rock on your way.

It all happened too quickly—your horse stumbled due to the rocks. You gasped as you felt yourself thrown off, your body hitting the ground with a sickening loud thud. Pain shot through your head as it struck the ground.

The last thing you heard was his voice calling your name in panic and fear as he got off his horse to run to where you are.

Then everything went black.

Eve stood beside your bed, her hand trembling as it rested lightly on the bedframe. Her lips quivered as she stared down at you, still and pale against the white sheets.

“Deirfiúr, you must not do this. You have to wake up,” she whispered, her voice cracking as tears spilled silently down her cheeks. “We still need to reconcile. You can't—” Her voice broke completely, and she closed her eyes tightly, stopping herself from speaking the words that burned in her throat. The thought was too unbearable, too final.

Eve pulled herself together and walked to the chair beside your bed, sitting down with a heavy sigh. She wiped at her tears, trying to steady herself. But then a soft, weak voice called out to her.

“Eve.”

Her head snapped up, and she gasped, seeing your eyes flutter open. Your smile, small and fragile, spread across your pale face. Eve shot to her feet, leaning over you in disbelief.

“Kate! Oh, thank God, you’re awake!” she cried, her hands trembling as she cupped your face.

She didn’t waste another moment. “Mama! Lady Danbury! She’s awake!” Her voice rang out, filled with relief and joy as she hurried to call for them.

Moments later, your mother and Lady Danbury rushed into the room, their expressions melting into relief at the sight of you. Your mother clasped your hand tightly, tears streaming down her face as she whispered a prayer of gratitude. Lady Danbury, though composed, could not hide the soft smile of relief that touched her usually stern features.

After hugs and soft words of comfort, you looked at them, still weak but curious. “What happened?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Your mother and Lady Danbury exchanged a glance before explaining. “You’ve been unconscious for days,” your mother said, her voice trembling with emotion. “You fell from your horse during the storm. Atticus… he brought you back.”

Hearing his name triggered the memory—his frantic voice calling out to you, his arms lifting you from the ground. You swallowed hard and asked quietly, “Has he… visited?”

The silence that followed was deafening. Your mother looked down at her lap, Lady Danbury averted her gaze, and Eve bit her lip, avoiding your eyes. Their silence spoke louder than any words could.

You forced a small, disappointed smile and nodded slowly, your chest tightening. “I see,” you murmured, your voice strained. “I think I need to rest now.”

They hesitated, but eventually, they nodded and left the room one by one, each giving you a tender glance before leaving you alone.

As soon as the door closed, you turned to the other side, your expression crumbling. A frown settled on your face, and tears pooled in your eyes.

After that shared night, do you still mean so little to him? He was confusing, stubborn, and impossible to read. But as much as you wanted to blame him, you couldn’t deny that you were just as bad and stubborn. I guess that's what makes you two a perfect match.

Atticus shifted on the sofa, a stack of papers balanced on his lap while he read some of them. His brow furrowed in concentration as he worked through the endless documents.

Suddenly, the door burst open and Violet entered, her expression alight with excitement and relief. He raised his head, his sharp gaze softening as he took in her glowing demeanor. He didn’t need to hear her say it. The answer was written all over her face.

“She’s awake?” he asked, his voice low, barely above a whisper.

Violet nodded, her smile unwavering. “One of their maids informed ours,” she said gently.

He let out the biggest sigh of relief, it felt like the thorn had been lifted from his chest. He set the papers aside and leaned forward, running his hands down his face before pressing them tightly over his mouth. A shaky sob escaped him, and he buried his face deeper into his hands, shoulders trembling.

Violet’s eyes softened with empathy as she watched her son show his emotions again for the first time in years. She walked over and sat beside him, wrapping an arm around his back. She rubbed soothing circles, allowing him the moment to cry and let it out that he so desperately needed.

For a long while, neither of them spoke. The room was filled only with the quiet sounds of his muffled cries. When Atticus finally calmed, Violet broke the silence.

“You’ve always been stubborn,” she began softly, her voice carrying a nostalgic warmth. “But it wasn't until after your father’s death. Before that, you were the most obedient, gentle, and kind-hearted boy I had ever known.”

