#Regency Tea Table

[thakefurniture]

Card Table, Tea Table - Elegant Regency mahogany D shaped tea table. Folding, crossbanded top with boxwood and ebony stringing, over a frieze with inlaid panels. Raised on reeded tapered legs.

[fushitoru]

chapter 6: the house party a bridgerton au

pairing ⸺ duke!satoru gojo x fem!reader

summary ⸺ dearest gentle reader, a new season is upon us as the ton gets ready for a season filled with drama, heartbreak, and passion. after being crowned diamond of the season, duke gojo⸺only looking to marry just to secure his inheritance⸺has his sights set on you, the easiest (and most obvious) option. later, when you catch his saying unsavory things about you on a terrace when he least suspected it, you swear to never marry gojo. as london's fashionable set goes through yet another wedding season, will there be hope for scandalous gossip, hate, and thinly veiled insults, or will we witness blooming love and passion?

warnings ⸺ nsfw, enemies to lovers, bridgerton au, angst, fluff, SUGGESTIVE, eventual smut, jealousy, misogyny, description of injury, concussion, blood, regency era au, gojo being infuriating, reader also being infuriating, both of them are clueless honestly

chapter summary ⸺ you are bedridden, recovering from your wound, when gojo delivers season-changing news. the house party that follows buzzes with tension, and an unexpected arrival that sends ripples through the ton (7.4k)

a/n thank you as always to the pooks @/sinn-clair for beta reading this <333 i'll see you after the chapter is over!

prev. the fall | next. the rebound

general masterlist | series masterlist

Gentle Reader,

One query occupies this Author's mind, be it ladies or mamas alike—what exactly are Miss Itadori and Lord Gojo up to in the countryside? Perhaps a trifling dalliance of hearts, or will the ton bear witness to a scandal uncovered when they arrive for the house party? After having arrived a week early—and positioned as the diamond of the season—one must guess that if all goes well and Miss Itadori plays her cards right, she will be showing off her new surely lavish diamond engagement ring. Yet, she must take great care, for to err in this delicate matter would be to jeopardize a most significant match with Lord Gojo. Only time shall tell the outcome of this intrigue.

⸻ LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS

Upon waking, the physician informed you that you had been unconscious for some days. Though no immediate danger threatened you, it had been long enough to send both families into a state of great disquiet. It seemed that even before you’d regained full awareness, a servant—who had gasped upon hearing your feeble request for water—had swiftly spread the news, for not a moment later Yuji burst into the room.

“SISTER!” he exclaims, hurtling his way towards you with heavy steps. You flinch in your position on the bed at the sound of his loud voice. “You are awake! Mama seemed like she would faint, Choso had almost popped a bloody vein, he looked like he was about to challenge Lord Gojo to a duel—”

“Yuji! My dear,” you had to shout, interrupting the boy’s ramblings, giving him an uneasy smile. “Lower your volume, please. I might faint back into unconsciousness due to the strain, and this time you will be the one dueling Choso.”

The pout Yuji adopts is akin to a chastened hound as he grabs a chair to sit next to you. You take this moment to surveil your surroundings, now with a clear headedness granted to you that hadn’t been granted before. There were fresh flowers adorning a vase on the table on your bedside, and you seemed to be wearing a shift, cleaned and changed out of your dirty and mud-ridden dress. There was a gauze surrounding your head, and you could feel some similar cloth on your ankle.

You turned to your brother. “Now then, what were you saying?”

He perks up. “Well, you’ve been in quite a state, dear sister! It’s not every day you’re injured before breaking fast. Choso practically spat his tea when he heard! And, of course, Duchess Gojo has been endlessly apologetic. Between Mama, Choso, and me, we’ve all been in quite a state. I daresay you’re hardly known for clumsiness—although you do have your moments on horseback.” At the memories seemingly pooling themselves in his mind, Yuji sniggers while you shoot him a look to not be testy. “And Gojo has been nothing short of attentive. No doubt the man’s come in to change your flowers more than the doctor’s visited you. He’s so caring, he even cares for a worm like you!��� 

You ignore Yuji’s jab, instead forcing yourself not to be gripped by the fact that Gojo had been so…attentive to you. Of course, it was as an indirect result of his sheer vexing nature that you were bedridden in such a manner, so it should not set your heart aflutter like a foolish girl. But your traitorous heart seems to hate listening to reason. 

You begin to nod slowly. “And how many days have I been out? When is the house party?” Taking a gander at the windows in the room you were situated in, you could see the moon and star’s light filtering the curtains. You weren’t sure if it was the evening or night or completely early in the morning.

He looks up to the ceiling, as if calculating something, brows furrowed. “Today.”

Groaning, you put your head in your hands, playing with your hair as it falls through the gaps of your fingers. “Mother is going to kill me.”

“Oh, indeed,” Yuji replied with a hum, stretching his arms in a cat-like yawn. “Now, I must get back to my rest. The servants were gossiping near my door, so I thought I’d see for myself that you weren’t dead.” He kissed you on the cheek before heading to the door. “Sleep, sister, for I expect Mama will tire you endlessly come morning.”

Later, a gentle nudge at your arm and a few soft “Miss! Wake up!”’s roused you from sleep. You opened your eyes to find a maid hunched over you, relief clear in her expression as you met her gaze with a drowsy squint. “Miss, Lord Gojo requests your presence. May I allow him in?”

With a nod, you fought off your annoyance at having been disturbed. The maid, visibly flustered, hurried to admit Gojo, who soon approached with quiet footsteps. As you propped yourself up, arms crossed, you gave him a mildly reproachful look. “Gojo, you’ve roused me from my slumber. I trust this is a matter of utmost importance—-” you began, then trailed off as you took in his expression.

He was taut, as though his very sinews were wound tight. Standing rigidly, his jaw clenched, his gaze flitted everywhere but to you. Troubled, you tried, “Gojo?”

At the sound of his name, he looked sharply at you and seemed to gather himself. “Ah… forgive me.” He took a seat and smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes, artificial. “How is your recovery?” You eye him suspiciously. His leg is moving up and down anxiously, the action minute in a way that makes you think he’s not aware of doing it. The tight and strained smile on his face seems uncanny, his concern seeming out of place. “Well, as much as it can be for me bleeding out pints and pints of blood from my head,” at that, you note that he subtly flinches, “but all is well!” You spread out your arms and give him a dazzling smile, and his eyes follow. “I’m sure my mama and my maid are itching to rush in here to prepare me for the house party.” Giving him a playful glare, you continue, “And just for the pain you caused me, you ought to have two dances and a few pastries prepared tonight.”

At that, he looks at you for a quick glance before quickly turning away, seemingly collecting himself. In what you could observe in his previous expression, you were surprised to see yearning present in his blue eyes, filled with feelings that perplexed you. Gojo was acting very odd.

Then, he drew in a measured breath, his jaw clenched as if bracing himself for what he was about to say. He finally looked at you, a shadowed intensity in his gaze that made your heart beat faster—not in the way it used to when his eyes sparked with wit, but with a sense of foreboding.

"Miss Itadori," he began, his voice lower, lacking the familiar, teasing cadence. "I must apologize for the trouble I have brought upon you. I was… heedless, perhaps even reckless, and it seems I have caused you nothing but suffering."

You frowned, confusion beginning to bubble beneath the surface as he paused, clearly struggling to continue. He seemed almost pitiable, looking down at his hands, which were tightly woven together, his knuckles pale. But pity was not a feeling you had patience for. Not now. Not with Gojo of all people.

"Trouble?" you repeated, folding your arms. "I do believe that's an understatement, my lord. A mere misstep, surely?"

His eyes flicked back to yours, the corner of his mouth tugging in a grim semblance of a smile. "Understatement or not, it remains the truth," he replied, his voice nearly a murmur. "I cannot in good conscience continue this… attachment we have formed. The position of courtship our mamas have placed us in. For I fear it is you who stands to lose most dearly if I remain by your side."

You stiffened, his words crashing over you like a cold wave. "Attachment?" you said, bitterness coloring the word. "Do not dress it up with such kind words, Lord Gojo. An attachment is something formed with care, with respect—qualities you seem to find inconvenient."

He winced but did not break eye contact. "I will not argue with you," he said softly, voice steady in its regret. "Perhaps I am no master of attachments, nor have I ever claimed to be. But know that I had never wished to see you harmed—"

"Harmed?" you interrupted, your voice growing louder as anger swelled within you. "Is this some twisted apology, then? A show of remorse for the inconvenience of your whims?"

Gojo opened his mouth to respond, but you did not allow him the chance.

"How very noble of you, Lord Gojo," you continued, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "After all this time, to simply say, 'Forgive me; I shall now remove myself from your life,' as if that makes up for the chaos you’ve brought upon me? As if I am but a pawn to be moved at your discretion?"

His face softened slightly, as if he were seeing something in you he hadn't fully expected—a quiet resolve beneath your anger, a dignity that refused to be bruised. "No, Miss Itadori," he said quietly. "I do not wish to see you as a pawn. After all, from what I understand is that you do not know what you desire—and I would only be exploiting that. I only… I only wish to relieve you of the burdens I seem to bring."

You laughed, the sound bitter and laced with fury. "Know what I want? As if you do, dropping pretenses with commoners and putting on your mask for the ton. And relieve me? I don’t think you understand what it is you’ve done, Gojo."

This conversation was dangerous. The emotions you hid under the air of nonchalance were steadily bubbling up, and it seemed that now, your sentiments were threatening to boil over at the sheer audacity of Gojo breaking off this arrangement, of what the ton would think today if he were to be avoiding you like the plague.

He flinched at the sound of his name on your lips, spoken with such venom. A muscle in his jaw ticked, but he made no move to respond, simply watched as you gathered your thoughts, your gaze piercing.

"All this time," you said, each word sharper than the last, "I was led to believe there was something more to your attentions. And now, you simply wash your hands of it? You think yourself a gentleman for doing so?"

"Miss Itadori," he said, his voice strained. "I am—"

"You are a coward," you spat, and his eyes widened, the faintest hint of pain flashing in their depths. "Yes, that’s right. A coward, for trying to protect yourself under the guise of protecting me. All this talk of 'relieving me'—do not act as if your decision was made out of kindness." (a/n: OH NO SHE DIDNTTTTT)

"Do you not understand?" he interjected, a sudden fierceness in his voice, his composure beginning to slip. "This is not some petty whim, nor a game. My intentions… they were never meant to bring you harm, but they did. And I cannot bear to see it continue."

"Bear to see it continue?" you repeated incredulously. "Do you think I am some doll, some trifle to discard at your convenience?"

"That was never my intent!" he exclaimed, voice rising in frustration. "If you would but see reason—"

"Reason? From you?" you laughed bitterly, barely able to contain the fury welling up inside you. "Your idea of reason is nothing more than self-preservation, Lord Gojo. How convenient it must be to absolve yourself of guilt by deciding I am better off without you."

He fell silent, the anger in his face ebbing, replaced by a kind of desperation. "You do not understand," he said, quieter, almost pleading. "If I were to stay… if I were to court you in earnest, it would not be the life you think it to be."

"Then let that be my choice to make," you shot back, crossing your arms. "But no—this is not about my well-being, not truly. It is about you, Gojo. It has always been about you."

A tense silence stretched between you, filled only by the soft, uneven breaths that escaped both of you. For a moment, neither dared to speak, both caught in the tangled emotions that hung thick in the air.

Finally, Gojo looked down, his eyes shuttered, his voice weary. "Then hate me, if you must. But I am done with this charade."

"Hate you?" you repeated, the word tasting strange on your tongue. "No, Lord Gojo. Hatred would imply I care enough to feel anything toward you."

Your entire body seethed with fury, every muscle trembling with the strain of keeping yourself upright, sitting on your bed. You couldn't storm out—not with your wounded leg refusing to bear even a fraction of the anger swelling within you. Instead, you pushed yourself up on shaking arms, glaring at him with such venom that he instinctively stepped back.

"Get out," you spat, the words laced with ice, your voice rising as if to fill the entire room. "Out! Now, Gojo—leave me this instant!"

He froze, his shoulders tense as he looked at you with something unreadable, but he made no move toward the door.