“I owe you an apology,” Violet continued, her voice cracking as she struggled to keep her composure. “When your father died, I was so lost in my grief that I failed you. I left everything to you, the responsibilities, the weight of the family, all of it when you were only sixteen. And worse, I wasn’t even there to comfort you when you were the one to witness your father’s death right in front of your eyes.”

Her tears fell freely now, and she reached out, placing a hand on his cheek. “I’m so sorry, Atticus. You deserved better from me, as your mother.”

Atticus shook his head, his throat tight. “You were grieving, Mother. I don’t blame you for that.”

Violet smiled through her tears, her voice trembling. “But even after everything, if I could go back in time, I would still choose your father. I would still choose the life I had with him. Because true love will always be worth the risk.”

She paused, gripping his hands firmly, “Atticus, don’t lose her.” He looked into her eyes and saw how firm and serious she is on this. “You cannot lose her.”

You stood at the edge of the room after attending Lady Fontaine’s ball, your family's first appearance to society after the disastrous wedding that left everyone's question unanswered and caused them to speculate and spread different rumors. However, you did not even noticed all the judging eyes and whispered laughs among the ladies of the ton for your eyes have betrayed you, darting toward him again, Atticus, his attention focused on Benjamin as they converse.

When his eyes turned to meet yours, you quickly looked away, your breath catching in your chest.

“You cannot keep doing this,” Eve’s soft voice startled you as she came up behind you. “I don’t know what you mean,” you lied through your teeth, gripping your glass.

“You know exactly what I mean,” she said with a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You must stop avoiding him.”

Deep inside, you know that she's right. You can't just keep on avoiding him forever, but how could you face him after everything? The guilt is still coursing through you. “Eve, I—”

“No,” she interrupted gently, placing a hand on your arm. “You have my blessing. You always did. Do you hear me, deirfiúr? You deserve happiness. Choose yourself just as I have chosen myself.”

You couldn't help the tears in your eyes at her words. Those were words you had longed to hear and they were finally spoken. Slowly, you nodded, your voice trembling with gratitude. “Thank you.”

It was then that you felt his presence before you saw him. Turning, your heart leapt as Atticus stood there, his soft eyes fixed down on you.

“Miss Sheffield,” he said while stretching a hand out to you. “May I have this dance?”

Your heart pounded as you glanced at Eve. Her soft, encouraging nod gave you the courage you needed. You slipped your hand into his, the warmth of his hand easing all your worries.

You were acutely aware of the stares, the whispers, the judgment. But then his hand rested gently at your waist, his other clasping yours, and you found yourself looking up at him, your ears falling deaf to the sound of others. Because would you really regard the judgment from people when the man you had dreamed of is finally in front of you?

The dance began, and despite the heaviness in your chest, you moved together gracefully. “Breathe,” he murmured in a soft voice in an attempt to calm your frayed nerves.

“I am breathing,” you whispered back. “Good,” he said, a small smile curving his lips. “Because I cannot seem to.”

His words sent a rush of warmth through you, but the moment felt bittersweet. You were hyper-aware of the ton’s scornful eyes, the whispers about Eve, about you, about him. But then, in your peripheral vision, you saw movement—a regal figure rising from her chair.

The Queen.

She clapped her gloved hands together lightly, a smile spreading across her face as she surveyed the room. “How splendid,” she declared, her voice carrying effortlessly across the ballroom. “It was I who suggested the engagement between Miss Everlyn and Lord Bridgerton be reconsidered. A love match is far more suitable for one of my balls, don’t you think?”

The weight of the room shifted. The judgmental gazes softened, whispers turning to reluctant approval. The Queen’s blessing had single handedly ended all the scandal and the malicious looks that you and his family were receiving.

You looked back at Atticus, your breath catching at the way he was watching you like nothing else mattered. His thumb brushed gently against your hand. “Let them watch,” he murmured, leaning closer so only you could hear. “They mean nothing to me.”

Tears threatened to spill, they were happy tears of course, but you blinked them back, nodding softly as you let yourself get lost in his eyes.

As the music swirled to a stop and the whispers among the ton hushed, Atticus stepped back slightly, his hand still holding yours. His eyes never left your face as he reached into his pocket, pulling out a small velvet box.