"I said leave!" you shrieked—your voice shrill—the strain of it making you nearly lose balance, but you didn't care. Hot tears stung your eyes, and you bit them back, forcing yourself to breathe through the betrayal clawing at your chest. "Take your false apologies, your noble pretensions, and get out of my sight. Go, and never, ever darken my door again."

His mouth opened, as if he might say something—perhaps even something that might soothe the jagged edges of your heart. But your furious gaze dared him to try.

With a pained expression, he finally gave a nod, stepping back toward the door. He lingered for a moment, one last helpless look crossing his face before he turned away, leaving without another word.

The door clicked shut, and you were left alone, shaking with fury, your breath ragged. Your eyes were still on that door, your heart racing, as though expecting him to come back, to take it all back, to be the man you'd witnessed yesterday. But deep down, you knew he would not return.

The first glimmers of morning filtered through the heavy drapes as you stirred awake, still dazed from the events that had left you bedridden. The memories of Gojo’s departure settled heavily on your chest, like a stone dropped in a lake, rippling outward and disturbing any possibility of calm. Your mind drifted over the previous night’s argument, replaying words, and then, with a cringe, the heated moments where you felt every last ounce of self-restraint slip from your grasp.

A small part of you reasoned that you may have been rash—that your anger and hurt had overtaken good sense. After all, it was you who deemed your and Gojo’s match impossible. So why were you so hurt?

Before you could linger on these thoughts, there was a soft knock at your door. 

"Come in," you murmured, propping yourself up gingerly.

What followed soft footsteps was Choso, his gaze warm and steady as he entered, carrying the ease of familiarity that only he could. As he approached, he pulled a chair beside your bed and gave a faint smile.

Choso stepped in quietly, his face softened by a rare smile as he approached. “Awake at last,” he said gently, taking a seat beside you with the care one might afford a delicate flower. "I was beginning to think you'd sleep through the entire house party."

He reached out, his hand resting on the crown of your head, fingers slipping through your hair in a soothing rhythm. The fondness in his touch eased the last of the stiffness in your frame, a balm against the soreness both physical and emotional.

“You worry too much,” you muttered, allowing yourself to lean into the comfort he offered, your voice softening as his hand continued to gently scratch at your scalp.

“You look better today,” he said softly, continuing his familiar, soothing rhythm with his fingers. “Though, I’ll admit, you gave us all quite a scare.”

You managed a small smile, feeling the tension in your shoulders ease slightly under his touch. “I suppose I was overdue for a bit of excitement,” you murmured, though the attempt at levity felt thin, even to your own ears.

Choso’s hand stilled momentarily, and his gaze grew searching as he looked at you. “What truly happened yesterday?” he asked, his voice low with concern. “There’s more here than an unfortunate fall, isn’t there?”

You stiffened slightly, glancing away from him. “It was nothing,” you replied, willing your tone to sound convincing. “Just… an ill-timed accident. Nothing to concern yourself with.”

But Choso was not so easily deterred. He watched you closely, his brow furrowing with worry. “You’ve always been a poor liar, sister,” he murmured. “If something happened, you know you can tell me. I only want to understand.”

The quiet earnestness in his tone gnawed at you, and for a moment, you considered confiding in him. But the idea of revisiting last night’s turmoil felt too raw, too immediate. “I’m fine, truly,” you insisted, meeting his gaze with as much steadiness as you could muster. “It was… nothing that can’t be mended with rest.”

Choso’s gaze lingered on you, his fingers resuming their gentle tracing along your scalp as if that alone could soothe whatever burden you were carrying. “Well,” he finally said, his tone filled with fond exasperation, “I won’t press you. But I trust you’ll speak of it when you feel you are ready.”

You gave a slight nod, grateful for his restraint. The quiet between you was comforting, grounding, as he continued his rhythmic motions, easing your thoughts in a way that words could not.

After a long moment, he broke the silence again, his tone lighter this time. “On a more cheerful note,” he began, a faint smile playing on his lips, “you’ll have another visitor tomorrow.”

“Oh?” you asked, raising an eyebrow, though a part of you already guessed who he meant.

“Yes,” he confirmed, a knowing glint in his eye. “Sukuna received word of your injury and set off at once. He’ll be here by morning.”

You let out a small breath, a mixture of relief and trepidation filling you. “Tomorrow, then,” you repeated, feeling a hint of warmth at the thought. “It seems my brothers cannot resist making a fuss.”

Choso chuckled, squeezing your hand gently. “It’s what we’re here for. And perhaps Sukuna’s presence will help you feel a bit more at ease during the house party. He’ll see to it that no one bothers you unduly.”

You couldn’t help but smile at that, the thought of Sukuna’s reassuring, if overbearing, presence lifting your spirits slightly. “Well, at least there’s that to look forward to,” you murmured, and, with a soft sigh, leaned back against your pillows, letting Choso’s calming presence ease the lingering shadows of last night’s ordeal, even if temporary.

For you had a beast of a social gathering to deal with today, the same one where the ton would descend upon the outcome of your match, ready to laugh at you: the house party.

“He what?” 

You flinched, scowling as you clutched your ears. Nobara’s shrill voice was not helping your recovery, nor were her rough combs through your hair; but alas, beauty has a price, and it’s one you’re reluctantly willing to pay. You oh-so terribly wanted to politely decline the formal invitation, but it seemed that the moment you woke, your mother was dead set on getting you ready for what she thought was your engagement party. Little did she know that her not so future in law had gotten rid of you as if you were a stray animal latched onto him, but who were you to burst her bubble?

Perhaps you ought to dread the inevitable fallout from your mother when the truth emerged, but you consoled yourself with the thought of drowning your sorrows in champagne tonight, delaying her wrath for at least a little while. Besides, the prospect of Sukuna’s impending arrival tomorrow brought you some comfort; his unruly nature often served as a distraction from your own troubles.

You sighed heavily, meeting Nobara’s furious gaze in the mirror. “He merely said he wished to absolve me of any trouble he had caused.”

“Good riddance!” Nobara shrieked, her hand furiously waving around the hair brush in a way that made you wary, for it would not be pleasant for it to make contact with your already tender head.  “He was never the one for you to pursue, for he lacks the honor of a true gentleman! And yet—oh, heavens!” She gestured at you accusingly with the brush, her tone turning sharp. “Why, pray, do you appear so disheartened?”

You open your mouth immediately, indignant and expecting your wit, your usual ally, to conjure a response for you, only to be left open-mouthed when it came up short. Nobara seemed to sense your hesitance, opening her mouth to unleash yet another accusatory and reprimanding remark, but you quickly moved to fill your silence. “I suppose I am just…offended that he dare reject me, the diamond. The ton will seize upon this dissolution with glee. They shall revel in my supposed failure, for it will be indicative of my failure to the Queen.”

Nobara arched a brow, her skeptical silence speaking volumes. She clearly wasn’t convinced, and before she could level another charge against you, a knock sounded at the door.

“Sister, are you decent?”

“Enter, Choso,” you called out, hastily adjusting the neckline of your pale pink gown and straightening the strand of pearls around your neck.

Nobara opened the door, though she made no attempt to soften her posture. The hairbrush remained firmly in her grasp, poised like a weapon, and Choso cast it a wary glance as he stepped inside. His presence brought a sense of calm, even as his expression betrayed some inner turmoil. He hesitated for a moment before moving to sit at the edge of your vanity, his gaze flickering between you and Nobara.

You narrowed your eyes, suspicious of his silence. “Well, brother? Out with it,” you urged, though your voice lacked its usual sharpness.

He sighed, clearly reluctant. “Very well,” he began. “Pray, hear me out. You know I have never hidden my disapproval of Lord Gojo.” At the sound of that name, you flinched, though you quickly masked it with a curt nod. Choso continued nonetheless, his tone steady but earnest. “In light of recent events, I have taken it upon myself to form…a contingency plan of sorts.”

Your curiosity was piqued, though Nobara snapped at you to sit still as she continued combing through your hair. “Go on,” you said, trying to sound nonchalant.

Choso leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering as though to ensure Nobara wouldn’t interrupt. “I have had the pleasure of conversing at length with Duke Nanami.”

You arched a brow, intrigued despite yourself. “The Duke Nanami?”

“Yes,” Choso confirmed. “He is an esteemed gentleman of considerable character, and, as fortune would have it, he is not currently pursuing anyone this season.”

Your lips parted, but no words came. Choso’s intent was clear, and the weight of his proposition settled over you like an unexpected storm. Nobara, meanwhile, had stilled entirely, her hairbrush forgotten in her hand as she turned to gawk at your brother.

“Is this,” she began, her voice disbelieving, “your solution to Gojo’s appalling behavior? To thrust her into the path of another?”

Choso shrugged, unbothered by her skepticism. “A better match by far, I would argue. The Duke has no such inclinations to trifling or dishonor.”

You sighed, leaning back as the tension in the room thickened. “And what makes you so certain the Duke would even entertain such an arrangement?” you asked, your voice tinged with a weariness you hadn’t intended to show.

Choso gave you a small smile, his hand reaching out to pat your shoulder. “Leave that to me, dear sister. For now, focus on enduring tonight’s ordeal. Tomorrow, you may take comfort in Sukuna’s arrival—and in the knowledge that your prospects are not as grim as they seem.”

You exhaled, unsure whether to feel gratitude or exasperation, as Choso rose from his seat. Whatever plans he had in motion, they would unfold in time. For now, you could only prepare yourself for the chaos that awaited.

Gojo had outdone himself. Truly, magnificently outdone himself.

From the moment you entered the house, your hand resting lightly on Choso’s arm, the stares began. They weren’t the polite glances reserved for new arrivals at such gatherings—these were sharp, lingering, and accompanied by a cacophony of whispers that only heightened your unease.

You straightened your back, chin held high, determined not to give any of them the satisfaction of seeing your discomfort. But it was impossible to ignore the way every eye seemed to follow you, every head turned to observe as you passed. Whatever it was that had stirred this interest, you were certain Gojo was at the heart of it.

Feeling the oppressive smog of stares, you knew where you could find solace: the drinks table, where you could down a flute of champagne alongside your stress. And right as you excuse yourself from Choso’s hold, who is now looking in the general direction of some men—particularly a gaggle of men that included Lord Geto and Duke Nanami, who were looking at something in the direction of the dance floor with interest. As you walk, you take in the scene: a beautiful chandelier, and red drapings and coverings embellished with gold, a bloody alternative to the Gojo icy blue. You’re not sure why today’s ensemble of colors didn’t include blue, but you believe it is fitting for what’s going to happen to you after this party is over and your mother finds out about the elephant in the room. 

And as you glance longingly at the couples gliding across the floor, their movements synchronized with the lilting strains of the orchestra, your breath catches.

It is then that you see him.

Gojo Satoru is spinning a girl across the dance floor, his coat tails trailing like ribbons in the air. His lips move as he speaks, the tilt of his head paired with that too-familiar smirk. His partner laughs at something he’s said, a soft sound that reaches you even from this distance. You could almost identify her—there is no debutante in the ton you have not cataloged, no rival whose dossier you do not possess—but tonight, it does not matter. She is just a blur of chiffon and curls, another face in a sea of women enthralled by him.

Your chest tightens as you take in the scene, a memory unspooling unbidden.

Is this what your first dance with Gojo had looked like to others? Did you appear as enraptured as this girl, your steps as confident and sure beneath his lead? You remember his light touch at your back, his questions whispered so quietly you doubted even the orchestra could eavesdrop, his eyes full of a charm so practiced it felt like a spell cast just for you.

And yet now, the spell is broken.

He is steering her—steering everything—with such ease that it almost makes you laugh. Were he not so infuriating, you might have admired his grace, the way he seamlessly dominates both the conversation and the dance. His amusement is evident in the quirk of his brow, the corners of his mouth curling with every word she utters, no doubt answering his questions with meek enthusiasm.

She is simple. You can tell from the way he looks at her, the way he pauses before replying as if translating his own thoughts into something digestible for her. The way she beams at him—unaware of how deeply he calculates every move—is almost endearing. Almost.

He is drawing the same conclusions he did of you. Simple, lacking substance. 

The thought leaves a sour taste in your mouth. 