Your heart pounded uncontrollably as you realized what he was doing. The entire ballroom seemed to freeze, every gaze fixed on the two of you, the Queen herself sitting upright in curiosity as she witnesses yet another love match instead of a political one.

“Miss Sheffield,” Atticus began, his voice steady but filled with raw emotion. He knelt before you and opened the box, revealing the betrothal ring that was once on your sister's finger.

But you could care less right now, those thoughts have been long gone and trashed at the furthest back of your mind. Right now, all you want to do is to bask in joy.

“I had planned to say this in a quieter, more private setting,” he continued, his voice carrying through the silent room. “But after everything that has happened, I realized there is no time to waste. I need everyone here, everyone in this room, to know the truth. I love you,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “You are the bane of my existence and the object of all my desires, night and day I dream of you. I cannot go any longer without making my intentions clear.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd, but all you could hear was his voice, your heart swelling with emotions you could no longer contain.

“Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” He popped the question in a collected voice, but truth be told, Atticus can practically feel his heartbeat on his ears right now.

You were stunned, your mind struggling to process what was happening. But as you stared at him, at the vulnerability etched into his features, at the love shining so brightly in his eyes, you knew there was only one answer.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice cracking, and then you repeated louder this time, “Yes, I will marry you!”

The crowd burst into applause and cheers, but you barely heard them as you dropped to your knees and threw your arms around him. He stood, pulling you close, and you felt nothing but love and happiness surrounding you the moment he slipped the ring onto your finger.

You sobbed tears of joy and blurred your vision as Atticus cupped your face, his forehead resting gently against yours.

“Are you certain?” he murmured softly, his voice trembling with relief and disbelief. You laughed through your tears, nodding. “I’ve never been more certain of anything.”

The applause grew louder, both sides of your families stood together, smiling widely, with Dorothea and Everlyn clapping the loudest and grinning from ear to ear. Even the Queen herself clapped.

Dearest Readers,

It is often said that life unfolds in ways we can neither predict nor control, and yet, as I sit here writing this letter, I find myself utterly grateful for every twist and turn that has brought me to this moment. Looking back, it is almost laughable how impossible this ending once seemed.

You may recall the scandal that rocked the ton when the grand wedding of my now husband and my younger sister was called off. A union arranged out of duty, one that was meant to solidify the Queen’s favor upon our family, ended in a whirlwind of whispers and raised brows. For weeks, the judgment was relentless, the whispers cutting as sharp as any blade. Yet amidst the chaos, the truth emerged: the Viscount’s heart did not belong to Everlyn. It belonged to me.

As for Everlyn, do not fret, dear reader, for she is more than happy and provided for by her husband who loves her as much as she loves him. She married the Queen's nephew, Prince Friedrich of Prussia. Familiar? Yes, he was the same prince that courted Dorothea before.

We endured much to reach this happy ending—disapproving matriarchs, cold stares in every ballroom, and the constant pressure of propriety. But somehow, we weathered it all. And now, as I write to you, I am no longer simply Miss Katherine Grace Sheffield. I am Viscountess Katherine Grace Bridgerton, wife to the man I never dreamed I could truly call my own, and mother to four extraordinary children who are the very embodiment of the love Atticus and I share.

Our eldest, Ethan Bridgerton II, bears the name of his grandfather, a tribute to the late Viscount who raised Atticus into the man he is today. Oliver, our second-born, is as calm and sweet as his father was in his youth, though I dare say he might surpass him in wit and charm. Elizabeth, our darling girl, has a quiet strength and curiosity that I recognize so well—it mirrors my own when I was her age. And finally, little Anna, our one-year-old bundle of joy, who has made this very letter a challenge to write as she wiggles on my lap, babbling with great determination while attempting to steal my quill.

As I glance up from my writing desk, Anna now points out toward the fields, her tiny fingers waving enthusiastically at the sight before us: Atticus is out there with Ethan, Oliver, and Elizabeth, teaching them the finer points of pall-mall. His laugh carries over the breeze, and the children’s delighted squeals fill the air as they chase after their father’s expert shots.

It is a scene I never dared to hope for, but one I cherish deeply. Through all the hardships, we found our way to each other, and though the road was anything but easy, the destination was worth every struggle.