But then the girl laughs again, a little too loud, and Gojo’s expression flickers for just a second—long enough for you to notice. His smile tightens, his gaze sliding briefly across the room as though searching for something more stimulating. It is instinctual, this glance, and his head tilts in such a way that you know it will land on you if you linger a moment longer.

Your heart stutters in protest, your legs already moving.

Punch table. Right.

As you near it, you grab the closest drink and down it one sip, desperate for the cool of the liquid to calm both your throat and your heated mind, furious with thoughts and anxiety of those around you. And it was just as you begin to set down the cool glass that  in your periphery comes the man who soon tests your resolve.

“Miss Itadori,” a voice drawled behind you, the unmistakable lilt of smugness weaving through it.

You turned, and there stood Naoya Zen’in, his grin as unctuous as ever. He bowed slightly, though the gesture felt more like mockery than courtesy. “I must say, you are positively radiant tonight.”

You inclined your head ever so slightly, each movement deliberate. “Mr. Zen’in. How kind of you to say.”

He grinned, and the sight was unsettling, a serpent preparing to strike. “Radiant, yes. A pity Lord Gojo has finally come to his senses and moved on. I thought the two of you might actually prove interesting.”

Your stomach churned, but you kept your expression serene. “I fail to see how my affairs are of interest to you, Mr. Zen’in.”

“Oh, but they are,” he said, stepping closer, his voice lowering as though he were sharing a confidant’s secret. “Everyone is watching, you know. Wondering why Lord Gojo is…otherwise occupied tonight.” He tilted his head, motioning discreetly toward the mantle, a few meters away, where Gojo stood, entertaining and welcoming another lady.

Your eyes betrayed you, flicking briefly in that direction. Gojo’s figure remained in your periphery, still close enough to notice but far enough to be unattainable. You tore your gaze away, unwilling to feed Naoya’s glee.

Naoya leaned in, his tone growing more audacious. “Quite the spectacle, wouldn’t you agree? Though perhaps it’s for the best. You have much to offer, Miss Itadori—breeding hips, for one.”

The words hit you like a slap, your mind reeling in fury and disbelief. Your breath hitched, but before you could muster a scathing retort, something else caught your attention.

Gojo’s hand, resting casually against the column, tightened into a fist. The movement was subtle, but unmistakable—a barely contained tension that you might have missed if you weren’t already attuned to his every breath, his every twitch.

Still, you refused to look directly at him. Whatever he felt, it mattered not.

“Mr. Zen’in,” you began, voice icy and measured, though the rage burned beneath the surface, “your comments are as inappropriate as they are unwelcome. I suggest—”

“Sister.”

Choso’s voice interrupted like a lifeline thrown to a drowning sailor. You turned to see your older brother approaching, his expression calm but his eyes sharp as they darted between you and Naoya. He came to your side, his imposing presence creating an impenetrable wall between you and the unwelcome intruder.

“Mr. Zen’in,” Choso greeted with a curt nod, his tone laced with a warning. “I trust you’ll excuse my sister. She and I were just about to take a turn about the room.”

Naoya’s grin faltered, but he recovered quickly, stepping back with a mocking bow. “Of course. Do enjoy your evening.”

Choso wasted no time, offering his arm to you. You took it gratefully, your legs unsteady as he guided you away from the scene and toward a quieter corner of the ballroom.

“Are you all right?” he asked softly, his voice gentle but firm, as though bracing himself for a truth he might not like.

You nodded, though the words escaped you. Your hands trembled slightly, and Choso placed his over yours, steadying you. “I saw the way you looked,” he murmured, his voice quieter now. “At Lord Gojo.”

Your breath caught, but you said nothing, focusing instead on the steady rhythm of your brother’s steps.

“Whatever he’s done—or hasn’t done—you are worth far more than his regard,” Choso continued, his tone resolute. “Do not forget that.” A pause. “Are you all right, Sister?”

“I am fine,” you lied, though your trembling hands betrayed you.

The evening only worsened from there.

More and more, you felt the weight of curious glances, the whispers growing louder as the night wore on. The absence of Gojo’s attention did not go unnoticed—least of all by your mother, who approached you and Choso with a determined expression, her fan snapping shut with a sharp flick of her wrist.

The warmth of the ballroom’s lights could not thaw the ice that slipped down your spine as your mother approached. Her movements were poised as ever, but the tightness in her lips and the fury barely hidden in her eyes told you everything. She stopped just short of you, her fan snapping shut with a sharp click that made you flinch.

“Explain,” she hissed, her voice low enough to avoid drawing the attention of onlookers but sharp enough to carve into you.

Your breath caught in your throat. You glanced towards Choso for reinforcement, but his furrowed brow and subtle shake of his head told you he would not intervene—not yet.

“I… don’t understand, Mother,” you murmured, though the words tasted hollow even as you said them.

“Do not toy with me, child,” she snapped, her tone still hushed but more cutting. “The entire room is whispering. Where is Lord Gojo? Why has he not so much as glanced in your direction tonight? Why is he—” Her eyes darted to the waltz floor, where Gojo had just excused himself from yet another partner. “Why is he dancing with others while you stand here like a forgotten debutante?”

The words hit like a slap, and you flinched again, your gaze falling to your gloved hands. You wanted to speak, to explain, but the lump in your throat grew larger with every second.

Her voice softened but grew no less fierce. “What have you done?”

Your chest tightened, and for a fleeting moment, you considered telling her everything—about the garden, about Gojo’s words, about how utterly humiliated you had felt. But then the heat of the ballroom pressed down on you, the glances from curious onlookers prickling your skin like needles.

You couldn’t. Not here.

So, you said nothing.

The silence between you stretched thin, your mother’s patience fraying with every passing moment. Finally, she straightened, her lips pressed into a pale line. “This is how you repay all that has been done for you?” she whispered, her voice trembling with restrained fury. “Do you even comprehend what this will do to your prospects? To this family? You have disgraced yourself, and worse—you have disgraced me.”

Her words left you hollow, the guilt settling into the spaces where indignation might have taken root. Still, you could not look up, nor could you summon any defense.

Your mother’s fan snapped open again with a sharp flick, the motion more violent than graceful. “We are leaving,” she declared, turning abruptly on her heel. “Now.”

Choso stepped closer, his hand brushing lightly against your elbow as if to steady you. You dared a glance at him, finding his gaze steady and quietly supportive. It was only his presence that kept your legs moving as you followed your mother toward the grand doors.

The weight of the room’s collective gaze bore down on you with every step. The music swelled in the background, mocking you with its cheerfulness. As you neared the exit, your feet faltered.

And then you saw him.

Gojo.

He stood near the edge of the dance floor, his posture uncharacteristically tense, his jaw clenched tightly, his usual easy confidence dimmed. His head tilted slightly, his eyes cutting through the crowd to meet yours.

Your breath hitched. In his gaze, you saw regret—yearning, even—and something else you couldn’t quite name.

But it didn’t matter.

You tore your eyes away, your jaw tightening as a steely resolve settled over you.

You would not break.

Not here. Not now. Not for him.

As you stepped into the cool night air, you drew in a deep breath, willing the ache in your chest to dissipate. Gojo Satoru had taken enough from you. Your heart, your dignity—no more.

If he thought you would crumble, he was mistaken.

He would regret this, you vowed silently.

And you would make certain of it.

The morning that came in a few days was no less disheartening than the night of the house party. The morning sun filtered weakly through the gauzy curtains of the drawing room, casting pale, lackluster patterns on the carpet. Even the sunlight seemed hesitant, as if it knew it had no place in the solemn atmosphere that hung over your family.

Even Yuji was solemn as you all sipped on your tea, the drawing room oddly quiet as you reflected in the aftermath of the past few days. The events of the house party still loomed over you. Your family’s hasty departure had been punctuated by the sight of your mother in whispered conversation with Duchess Gojo, their faces tight with the bitterness of dashed expectations. You had no doubt they had commiserated over your perceived recklessness and Gojo’s insolence, lamenting how the perfect match they had orchestrated had unraveled before their very eyes.

You had borne it all in silence.

But now, in the cold light of morning, your resolve felt brittle.

Your hands tightened around your teacup as you stared into the amber liquid, your reflection rippling with each shallow breath you took. Independence? That word felt hollow. You had fought for it, yes, but at what cost? The ton’s whispers had already begun. You could feel their weight pressing on you, suffocating in their judgment. The laughter and speculation at your expense would echo through parlors and ballrooms for weeks, if not months.

And yet, deep down, there was a spark of defiance. They thought this was your undoing. They thought you would crumble. But they had no idea.

"Why does it feel like we’re mourning?" Yuji muttered, breaking the silence. His voice was quiet, but the sarcasm was unmistakable. "It’s not as though anyone has died."

Your mother’s sigh this time was louder, sharper, and followed by a pointed glance in his direction. “Yuji, do not jest,” she snapped. "This is no laughing matter."

Choso, who had been reclining with one arm draped lazily over the armrest of his chair, sat up straighter. “Mother,” he said cautiously, his voice soft but steady, “I think it’s time we address what’s truly troubling you.”

Her handkerchief stilled in her lap. For a moment, the room was silent again, the tension thick enough to choke on.

“Troubling me?” she repeated, her tone icy. “You think I am troubled, Choso?”

“Everyone is troubled,” Choso replied, his gaze flicking briefly to you. "But perhaps if you said what’s on your mind, we could all breathe a little easier."

Your mother’s lips thinned as she sat up straighter, her shoulders stiff. “Very well,” she said sharply, “if you must know, I am ashamed.”

The word hit you like a slap, even though you had expected it. You gritted your teeth, staring down at your tea to hide the flush of anger and embarrassment creeping up your neck.

“Ashamed of what?” you asked quietly, your voice tighter than you intended.

“Of you,” she replied without hesitation. “Of the scandal you have brought upon this family. Do you think your actions have no consequences? Do you think the ton will simply overlook your…” She hesitated, clearly searching for the most cutting word. “Your antics with Lord Gojo?”

You felt Choso stiffen beside you, his protective instincts clearly flaring, but you held up a hand to stop him. You wouldn’t hide behind your brothers—not this time.

“I have done nothing wrong,” you said, your voice low but firm. “Gojo and I made a mutual decision that we were incompatible. We—”

“You humiliated yourself!” she interrupted, her voice rising. “And by extension, this family. Do you think people are speaking of him? No! It is you they ridicule. It is your name they sully.”

Your chest burned with anger and hurt, but before you could retort, Yuji shifted uncomfortably, muttering, “This is getting out of hand…”

“You think I care about their opinions?” you snapped, finally lifting your gaze to meet your mother’s. “The ton has always been cruel. They would find a reason to gossip no matter what I did. I refuse to live my life pandering to their expectations—”

“And look where that refusal has left you,” your mother interrupted, her voice shaking with fury. “Unmarried. Ruined. Who will have you now?”

You flinched, the words cutting deeper than you thought possible. Your lips parted, but no words came out. What could you possibly say to that?

The silence that followed was deafening.

Until a voice, smooth and amused, broke it.

“Now, now, Mother. I know you’ve always had a flair for the dramatic, but let us not turn your theatrics onto our dearest sister.”

All heads turned toward the entrance, where a figure lounged against the doorway, his presence commanding without even trying. There he stood—Sukuna, your brother, looking entirely too pleased with himself for someone who had kept you waiting for days. Both you and Yuji involuntarily gasped in excitement, while Choso only shook his head in amusement and crossed his arms.

He strode into the room with an air of nonchalance, his tailored attire immaculate, his smile one of mocking amusement. His gaze flicked to your mother, then to you, lingering for a moment as if to appraise the damage left in her wake.

“Good morning,” he said smoothly, the corners of his mouth curling. “I trust I’ve arrived in time to save you from a most tiresome sermon.”

Your mother bristled, but her voice faltered, her ire now redirected. “Sukuna, this is hardly the time for your irreverence—”

“And yet here I am,” he interrupted, dropping into a chair with the kind of ease that only Sukuna could muster. He leaned back, his sharp gaze softening just slightly as it fell on you. “I thought you might appreciate a reprieve. You seem to have had enough lectures for a lifetime.”

You could feel tears welling in your eyes. You had severely underestimated how much you missed your elder brother, seeing his presence stir a fondness and comfort you hadn’t felt ever since he left for Europe. And it seemed that your brothers shared your sentiment; Yuji was basically on his haunches, doing everything he could not to leave his chair to tackle Sukuna, and Choso barely holding in an amused smile. 

“Still causing chaos wherever you go, I see,” Choso said dryly, though there was no malice in his tone.

Sukuna smirked. “Someone has to keep things interesting.”

Your mother huffed, her lips pressing into a thin line as she rose from her seat. “I refuse to be made a fool in my own home. Sukuna, do try not to corrupt your siblings further while I attend to matters of actual importance.” She swept out of the room with her usual imperious grace, leaving a silence in her wake.

As soon as she left, you left your chair to basically jumping on him, hugging him tightly as he reciprocated your hug with wrapping his big arms around yours with equal fervor. “Kuna,” you whispered, burying your face into his chest as the tears started flowing. His presence surrounded you, offering you a comfort and familiarity that the eventful weeks, ever since your debut, hadn’t offered

Sukuna looked down to you with a raised brow as he patted your head affectionately. “Well, that was entertaining. Now, who’s going to tell me what truly happened while I was gone?”

prev. the fall | next. the rebound

general masterlist | series masterlist

a/n hi everyone!!! so i lied and said the update wasn't gonna take as long #womaninmalefields BUT thank you for your patience <3

so uh....we are now gonna enter the arc with DRAMAA. there will be yearning, there will be angst, and soon after, there will be fluff. idk if anyone needs to hear this, but, again, this series will have a happy ending. if anyone is sad, don't worry. i'm going to make gojo grovel <3

SUKUNA IS BACK SUKUNA IS BACK what do we think?! spoiler alert this is what sukuna will wanna do to gojo after reader spills the tea

THANK U FOR READING!!! rest assured reader a BADDIE there will be some showing ankles and lowering bustlines to start our reputation era and infuriate gojo but u didnt hear that from me !!!

comment and reblog to let me know ur thots ;3

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@extremelyexh4usted @yoshisaurmuchakoopas @nixiepixee @generalstephkenobi @vernasce-blogs

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@soobssedwithyourex @manyno @samkysnks @stefnarda @bbqsauceonmytitties2

[w1ll0wray]

hear me out, jinx X f!reader in a bridgerton like au.

where jinx is like the rebellious daughter/ward of a noble and she never really attends balls until she's forced to go in this one with her dad (preferably silco!) and in this ball she sees/meets reader who's so elegant, poised, and composed, like an absolute belladonna. jinx just falls for her and she ends up attending practically every ball that reader attends just to see her. but at some point, reader notices and confronts her about it.

pls :3

THE CHERRY ON TOP ft. bridgerton au jinx x fem!reader

⊹₊⟡⋆ summary: to her dismay, the rebellious jinx is suddenly forced by her father, Silco, to attend the first Winter ball in order to show herself in society. though, when she catches a glimpse of you there, she can’t help but attend every ball hosted this season.

⊹₊⟡⋆warnings: dom!jinx x sub!femreader, bridgerton au, dukes daughter!jinx x marquis daughter!reader, rebellious daughter!jinx, carriage, cherry, fingering, reader!receiving, other characters mentioned, men or minors dni, smut, regency era.

wc. 2.9k

𐙚 note | I’d really appreciate it if you would not only just like, but also reblog & give me feedback. thank you:)

this was a request; I hope this reached your expectations!

“You will be attending the Winter ball with me tonight.” 

Jinx’s head snapped up from her breakfast, Her fork remains stuck in the chocolate-drizzled waffle, hand frozen in place as she pauses. 

“I will not.” She spouts out, shooting daggers at Silco’s face, his attention on the newspaper sprawled out in front of him. Jinx swallowed down her breakfast, sitting up from her seat at the dinner table, taking furious steps towards him. 

Banging a fist on the table, he doesn’t flinch at her attempt to spook him, rather amused, “You need to make an appearance again— you’re the duke’s daughter after all.” He hummed out the last part, sipping on his tea. She groans dramatically, rolling her eyes, “It’s not like you’d need me there.” 

“You’re of age. Who knows, you might meet some intriguing ladies.” He noticed the way she tensed up at the mention of girls, patting himself in the back for figuring out her secret. Jinx crossed her arms, hmphing, “Fine, but I’m not wearing a dress.” 

Silco shrugged, waving a hand in the air, 

“I’ll let you borrow from my closet.” Once Jinx left the dining room, he smiled at his victory, assured that his daughter wouldn’t be in a bar again. 

Jinx was irritated. 

The last time she attended a ball— she was so disinterested, to the point where they had to leave because she scared off the host’s son. Chuckling at the memory, Jinx’s joyful moment ended in a split second, the sound of violins bringing her back to reality.

To be exact, the ball was a bore. She stood next to the drink stands, the lemonade stinging her throat. She knew who would be at this ball—she was staring right at her. 

Her sister. 

Arms intertwined with her wife, Vi was greeting another couple, a toothy grin curved on her lips. Jinx huffed, frustrated by her sister’s presence. They grew distant after the wedding, Vi naturally occupied with her new life. Jinx envied the fact that she found her partner for life, the sight of them acting all lovey-dovey prompted her to look away. 

Regretfully, she’d been seen. 

“Powder!” Of course, only Vi would call her by that name. Jinx resisted the urge to scoff, whirling around to face her older sister. Engulfed in a warm hug, Jinx hesitantly wrapped her arms around her, resting her head on her shoulder, “Hey, sis.” 

Vi then explained how proud of her she was, Jinx’s appearance rare these days. After a couple of cheesy remarks from Vi, she left as soon as Caitlyn needed her help. Sighing, Jinx moved the glass she held around, inspecting the lemonade swirl around. Opting for sitting, she sat down at one of the empty tables, slouching into the seat and observing her surroundings. 

Blah, blah, blah. 

She scrunched her nose, weary of the social gathering already. 

Though, as her eyes roam around, her gaze lands on you. 

There you stood, in a soft blue gown with a high-waisted empire silhouette fitted just below the bust and flowing gracefully down with delicate puffed short sleeves. A sheer white shawl drapes around you arms, paired with gloves, hair styled in an updo. 

Jinx didn’t know why, but something about the way you stood out from the other ladies, posture excellent and the soft flutter of motion from your silk fan, got her intrigued. She didn’t dare come up to you though, resorting to only staring as you engaged with the other ladies, adding to your graceful demeanor. 

The night soon ended and Jinx left reminiscing about you. 

It wasn’t long until another ball was held. The moment Silco mentioned a ball, Jinx jumped up, “I’ll come with you!” Which left him completely bewildered. 

This ball, however, celebrated the new year outside, everyone dressed in darker colors. It wasn’t long until she caught you sitting with other ladies—Caitlyn and Vi being one of them. 

Jinx’s eyes nearly flew out of their sockets at the sight of those two beside you. As soon as Vi got up to grab some champagne, Jinx appeared, questioning her. 

“How do you know that girl?” She spat, voice low but anyone who passed by knew she was accusing her older sister of something. Vi frowned, brows knitting together, “Know who…?” 

Jinx nodded her head at you, dressed in a burgundy gown, giggling alongside Caitlyn. Her older sister sent her a suspicious glance, sipping on her champagne, “Why the sudden interest?” 

The blue-haired girl groaned, tugging Vi closer to lean into her ear, “I want to get to know her.” She demanded. Vi only chuckled, holding up her hands in defense, “She’s just one of Cait’s friends. I don’t know her well—“ 

“—Help me, then.” Jinx dug a finger on Vi’s chest, squinting her eyes, hopeful for a deal. Vi only defeatedly sighed, “Alright— I’ll try asking her about stuff. Meet me back here later.” She bumped her shoulders with Jinx, leaving her to sit back at the table. 

For the rest of the night, Jinx creepily watched from another table, one where Silco also sat at. The soft curve of your lips whenever you smiled at someone made her heart leap, irritated by Vi’s delayed answer. However, once the food was served, Vi got up to serve herself a drink. Jinx immediately sprang to her feet, ignoring Silco’s voice.

Jinx dangerously leaned against the table, raising an impatient brow, “So?”

Vi poured herself some champagne before facing her, “Cait said she was from a noble house�� her father is desperately trying to find her someone to marry.”

Jinx frowned, glancing at you for a split second. Vi continued, “She has two older brothers so….good luck.”  She’s about to leave before Jinx forces her back, “I didn’t ask about her family history— I asked about her!” 

Vi scowled, rolling her eyes at her sister’s disturbance, “How about you go ask her yourself?” Her words caused Jinx to scoff. 

Jinx’s shoulders drooped, defeat evident on her face. Suddenly, a strong hand lands on her back, “I’m sure now is the perfect opportunity.” Vi forcefully tugs her along, ignoring Jinx’s complaints as they approach the table.

Once they arrived, the ladies looked up in confusion at the interruption, but curious expressions took over at the sight of Jinx. Cait was the first to wave, “You’ve finally decided to join us, Jinx.” She added, gesturing for her to sit. As she sat down, Jinx could feel your gaze on her. 

Peering up, Jinx nearly flinches, stunned that you were indeed staring at her. Though, to her surprise, you had softly smiled before facing the lady beside you. Jinx soon felt out of place, not socializing with anyone until one of the ladies had asked her a question.

“Jinx, what are your hobbies?” The lady was sat beside you, fluttering her fan. Jinx leaned back in her seat, hand holding a filled glass, “During my free time I like to practice my archery, hunting and— uhm— drawing skills.” She added the last bit after noticing the horrified gazes. The lady hummed, eyes wide, “…quite peculiar.” 

The blue-haired girl narrowed her gaze, frowning in disdain but kept her mouth shut. She then glanced at you, busy eating your ice scream topped with a cherry. You seemed content, watching the crowd. Thankfully, Jinx had a better view altogether, taking notes of the way the cherry left a red residue on your lips. Suddenly, your head snapped at her direction, but your eyes set on someone else. 

“Excuse me!” You called out, hand coming up. Everyone at the table glanced at the server approaching, holding a plate full of the ice cream glasses you had just eaten. Cait was the first to interrupt, “Don’t you think about it— you’ve had too much!” She shoved your hand down, waving at the server to leave. 

Speechless, Jinx watched as you showed another side of yourself, whining at Cait’s intrusion, “You know I’m not allowed at home— just let me have a bit more.” You tried to bargain, holding Caitlyn’s hands in yours. Though, Cait shook her head, pointing at the fruits in the middle of the table, “Have those instead.” 

You scrunched your nose, “I only like cherries.” Jinx let out a chuckle, prompting you to glance up at her, leaving her to feel overwhelmed and trying to avoid your gaze. 

That night ended with Jinx feeling unsatisfied with the lack of socialization she had done with you— all the other ladies somehow chatted with her except you. 

A few days later, Jinx had gone out for a stroll in towns square. It was a chilly morning, London weather unpredictable as usual. Silco had requested some errands to be done for him, so she accepted and headed first for the bakery. Usually, they’d send over a servant, but Jinx had felt so locked up in her chambers, that she leaped for the opportunity to get out. Smelling the delicious odor of bread, Jinx sighed in delight as she entered the bakery. 

Though, her whole body turns rigid at the sight of you and an older man chatting with the seller, your servants holding packages. Trying to swiftly avoid you, Jinx stood at the corner behind you, praying that you wouldn’t notice her. 

She shamelessly stared at your back, head bent down so that you wouldn’t spot her. You somehow shined compared to every other lady in the bakery, elegance radiating off of you. Jinx craved for a chance to speak to you— but every time she thought of it—  her heart beat quickens and she gets the urge to dig her own hole. To her dismay, once you turn around and start making your way out, you steal a quick glance at her for a split second before continuing. 

Jinx’s heard jumped out of her chest when your eyes met hers, feeling giddy all of a sudden. 

The next time she spots you is at the Spring ball. The moment you came into view, her whole body warmed up. You wore a soft pink gown, your hair down for once, a flower hair piece tucked in. There you sat, at another table, with your father—as did she. 

She couldn’t take her eyes off, your silhouette luring her into a deeper hole of desire. Her eyes trailed up to your lips around the cherry, sucking the ruby juices that escaped. Jinx had a feeling she wasn’t being slick with her intensive staring, but you just looked so beautiful and—

“—Who are you staring at?” Silco’s voice shook Jinx, forcing her gaze to break away from you. Jinx was quick to shoot back, “No one.” 