I leave you now with this image, dearest reader, and the reassurance that even the most unconventional and scandalous of love stories can find their happy ending. And if you’ll excuse me, Anna is starting to fuss and tug at my hair.

—From Katherine Grace, Viscountess Bridgerton, to you.

[soulessien]

i never see positivity for us so: if you had bad grades, dropped out, or cheated your way through school i love you so much and you deserve the world <3

[soulessien]

my favorite thread here.

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Reblog this if you had to learn cursive writing as a child

If you were ever told or were made to learn cursive writing when you were in grade school. I wanna see how many of you suffered like I did.

[soulessien]

Thought this was a necessary measure because we all know that surge of clueless thirsty tiktok fans is gonna happen.

[soulessien]

what on earth just happened in here😭

when she says she doesn’t send nudes

[soulessien]

i wish there wasn’t such a stigmatized view on platonically loving people.

I can’t call people nicknames and pet names like hun and honey without them immediately assuming i have romantic interest in them.

i can’t tell my friends i love them without adding on “platonically” or shortening the phrase “ily” “love you” “love u”

i love a lot of people. i love my sister, i love my boyfriend, and i love my best friend. All different versions of love.

let us love people openly and honestly without it being seen as “making a move” or being romantically interested.

please please please stop assuming that love is strictly romantic, i promise you life becomes so much brighter and bigger when you stop keeping love strictly romantic.

[soulessien]

LEVIATHAN MY LOSER OTAKU KING😩🙌🏻💗😭😚

me when the fictional male character is a bit of an awkward loser

[soulessien]

“oh I’m too old for stuffed animals” skill issue. sorry you can’t appreciate little creatures made to hang out with you, I on the other hand am full of joyous whimsy and therefore vastly superior.

[soulessien]

This is my own kind of therapy

HOW HE WOULD SOUND MOANING JJK EDITION

mdni, nsfw audios : jjk men, headphones in, whimpering, cursing

TOJI : LINK

waking up near dawn all hot and bothered with his morning wood pressed against your ass, waking you up for a quickie by rutting against your ass. “c‘mon doll, make me feel good.” his rough morning voice was enough to have you pouncing on top of him, “atta fuckin’ girl, fuck me jus like that baby.” he ran his fingers through his hair, gusting out a shaky groan before placing his hands around your hips.

GOJO : LINK

doesn’t know how to control his vocals when bottoming out inside you, too dazed to even think straight as he’s only focus on cumming inside you. “nghh fuck, m‘so close! wanna cum inside, needa fill you up.” he whined, folding you into a mating-press as he moaned into your ear. “feels too good, baby.” satoru panted as he became much more sensitive, “gonna milk my dick dry, huh?” his lips curled into a lazy grin.

CHOSO : LINK

choso with his pathetic little whines as he lets you overstimulate him. chanting fucks, pleases and incoherent whine as he fucks up into your palm. “p-please baby, m‘so close my dick s‘gonna explode!” he whined with a shaky pants, leaking pre-cum all over your hand. edging him closer and closer to his orgasm as his stomach flexed, “i’ll be a good boy, swear.” he bit down on his bottom lip.

SUKUNA : LINK

he’s too tired to even care about how he sounds, all that matters to him is being inside your tight pussy. “so fuckin’ tight, angel.” his voice deeper and gruffer than usual, steadily entering into your cunt. “gonna take me all the way in like a good girl, yeah?” he taunted, burying his cock to the hilt. “ya feel me in there?” he grinned into your sweet spot, letting out a lustful chuckle.

NANAMI : LINK

him pounding into a fleshlight in thought of your warm pussy, fluttering around his length just overstimulating himself as he internally begs to be inside you. “f-fuckk, yeah.” his groan is almost close to a whimper as he thrusts into the tight hole of his fleshlight. “gonna fuck the real thing tonight.” he gritted through teeth, leaning back in his work chair. “needa cum deep inside.”

[soulessien]

Louder for the people at the back‼️

pov you’re a brain dead fanfic consumer and haven’t got an ounce of imagination

[soulessien]

I wanna suck his dick so hard that his stomach caves in like a Caprisun 🥰

[soulessien]

OHMYGODDDD

[soulessien]

[soulessien]