He sent her a skeptical glance, “Is it the Marquis’s daughter?” Silco detected Jinx’s silence, smiling at her shy behavior. 

“Perhaps you could go speak to her?” He suggested, encouraging her. Jinx only sighed defeatedly, “She’s so different compared to..me.” 

Silco only scoffed, sipping on some crimson wine, “Nonsense.” He then turned his head, “Marquis!” He called out, gesturing for the man to come over. Jinx panicked, whispering profanities when you followed after your father. Silco motioned for them to take a seat. 

Jinx didn’t acknowledge you, trying to seem unbothered. You, however, knew her little game.

You’d be labeled as a fool if you didn’t notice her piercing stares every ball. Eyeing the way her eyes trailed on the crowd, you scrunched your nose, trying to understand why she never spoke to you. 

On the first ball of the season, you felt her burning stare on you the whole event, as if stripping you of your garments. Even at the New year Ball, her eyes would bore into your side. You thought she hated you at first, but then you realized how different  she acted. Her fingers would fidget with her braid, or even the fabric of her pants. 

Silco spoke with your father, leaving you to sit across from Jinx. You tilt your head, inspecting her side profile. You’d be an idiot to not think she was attractive. Even after she had left in the last ball, your friends had whispered about her looks, describing her as dashing. 

You did your own search, digging through Lady Whistledown’s past newspaper for any information. The only thing you found was Jinx getting labeled as an ‘eye-catching woman who had a reputation of flirting openly’. You wondered if she changed since she didn’t seem like the type. 

“Jinx, would you like to dance?” 

Your sudden question stuns Jinx, forcing her to meet your eye. 

“I— Uhm.. Alright.” She muttered, taking a deep breath before holding out her palm for you to take. You glance at her manicured nails, smiling, “Thank you.” 

Jinx tried to seem composed, maneuvering you across the dance floor like it was her second nature. Your hand rested on her shoulder, the other intertwined with hers. Feeling her tense when you place her palm on ur back, you giggled, “.. never danced with a girl?” 

She murmured under her breath, “Not really.” like it was painful to admit. She avoided your eye during the waltz, but you didn’t appreciate that. 

“I know you’ve been watching me.” You whispered in her ear, innocently staring up at her as she forgot a step. She looked away, “I have no idea—“ 

“—Jinx, are you interested in me?” You instantly asked, flickering your gaze across her face. She didn’t answer, biting on her bottom lip. You huff out, “I asked you a question.” She twirled you around, your chest colliding roughly with hers, causing her to inhale deeply. 

You tightened your hold on her shoulder, head leaning in closer, your perfume surrounding Jinx’s senses,  “I would appreciate it if you could stop ignoring me and respond—“ 

In the midst of your words, her lips capture yours. Gasping, your eyes squeeze shut at the impact of her fingers tangled in your hair. She then pulls away, her lips parted, staggered with her actions. 

“This isn’t how it was supposed to be.” She rasped, shoving your shoulder with hers, speeding away from the dance floor. You immediately grab her arm, aware of the numerous stares around you—especially your fathers. She turned her head, pausing when she realized you were following. 

“Take me with you.” You whispered, desire glinting in your gaze. Stunned, Jinx glances at Silco, noticing his triumphant look. Peering back at you, she finally cracks a smile. 

She tugs your hand and guides you out of the ball, into the carriage parking. Jinx immediately shooed her drivers away. The blue-haired girl pulled you in the carriage and not wasting any time in pressing her lips against yours. Grabbing her face, you giggled as she motioned for you to lay down on the plush seat. 

Her attention then laid on the silver plate resting on the opposite sofa, cherries and other fruits there. Wickedly grinning, she leans back down, her tongue slipping past your lips to wrap her tongue around yours.  Whining, your knee nudged her leg, desperate for more. 

She clicks her tongue, “Patience.” She whispered, peppering your neck with wet kisses. Biting your lip to reduce any noises, you arched your back, “Just get on with it.” You whined, forcing her head down. She yanked your hand off, lifting her head, “I said patience.” 

Her fingers then slip beneath your gown, trailing up to your thigh. Your hips twitch in anticipation. At last, she moves your lingerie to the side, slender fingers rubbing your pussy. Whimpering, your head tilts back, soft noises escaping your lips. Jinx inspected the way your brows furrowed, lips parting as she entered one finger. 

Distracting you from the sudden discomfort, she leaves a couple of kisses on your collarbone. When you buck your hips, she takes it as a sign to slightly pull out and plunge her finger back in. You sigh, eyes shutting closed from the ecstasy. A grin spread on Jinx’s lips as your folds suck her finger in, encouraging her to add another finger. Rocking her finger into you, you twitch, legs spreading to give her space. Entering another finger, you gasp, wrapping your arms around her neck. 

Moaning into her ear, her grin multiplies at the accomplishment of having you turn putty in her arms. Jinx suddenly speeds up the pace, ramming her fingers into you, eliciting cries from your pretty lips. She would mutter soft praises in your ear at each hard thrust of her fingers, licking your earlobe, “..so good for me.” She pecks your cheek, humming at each plea you let out. 

Once you came apart on her fingers, she praised you immensely, “Perfect girl.” She pulls her fingers out, coated with your cum. Lifting her wet fingers up to her lips, her tongue pokes out to lick, amused by your entranced gaze. 

She separated her fingers, mischievously grinning as a string of your essence connected in between, noticing the rosy hue spreading across your bashful expression. 

“Don’t be ashamed,” She sucked her fingers clean, “…you taste sweet—of course.” You sat up, your gown covering the spot Jinx just invaded. Turning your attention to the cherries, you picked one up, wasting no time in biting into it. 

Jinx stares as the crimson juices trickle down your chin, stretching her finger out to prevent it from dropping on your gown. Licking her index finger, Jinx hums at the taste of cherries. 

“It’s good, right?” You feel the need to verify if she finds it delicious too. Jinx, however, just shrugs and grabs ahold of your hips, “You know what’s good?” Giggling, you straddle her lap, facing her directly. 

Jinx chuckles, watching you finish the cherry and throwing the seed on the platter before cupping her face. 

  “Now the cherry is on top.” 

creds to the dividers. thank you for reading! reblogs r appreciated:)

[muli-wam]

Unwritten Love

Summary: In the bustling town market, you encounter a mysterious man who leaves you flustered and curious. You convinced yourself that you would never see this man again, until you did. And this time you find out the stranger is to be your husband.

Cw: arranged marriage, might be some typos, halfway proof read, fluff, cliffhanger

Word count: 2.6k

Pairings: Regency-era!Nanami x Fem!reader

A/n: this was so fun to writeee I hope you guys enjoy (: also if you want a bit of insight on Nanami's character and his thoughts at the market then you can read this drabble, but I tweaked the story a bit so my apologies if it's not 100% based on that drabble.

┈ ┈ ┈ ┈ ୨♡୧ ┈ ┈ ┈ ┈

You never thought love would find a place in your life.

Not because you didn't want it, but because you were already so consumed by the idea—the perfect romance, the kind you read about in books or wrote in poems without a name to address them to.

You did daydream about it more than you'd like to admit—creating these ridiculous romantic stories in your head with characters who didn't even exist.

In some of your daydreams, you always pictured a husband who put you on a pedestal. Someone who would bring you wildflowers after his strolls in the forest, or leave a love poem on your bedside table for you to read when you wake up.

He'd love you just as much as you loved him—maybe even more.

He'd sweep you off your feet and carry you bridal style through a meadow, pointing out plants and herbs and explaining how they were used while the evening breeze danced against your skin.

That kind of love.

Those were the fantasies that kept you up in the late hours of the night when everyone was sound asleep.

But that's all it ever was—a fantasy.

Your eldest sister loved to point that out every chance she got. Seems she had nothing better to do anyway.

"Marriage isn't about love," she'd say, her tone sharper than it needed to be. "Its about compromise and using to your advantage. Give a little, take a little, but dont waste precious time dreaming about it."

Every time she said it, you felt that bubbling pot of dreams wash down the drain, leaving you disappointed.

Thankfully, your closest friend, Yuki, always knew how to make you feel better. "Ignore her," she'd say, rolling her eyes. "What does she know? That's why she's still unmarried. One day, you'll find someone who'll be exactly who you dreamed of—maybe even better."

Yuki always knew what to say. She was good like that—unlike you.

And despite Yuki's words, you couldn't quite shake that lingering doubt.

Maybe your sister was right after all.

The weight of those thought clung to you as you made your way to the village market. Your sister tasked you to gather apples for the apple pie she was making today. Reluctantly, you agreed.

The familiar buzz of activity kindly greeted you, offering a small distraction from your troubles.

The colorful stalls overflowed with goods. Fresh fruits and vegetables, colorful fabric in vibrant hues, jars of exotic spices, herbs, and trinkets scattered the market.

You could see the effort and love the merchants put into their work. The passion they had for their craft. It draws you in every time.

But not today, unfortunately.

You move your attention to the large container of apples sitting before you. Since they were the key ingredient to your sisters pie, you could not afford to choose poorly.

Not just for your tastebuds sake but also the sake of your life if your sister ended up unhappy with your choice of apples.

As you were inspecting the fruit, you hardly noticed the tall gentleman approaching the stall. He moved with purpose, as if he were on a mission, though he also looked lost.

He stopped briefly to speak with the tea merchant, before turning towards the stall where you stood.

You turned away, facing the other direction to inspect a new apple when your basket suddenly hit an unsteady pile of apples beside you. One by one, each apple rolled out of the container, down the counter, and onto the floor.

Panicked, you reach to grab as many runaway apples as possible, and it seemed as if the tall gentleman had the same idea.

You reached for the apple, colliding harshly with his arm as he extended his hand to help.

You let out a small yelp, clutching onto your basket, as well as his arm.

For a moment, time stopped. Your hands brushed against the smooth surface of the apple, and you froze, slightly startled by the contact.

"My apologies," you murmured, finally looking up. His gaze met yours, the intensity of it left your heart racing, though you couldn't name why.

"I can be so clumsy sometimes and-"

"Please, don't apologize. The fault is entirely mine," he replied while stepping back, his movements deliberate and polite, though his expression unreadable.

"It's not everyday I encounter runaway apples," he slightly chuckles, his voice rich and steady with a hint of amusement.

You let out a huff, or a laugh, or maybe both... you don't quite know.

You quickly tuck the apple into your basket, trying to ignore the warmth creeping into your cheeks.

"Are you here for them as well?" you ask the man.

"Am I he- oh! Yes, yes, actually. I was just about to buy some for my-" His expression seemed panicked all of a sudden as he scrambled to pull out a few coins.

"For your..."

"F-for my sister. And myself. Mainly for my sister," he says while grabbing the large bag of apples.

"Though I am not very fond of apples, so maybe they will be just for my sister,"

"Right, right," you chuckle first this time, finding his sudden nervousness quite amusing.

"Well," the man says, pressing out the non-existant wrinkles in his coat.

"I shall be off now," he gives you a polite bow and walks away quickly.

"Oh, goodbye Mr-" you stop mid curtsy when you realize you never asked for his name.

But he was already gone.

Your eyebrows furrow for a moment as you gaze into the distance towards the direction he left in.

You let out a deep breath you didn't even know you were holding, before paying for your apples and heading home.

Your thoughts betray you, drifing back to the stranger. The way his blonde hair sat perfectly on his head, not a strand out of place. His shirt and breeches seemed to have no visible wrinkles, along with his coat.

He was so polite, so put together, and so handsome you wanted to bang your hand against the nearest brick wall.

but one question still lingered in the back of your mind.

Who was this man and why did he linger in your thoughts long after he walked away?

-

The calm melody of classical ballroom music filled the air as Couples moved in perfect harmony across the polished floor, dancing gracefully.

You were never fond of these kind of gatherings. The air felt heavy with mingled perfumes and sweat, a mixture that made your head spin. The chatter and laughter seemed to echo endlessly—it was unbearable

Yet here you are, sitting in the corner with Yuki while giggling over how crooked Mr. Leslie's wig was.

The town baker, with his usual scowl permanently engraved into his wrinkled face, seemed oblivious to his crooked head piece.

You might have felt bad, but he didn't shown you the same courtesy when you'd tripped near his shop the other day and he laughed at you. Maybe you were being petty but who cares.

"Do you think he's noticed yet?" Yuki leans towards you, whispering.

"I doubt he has. I think he's too miserable to even think twice about it," you murmured, taking a sip of water to suppress a laugh.

Yuki let out a loud snort, drawing sharp looks from a nearby group. You both give each other a knowing look before bursting into a fit of laughter and running away from the scene.

You both make your way to your parents and older sister who seemed to be waiting expectantly by the entrance, your mother’s impatience evident in the tight press of her lips.

"Oh there you are, we've been looking all over the darn place for you," your mother huffs before aggressively pulling you towards her, smoothing your dress and fixing the stray strands of hair framing your face. Her quickness left little room for protest.

"Mother, what are you pffh- your getting hair in my mouth-" you spluttered while turning your head away.

“Oh, hush. You need to look presentable. Mr. Nanami and Mr. Higuruma will be here any moment,” she said, stepping back to inspect her handiwork.

"Mr. Nanami? You mean the miserable man you were telling me about?" you muttered to your sister, who barely stifled a grin.

"Oh, miserable he may be, but poor he most certainly is not," your mother interjected.

"Tell me, mother," you fix your gaze towards the entrance. A tall man walks in, dressed in black, with broad shoulders and an air of quiet authority surrounding him. His jet black hair was slicked back and he exuded confidence and wealth the moment he entered the room.

"Ten thousand a year and he owns half of Derbyshire," your mother declared.

"The miserable half?" You quipped under your breath, earning a muffled laugh from Yuki who was standing behind you.

But your laugh died the moment you saw him. Following close behind the tall stranger was a familiar figure—those sharp featured and striking eyes that were etched into your memory. It was really him. The same blonde man you had met not long ago.

He was in the same attire as last time but only this time his coat was a dark navy blue.

And, somehow, he seemed even more handsome under the glow of the ballroom’s chandeliers.

Your pulse quickened and your mouth went dry. You wanted to look away, to shield your face but your body seemed to be paralyzed.

His eyes scan the room before they locked with yours, and for a moment, the loud, bustling room seemed to fade away.

"Looks like your runaway apples have made their way back," Yuki nudges you when she catches you both staring.

“Ah, Mr. Nanami, Mr. Higuruma, what a pleasure,” your father’s voice cut through the dream like haze you were in, guiding the two men toward your family. Instinctively, you bowed along with the others, your movements on autopilot and your mind blank.

"Very nice to meet you all. It is a pleasure to be acquainted with such a remarkable family." Mr. Higuruma says politely. Though you barely heard him.

Your mother ushers you to the front, her smile sharp and her eyes almost maniacal before turning to Nanami saying, “Mr. Nanami, this is our youngest daughter—the one my husband and I were telling you about.”

Your confusion was evident in the confused laugh you let out, "Whatever are you talking about, Mother?"

"Oh, yes we forgot to tell you!" She say, feigning innocence with a tone that made your jaw clench.

"Mr. Nanami is to be your husband."

[zaynessbeloved]

A Duke's Promise

Synopsis: In a world of whispered expectations and carefully arranged futures, your life was meant to unfold quietly beside your sister’s—until the man promised to her began to look at you instead.

The Duke of Ravencourt was meant to be hers. Courted her with duty, danced with her out of tradition. But slowly—delicately—his eyes began to wander. To you.

Content warnings: Regency Era AU, Regency Romance, Slow Burn, Forbidden Love, Arranged Marriage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Tender Romance, From Courtship to Marriage, First Time Feelings, Mutual Pining, Letters as Love Language, First Kiss in a Garden, Longing Across Ballrooms, Dancing as a Love Language, Love Confessions, Marriage Proposal, Wedding Night, Honeymoon Seclusion, Flash Forward Epilogue, Loving Marriage, Reader is Pregnant in the Epilogue, First Time, Consummation After Marriage, Fingering (implied), Oral (female receiving), Breeding Kink (soft & emotional), Table Sex, Library Sex, Bath Intimacy, Hand Kisses through Gloves, Stolen Glances.

Pairings: Rafayel x reader

Word count: 7.7k

Chapter 4

The sun had risen long ago. You hadn’t slept. Not really. You’d lain beneath the sheets, hair still loose around your shoulders, the scent of roses and him still clinging to your skin. You didn’t dream. Your body was still too full of memory to make room for anything else.

So when the knock came at your adjoining door—soft, familiar—you were already sitting at your vanity, robe drawn tightly over your chemise, eyes still far away.

“You’re up early,” Eleanora said gently, slipping inside. 

You looked at her through the mirror. And something inside you cracked. You turned in your seat, heart fluttering against your ribs. “I need to tell you something.”

You sat together on the edge of your bed, knees barely touching. You told her everything. Not in detail—not in scandal—but in feeling. The kiss. The garden. The fire. The way he looked at you like you were already his. Her face shifted slowly, expression unreadable. But she didn’t interrupt. Not once. And when you finally stopped speaking, breath trembling in your chest, she reached for your hand.

“I knew,” she whispered. You looked at her, startled. “I saw it before you did,” she said softly. “In the way he looked at you. And in the way you looked away.”

Your throat tightened. “Are you… angry?”

Eleanora smiled. Gentle. Wistful. “No. Just… surprised it took so long.”

Later, as you stood by the window in your morning dress, hands folded, trying to still your heart—A knock came at the front door. Voices. Movement. You turned, frowning as a maid passed by the open parlor.

“Who was it?” you asked.

The maid curtsied. “The Duke, miss. He’s asked to speak with your mother.”

The words struck like thunder. The Duke. Not Lord Wessex. Not a casual visit. Not a stroll or a bouquet or a polite inquiry. The Duke. Speaking to your mother. 

Your breath left you. Eleanora appeared beside you in the doorway, brows drawn.

“Already?” she murmured. 

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. Because he had said— Not here. Not like this. And now— Here he was. The tea had long gone cold. You hadn’t noticed. You sat on the edge of the drawing room divan, fingers curved around the porcelain like it might anchor you to the moment. Your knee bounced once—then twice—before you caught yourself.

Across from you, Eleanora sipped hers with far more grace, though you could see it in her eyes, she was watching you. Reading every fidget, every sigh. You broke the silence first.

“I didn’t expect this,” you whispered. “Not now. Not so soon.”

She set her cup down gently. “He kissed you last night.”

You blinked. “Yes.”

“And you thought he’d do nothing?”

Your throat tightened. “I thought he’d wait. I thought… I don’t know. That he’d hold back.”

Eleanora tilted her head slightly, a flicker of a knowing smile ghosting her lips.

“He did hold back,” she said. “Until he couldn’t.”

Your chest rose and fell faster than you meant it to.

“My body still feels it,” you whispered. “The ache… the way he—” You stopped yourself. The words were too much. But Eleanora nodded. And her hand reached across the space between you, resting over yours. Not judgment. Just understanding.

The clock ticked. Outside, the household carried on—distant voices, the clink of china, the rustle of footsteps. And then— the door opened. You both straightened, nearly in sync. Your mother entered, composed as ever. Her lips were set, her eyes unreadable. She closed the door behind her, pausing for only a second. And then—

“He has spoken with me.”

The words dropped into the room like stones. Your chest tightened. You tried to sit still, but your fingers pressed into your skirt.

“About… the arrangement?” Eleanora asked carefully.

“Yes.” Her voice was measured. “He wishes to dissolve the understanding with you, Eleanora.”

Your sister nodded, slow and calm. Not surprised. Your mother’s eyes moved to you next.

“And in its place,” she continued, “he has asked permission to begin courting you, my dear.”

You couldn’t breathe. The words were real—spoken aloud, not dreamed, not imagined beneath moonlight. You swallowed. Hard.

“Courting,” you repeated, as if the word alone might break you.

“With intention,” your mother added.

“To what end?” you asked quietly.

Your mother’s gaze softened—just slightly. “Marriage.” 

You couldn’t speak. Because your heart was already racing. Because your lips still remembered his. Because your body was still burning. And now—so was your future. You stared at your mother for a long moment, her words echoing in your chest like the toll of some distant, gilded bell. You blinked, your lips barely parting.

“But… Lord Wessex is still calling,” you whispered, unsure if you were trying to remind her—or yourself. “He’s still courting me. And I…”

You hesitated. Your mother said nothing yet. But Eleanora reached for your hand again.

“You haven’t accepted him,” she said softly. “You’ve made no promise. No vow. You owe him kindness, yes. But not devotion.”

You looked at her, breath shaky. “And what of propriety? What of expectation?”

“Expectation is not law,” your mother said gently. “You are allowed to be courted, until a proper proposal is made. Until you choose.”

The room fell quiet again. You could feel your heart trying to keep pace with your thoughts, failing entirely.

“But what if they both propose?” you murmured, more to the floor than to anyone.

Eleanora smiled faintly. “Then you choose the man who makes your body burn,” she whispered, teasing just enough to make you flinch—and flush all over again.

Your mother raised a brow, but said nothing to that. “There is no shame in being wanted,” she said simply. “Only in settling where there is no fire.”

That silenced you completely. Because you knew where the fire lived. And it was not in the gentle smiles of Lord Wessex. It was in a man who had kissed your bare hand and murmured things against your lips that no one else would ever be allowed to hear.

It had been three days. Three days of pacing quiet halls. Of pretending not to wait. Three days of wondering if the door would open and he would be the one standing there. But it wasn’t the Duke. It was Lord Wessex. His smile was soft, eyes as warm as ever beneath the curls that never quite obeyed him. He arrived with tulips again. You almost laughed—almost. 

“May I?” he asked, gesturing to the settee. 

You nodded, smoothing your skirts as he sat. The maid poured tea. You offered polite conversation. But your body wasn’t at ease. Not anymore. Not since the garden. And after a pause—one long enough that you felt the quiet stretch��you set your cup down.

Your heartbeat faster. “My lord…” He looked up at you, expectant. “May I ask you something… directly?”

He smiled. “You may always.”

“What are your intentions?”

He blinked. A pause. Then— “Toward you?”

You nodded. He cleared his throat, setting his tea aside.

“I’ve hoped,” he said, his voice slower now, “to earn your affection. I won’t claim to know if I’ve succeeded, but… I’ve enjoyed every moment with you. I’ve thought about what a future might look like—should you be willing.” 

Your breath hitched. Not in the way it did with the Duke. Not fire. But something still deep. Still human. You looked down at your gloved hands. And then back at him.

“I need to be honest with you.” His posture straightened. You hesitated. But only for a moment. “The Duke has asked to begin courting me.”

You watched the words land. They didn’t crash. But they hit. His expression didn’t shift into jealousy. No, Lord Wessex was too well-mannered for that. But you saw the ache in his eyes—the flicker of surprise… and disappointment.

“I see,” he said quietly.

“It was unexpected,” you added quickly. “I didn’t plan for it. But I wanted you to know. I owe you that.”

He nodded. The silence stretched. And then— “Do you… wish for him to court you?”

You didn’t answer. Because your silence already had. You take a steadying breath, your heart still hammering in your chest from the intensity of the previous moments. Lord Wessex’s gaze remains on you, soft but heavy with unspoken questions. You know the truth must come out—no more dancing around it.

“My Lord,” you begin quietly, your voice trembling just enough to betray the emotion swirling inside you, “I must be honest.” You pause, eyes dropping to the delicate lace of your cuffed hand before meeting his steady, searching gaze once more. “I cherish your company—I truly do. The way you speak, the gentle strength in your touch… you make me feel seen, as though I matter in a world that often demands silence.”

A silence falls between you, thick and delicate as spun glass, before you continue with careful words.

“But I cannot string you along with false promises. I—” your voice falters momentarily as you gather your thoughts, “I find myself longing for something different too. I know the Duke has shown his interest, and though I never wished for such complications, I cannot ignore the truth of my own heart.”

Your cheeks warm with the confession, and you dare not look away from his face as you speak.

“I am not asking you to cease your kindness or your courtship, nor am I offering you less than your due respect. But I must be clear, part of me wishes, however reluctantly, to allow him—if only for the promise of something new—to court me as well.”

The words hang in the air like a fragile confession. You watch as his eyes darken with a mixture of pain and understanding. He reaches out, his fingers brushing along the edge of your bare hand, as if seeking to measure the truth of your words through touch.

“I do not wish to hurt you my Lord,” you add, your voice low and earnest. “Your steadiness, your care—they mean more to me than you know. But I cannot deny that I also feel this pull, this ache for something that I’ve not yet named. I hope… I hope you can understand that I must allow myself to explore all that is before me, even if it means my heart is divided.”

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. His hand lingers on your wrist as his eyes search yours, and you feel the weight of every unspoken promise and every unvoiced sorrow.

Then, with a soft exhale, he murmurs, “I understand.” His voice is low and steady, but the hurt is unmistakable. “I would never ask you to choose one path over another if your heart is not sure. Yet, know this—I will not let you be burdened with guilt for your desire to be fully seen and cherished. I only ask that you be true to yourself, even if that truth brings you pain.”

His words settle in your chest like a bittersweet balm. Even as the ache in your body and heart refuses to subside, you realize that for the first time, you have spoken your truth, however dangerous it might be. You remain silent, letting his words wash over you, the intensity of his confession mingling with your own. In that shared silence, you both know that nothing will ever be the same again—and that for better or worse, your paths have irrevocably intertwined.

Lord Wessex faded from your life like a late bloom in autumn. Not in cruelty. Not even in sorrow. But in soft retreats. One less letter. One less walk. A hand once offered now resting politely at his side.

You knew it was coming. You had asked for honesty. And in return, he gave you dignity. There was no grand farewell. No final confession. Just quiet understanding, folded neatly into the spaces between the words you no longer said. He left behind only kindness. And silence.

The Duke did not fill it. Not at once. After that day—when he spoke with your mother, when you stood in your room breathless and burning with the weight of it— you waited. Not in the hallway. Not at the window. You waited in the tilt of your head when the door creaked open. In the rise of your chest when the maid entered with letters that were never his. 

You told yourself it didn’t matter. He had made his intentions known. He had asked. But still— you expected more.

You had given him your bare hand. You had said your body burned. You had spoken truths you hadn’t even dared whisper to yourself before that garden. And yet— no knock. No call. No shadow cast across your doorway. Just silence. And a throb you couldn’t quite name sitting heavy behind your ribs.

Three days passed. Not lonely. Just… full of waiting. The evening of the soirée arrived, wrapped in velvet dusk and the scent of blooming lilac. You sat by the window as the final pins were tucked into your hair, the brush of the maid’s fingers ghosting across your neck, setting your nerves alight.

You hadn’t asked about him. Not to your mother. Not to Eleanora. Not aloud. But in your mirror’s reflection, you watched yourself like a stranger—poised, painted, prepared. Your hands rested calmly in your lap. But inside? You were pacing.

Eleanora leaned against the edge of the vanity, watching you carefully as the maid stepped out to fetch the gloves.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” she said, her voice gentle. “He’s a man, not a poet. Sometimes they don’t know how to appear when we’re waiting.”

You didn’t reply. Because you weren’t waiting. Not really. Only a little. Only enough to feel the ache in your hands when you clenched them. 

The carriage moved steadily through the cobblestone streets, the manor lights ahead casting warm gold through the trees as the night opened its arms. Eleanora chatted beside you, half-teasing, half-thoughtful, but your mind drifted.

Not toward the garden. Not toward the kiss. But toward the space after. What it meant that he hadn’t come. What it meant that you were going anyway.

You stepped out into soft candlelight and the sound of strings. There were voices inside. Laughter. Glass. The hush of fabric sweeping marble. You adjusted the fall of your skirts and climbed the steps. And when you passed through the open doors— the world did not stop. The music did not pause. But your body did.

Because you felt it before you saw him. The air seemed to press closer. Your skin flushed—low in your belly, hot beneath your corset. And then, between two pillars—near the far side of the room, beside the long silk-draped windows—you saw him.

The Duke.

He was already there. Already watching. Already present. Dressed in black again, his hair neatly pulled back, a silver brooch gleaming at his lapel like a mark of moonlight. He stood with two other men, nodding slightly to something one of them said.

He hadn’t seen you yet. But something inside you had already unraveled. Because he had come. And he had not come for days. And now—he was here.

You didn’t know if you were angry, or relieved. You didn’t know if you wanted to turn away or walk straight to him. But what you did know—was that your skin still remembered the press of his lips on your hand. And the ache? Had never truly left.

You didn’t approach him. Of course you didn’t. You moved as expected—poised, serene, hand resting lightly on your sister’s arm as you slipped further into the swell of the soirée. The room shimmered with soft light and careful laughter. Music wound through it all like silk thread.

And though your eyes didn’t seek him out, your body knew exactly where he was. It was as if the air tilted slightly whenever you turned away from him. As if your bones had memorized his position in the room before your heart had caught up.

You and Eleanora made your way to the refreshment table, where chilled wine waited in cut glass and sugared cakes perched atop silver trays.

You accepted a drink. Sipped. Spoke softly about the décor, the music, a passing lady’s gown that glittered a bit too boldly. And then, her name was called. A lord you recognized—kind eyes, thoughtful voice—appeared with a smile and a bow. Eleanora excused herself with a glance back at you.

“You’ll be alright?”

You smiled and nodded.

“Of course.”

And she was gone—drawn into the swirl of music, into another dance that might become something more. You turned back to the table. And stood alone.

A moment later, a voice rose beside you. Pleasant. Familiar. A young lord—Lord Ashcombe, if memory served—offering a light remark about the warmth of the room and how the orchestra had improved since the last gathering. You smiled. You answered. But you didn’t really hear him. Because something had shifted again.

A current. A shadow. A presence. You felt it before you saw it. A flicker at the edge of your vision. A subtle narrowing of space around you. And then— a voice. Lower. Quieter.

“Forgive me, my Lord,” it said, smooth as velvet and just as dark. “Might I steal a moment of the Lady’s attention?”

Your breath caught. Your fingers tightened slightly around your glass. And you turned. Slowly. Carefully. As if the whole room had dropped away. And your eyes met his.

Rafayel. The Duke.

He was closer now than he’d been in days. Inches away. Every line of him composed, every detail perfectly arranged—except his eyes. They betrayed him first. Not wild. But hungry. And when his gaze locked on yours— the air in your lungs scattered like leaves in the wind.

“My Lord,” you said softly, the words steadier than your heartbeat. He bowed. Graceful. Controlled. But his eyes never left yours. And yours—couldn’t seem to look away.

The room glowed with polished warmth. Light dripped from the chandeliers like golden honey, casting soft halos onto the polished marble below. The scent of rose water and candle wax lingered beneath perfume and powdered hair, layered with a sweetness that threatened to drown your senses if you weren’t careful.

Lords and Ladies passed with practiced grace, silks and brocades whispering over one another. The orchestra, half-shadowed behind carved ivory screens, played something that floated gently above it all—a waltz too slow to dance to, made instead for listening, for lingering.

And he stood beside you, perfectly still. A storm sealed inside a gentleman’s coat. He made no grand movement. No overt gesture. Just presence—so dense it curled around you like velvet.

“You’ve not danced yet,” he observed.

His voice was low, barely above the music. You didn’t look at him right away. You watched the room instead—the spinning couples, the mirrored walls catching slivers of movement like secrets trapped in crystal. 

“Not yet,” you said, voice even. “It’s early.”

“And here I thought the suitors would be tripping over one another by now.”

You turned your eyes on him then. “Perhaps they’ve learned not to interrupt fire with candlelight.”

The corner of his mouth lifted—barely. “Dangerous comparison, my Lady.”

“Is it?”

“Mm.” His gaze flicked down to your hand curled around your fan. “You do burn quite prettily.”

Your cheeks flushed again. You couldn’t help it. The fan rose instinctively, hiding your mouth behind delicate lace and painted peonies. But your eyes—they betrayed you. And he watched them like they were pages he’d been forbidden to read.

A laugh rose from across the room—light, sharp, inconsequential. A cluster of young Lords bowed around a girl in pale pink silk, her voice higher than the rest, trying a little too hard.

You turned your attention to them, just for the safety of it. But you felt him still. His body didn’t touch yours. But his presence did. Settling into the space behind your shoulder. Warming the inside of your wrist. Curling, coiling, right beneath your ribs.

He didn’t look away. He was studying you again. Not with hunger. With something worse. Memory. Possession. Soft. Subtle. Burning.

“And you, my Lord?” you asked, quietly now, lowering the fan just enough to be heard. “You came alone tonight?”

“Of course not,” he replied, voice velvet-dark. “I brought the consequences of my actions with me.”

You swallowed. “Is that what I am now?”

A beat. He didn’t smile.

“You are the only thing I haven’t stopped thinking of since the moment I touched your hand without a glove.”

The air between you went very still. The music played on. The crowd laughed, drank, and danced. But you stood, flushed, trembling faintly beneath painted fans and proper posture, heart caught behind the bones of your corset—and he looked at you like he knew.

You didn’t leave. You should have. The air was far too warm now—or perhaps it was him—and your hands felt weightless, as if the glass you still held might slip from your grasp if you forgot yourself for even a breath.

But you stayed. Rooted. Stilled. Your cheeks flushed deeper. Not the polite pink of passing compliments, but something hotter. More dangerous. Like wine spilled on white silk.

Your fan remained in your hand, but you no longer lifted it to hide behind. You couldn’t. Because your eyes—traitorous, eager—had slipped downward. Just for a moment. But long enough. They found his lips. And memory struck.

His mouth on yours. The crush of him in the garden, the scent of night roses crushed beneath your skirt, the heat of his hands bracing your spine. Your skin prickled beneath your corset. Your breath caught in your throat.

Because your body remembered. Not gently. Not sweetly. Sinfully. And not for a single moment… did you care.

He hadn’t looked away. Not once. Even now, when your gaze returned to his, he met it fully. There was something different in him tonight—not softer, not gentler. But richer. Like a man who had tasted what he should not have, and wanted more.

He took a sip from his own glass—lazy, slow—and you watched the way his mouth moved around the rim. Your thighs tightened together without meaning to. Your cheeks flushed deeper still. A rose-red ache bloomed low in your belly, deep and quiet and present.

Around you, the soirée sparkled on. Ladies twirled, their gowns catching the light in jeweled flashes. Gentlemen offered arms, laughter, a flirtatious bow here and there. The quartet shifted to a new melody—light and quick, strings plucked like tea cups clinking in rhythm.

But it might as well have been a different world. Here, in your corner near the refreshment table, beneath the edge of the chandelier— Everything burned quietly.

He leaned a fraction closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough that his breath joined yours, warm between words.

“You’re flushed,” he murmured, not with concern—but knowledge.

Your lips parted slightly. Your voice—when it came—was almost a whisper.

“So are you, my Lord.”

And it was true. His pulse beat just beneath the skin at his throat, subtle but visible, and the glass in his hand trembled once, though he hid it well. You should have looked away. Instead, your eyes met his again, and in them, you saw— Want. But more than that— Recognition. Like he saw all of you now. The girl who trembled in secret. The woman who kissed him back. The body that ached still. And he knew. He always knew.

You took a sip of wine. Then another. As if sweet chilled fruit and crystal could cool what bloomed beneath your skin— but nothing did. Your fan fluttered once in your hand, then stilled. His gaze hadn’t left you. The heat behind it had only deepened, like coals pressed low beneath silk—contained but glowing. You swallowed. Slow. Careful. Then—

“Would you care for a dance, my Lord?”

You didn’t know how you managed to say it so evenly. He raised a brow, just slightly. The corner of his mouth curved—not into a smile, but something quieter. Something dangerous.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

He set down his glass with deliberate grace. Then turned back to you, offering his hand. And when your fingers slid into his—you felt it. The pulse. The warmth. The claim. Polite. Chaste. And yet you might as well have bared your throat. 

He led you toward the dance floor, weaving past lace and velvet and the soft rustle of music. You walked like you were composed. But your skin throbbed. Your breath stuttered. And when he finally turned to face you—when he stepped close and placed one hand lightly at your waist—

You realized you had escaped nothing. You had walked straight into it. 

The music swelled—low strings first, then the rise of the waltz’s graceful pull. His hand at your waist was precise. Not firm. Not rough. But there. And the moment it settled, your body arched instinctively toward him. 

Your hand rested in his, the other grazing his shoulder—a respectable position. But the space between your bodies—what little there was—burned hotter than firelight.

He met your eyes again. And you knew. He remembered every inch of you beneath moonlight. Every tremble. Every kiss. And he was holding you now like he wanted every single one of them again.

You moved together in rhythm—one step, two, a slow turn that brought you even closer than etiquette allowed. But no one stopped you. No one dared.

Because to anyone watching, it was a dance. A lovely one. Perfectly timed. But inside your chest, your heart beat against bone like it was trying to break through. And his thumb, where it pressed lightly over your knuckles, made your breath shiver.

“Your blush suits you,” he murmured near your ear, voice low.

You tilted your head just slightly, daring to meet his eyes mid-turn. “My corset disagrees.”

He chuckled—soft, sinful. “Would you like me to speak to it on your behalf?”

You laughed—quiet and shocked and breathless. And then he spun you. Not with force. With precision. The room spun too, just for a moment—chandeliers a blur, polished floors gleaming beneath your skirts. And when he caught you again— his hand found the curve of your back just an inch lower than before.

Not low enough to scandalize. But low enough to feel.You looked up at him. He was already watching. Not possessively. Not even pleading. But as if you were the answer to every ache he had not yet named. And you—

You had never wanted anything more than to be held like this forever. Even if it meant burning.

The final note of the waltz floated into silence like a sigh. Around you, couples parted—smiles exchanged, polite curtsies dipped, murmured compliments and gloved hands gently released.You breathed in. Prepared to do the same. Your fingers loosened in his. You took a single step back. But—

He didn’t let go. His hand remained at your back, fingers flexing ever so slightly through the silk. And then—he pulled you close again. A subtle motion. Controlled. Effortless. But your breath caught in your throat.

You didn’t resist. You couldn’t. And when the strings began again, the first swell of a new song blooming like velvet beneath the chandeliers—you were already in his arms. Dancing again.

Your lips parted, a quiet protest forming, but he spoke before you could.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice a low murmur, pitched only for you. “Not yet.” 

You exhaled shakily.

“They’ll notice,” you whispered, as he led you into the first turn.

His hand guided you effortlessly, his steps so fluid they felt like an extension of your breath.

“Let them,” he murmured.

“You didn’t dance twice with anyone this season,” you said, eyes flicking upward. “Not even with Eleanora.”

He said nothing at first. But his eyes found yours again. Dark. Focused. Full of fire barely held in check. “You’re not anyone.”

The words landed softly. But you felt them settle deep in your chest, in the place just beneath your ribs where all your most dangerous feelings lived.

The room shimmered around you. The light of the chandeliers spilled across marble like melted stars. Perfume and candle smoke twisted through the air in elegant waves. Laughter drifted from the far end of the hall—faint, irrelevant.

Because in this moment, there was only him. And the second dance. And the truth neither of you had the strength—or the will—to pretend away anymore.

“You didn’t even pretend with her,” you said, breathless.

He spun you again. Slower this time. Closer.

“No.”

“Why me?”

He drew you back into his arms, one hand still holding yours, the other at your spine, steady, warm, branding. “Because I never needed to dance with your sister to know I wasn’t hers.”

The words turned your knees to silk. You stumbled—just slightly. His arm shifted. Caught you. Held you firm.

“Careful,” he murmured, his breath against your cheek now. “You're not allowed to fall. Not until I’m the one who catches you.”

You shouldn’t have stayed. But you did. You let his hand guide you across the floor a second time. You let your fingers rest lightly in his gloved palm, your other hand curled delicately at his shoulder, barely separated by layers of etiquette and desire.

The room spun slowly around you— candlelight dripping from the chandeliers like golden honey, casting soft halos on polished marble. Silks rustled. Fans fluttered. Laughter rose and fell like the tide. But your world had narrowed again.

To him.

To his breath. To his hand at your back, steady and impossibly warm. To the way his thumb occasionally pressed—just slightly—into your spine with each turn. You leaned in. Not boldly. Not obviously. But just enough. Enough to feel the shape of him through his coat. Enough to hear the faint hitch in his breath when your hand shifted against his chest.

“Careful,” he said again, quieter this time. “You lean like that and I’ll think you wish me to steal you from this room.”

Your cheeks flamed immediately.

“You’re imagining things, my Lord.”

“Am I?”

His voice curved around you like silk laced with smoke.

“Tell me this, then,” he whispered as you turned slowly beneath his hand, “would you miss them—your chaperone, your dance card, the soirees and ribbons and watching eyes—if I took you somewhere the music wasn’t public?”

You felt heat bloom down your neck, across your collarbones, sinking low beneath your corset. You couldn’t breathe properly. Didn’t want to.

“You speak too freely,” you whispered, voice shaking as you met his gaze.

“Only because I’ve tasted the cost of silence,” he replied, his hand tightening ever so slightly at your waist. “And I’ve no interest in paying it twice.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because your heart was galloping against your ribs and your lips had gone dry and you were certain—absolutely certain—that if he leaned in any closer, you would either kiss him again… or fall apart where you stood.

But the music saved you. The waltz slowed, notes dissolving into golden silence like a spell releasing its hold. You felt the breath leave your lungs in a single exhale. The applause began faintly—here and there—but it was far away, like hearing it through water.

His hand didn’t drop immediately. Nor did yours. But you stepped back. Just an inch. Just enough to keep yourself from doing something very foolish.

“Pardon me, my Lord. I need some air,” you murmured. 

Your voice wasn’t steady. But it was yours. He bowed, low and graceful. 

“Of course.”

And when you turned—you could feel him watching you go.

The air outside the ballroom was cooler, scented with lemon oil and violets from the hallway vases. You walked softly, carefully, your skirts brushing along the floor like whispers.

Moonlight filtered in through tall, mullioned windows, painting pale silver across the stone floor. The hum of the soirée was muffled here—dimmed by thick drapery and heavy doors. It felt like another world. One made only for breath, and silence, and the truth we hide from chandeliers.

You found the alcove near the end. A narrow bench tucked between columns. A window you could lean against. You didn’t sit. You stood. One hand against the cool marble wall, the other hovering at your chest—barely touching, as though pressing too firmly might remind your heart how fast it was still beating.

Your lips parted around breaths you couldn’t catch. You told yourself you were fine. You were composed. But your body betrayed you with every throb beneath your ribs. You could still feel his hand at your waist. Still hear his voice, low and sinful, curling around your ear like smoke.

“Would you miss them… if I took you somewhere the music wasn’t public?”

Your stomach tightened again. Your thighs shifted, instinctive. You didn’t close your eyes. Because you knew what you’d see behind them.

You didn’t hear his footsteps at first. But you felt the shift. The faint swell of warmth behind you. The subtle hush of movement, careful and unannounced. And then—

“I thought I might find you here.”

His voice was quieter now. Not playful. Not coaxing. Just… present. You didn’t turn. Not yet. Your gaze remained fixed out the window, at the garden below, where white roses bloomed ghost-pales in the dark.

“I needed air, my Lord.” you murmured. “Before I melted on the floor and caused a scene.”

A beat. Then—

“You did seem rather flushed,” he said.

You finally turned your head, just enough to meet his gaze across your shoulder. “And you seemed rather proud of it.”

That earned you the ghost of a smile. But only just. He moved closer. Not touching. But near enough that you could feel the pull between you stretch taut again. You turned back to the window. The cool glass helped nothing.

“You haven’t called, my Lord.” you said. Your voice was steady. Quiet. Too quiet. “After speaking to my mother.”

The words lingered between you, suspended like crystal mid-fall. He didn’t answer right away. You felt him hesitate. And then— “I needed to be sure.”

You frowned, just slightly. “Of me?”

“Of myself.” His voice was lower now. Closer.

“Of what I might do… if I saw you too soon.”

You didn’t look at him. Because if you did, you might not say what came next. “I told Lord Wessex.”

You felt him still. A long, measured silence stretched between you.

“Told him what?” he asked, though his voice already held the edge of knowing.

“That you were courting me now.” You exhaled softly. “That I meant to let you.”

You felt him draw closer before he moved. As if the very air between you thickened. The breath in your chest tightened. Your pulse stirred once more beneath the silk edge of your gown. He stepped to your side slowly, his coat brushing faintly against your sleeve.

The moonlight washed over both of you now—silver and ghost-soft. It lit the edge of his jaw, the high curve of his cheekbone, the gentle fall of his hair as it caught in the faintest draft.

He didn’t speak right away. Didn’t reach for you. But you felt him. All of him. And it was too much. Too close. Too dangerous. Your cheeks bloomed with heat again—unbearable. And your voice escaped in a hush, like you were afraid the dark itself might hear.

“Someone could see us, my Lord.”

You didn’t move away. But your eyes flicked toward the hall beyond—empty, quiet, watching. He stilled beside you. His gaze didn’t leave your profile. Didn’t sweep away, didn’t lessen. And then, finally—

He spoke. Not playful. Not coaxing. Not smooth. But honest. A breath, low and trembling and far too much like yours.

“Let them.”

You blinked. He turned to you fully now, just enough that your shoulders nearly brushed.

“Let them see me near the only woman I have ever wanted to kneel for.” 

The breath caught in your throat. Sharp. Unsteady. Raw. 

“Let them see me restrained,” he continued, “because if they saw what I felt, they would not call it affection.”

You turned toward him slowly—pulled by the voice, the truth in it. He looked at you with something more than fire. Something heavier. Something whole.

“I ache for you,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “In thought, in silence, in every place you are not. And it is not desire alone, nor longing, nor even regret.” 

His jaw clenched once, as if the words hurt to speak.

“It is knowing. That there is no version of this life in which I do not want you.” 

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. The moonlight painted his eyes into glass and ocean. And you— you stood frozen, trembling, with your back to the cool glass window and your heart in his hands without ever offering it. 

You stood so close the candlelight no longer reached between you. Only the moon. It poured through the tall windows, silvering his cheekbone, your bare collarbone, the edges of his coat. A hush filled the corridor—not empty, but listening. As if the walls themselves held their breath, waiting to hear if you would break. Your body did not trust itself. Your heart thundered, loud enough you feared it might echo off the glass behind you.

And still, he stood there. Too near. Too intent. His confession hung between you like smoke, curling into your lungs with every breath you could barely draw.

“There is no version of this life in which I do not want you.”

It was reverent. It was raw. And it made your knees soften in a way your corset would not allow. But you didn’t move. You couldn’t. Because if you so much as reached for him— If you touched the man who had already kissed your hand in the garden, who had already taken your breath in moonlight—

You would be undone. And not quietly. Not safely. You could already see it: His hands around your waist. Your body pressed to the wall. The cool marble at your back, the heat of his mouth at your throat—the sound of it. The scandal. The end. And so—you did the only thing left. You spoke.

“You mustn’t say things like that, my Lord.” you whispered, your voice uneven, trembling. “Not here. Not like this.”

He stilled. But his eyes didn’t look away.

“Why?” he asked, quieter now. “Because it’s true?”

“Because if you touch me,” you said, each word pulled like thread from your ribs, “you’ll ruin me, my Lord.”

A pause. A breath. “Again.”

That one syllable hung between you like the final drop of wine in a glass gone dry. Your cheeks flushed hot, neck tight, body aching. But your hands stayed by your sides. Clenched. White-gloved. Safe. You turned your face slightly toward the window, needing the chill of the glass.

“You would not stop,” you said, your voice breaking. “And I would not let you.” You looked at him then. Eyes wide. Lips trembling. Spine stiff with the effort it took to stay still. 

“And someone could walk through those doors any second and find the Duke of Ravencourt with his mouth at my throat and my corset undone, and I—”  Your breath caught.  “I cannot have that, my Lord.”

Silence. His throat moved. His hands flexed—once—then returned to stillness. “I know.”

Two words. And they gutted you. Because he said them with reverence. With ache. With the restraint of a man who had already imagined it just as vividly as you had—and still stood before you, untouched. Untouching.

“That is why,” he said, finally, “I haven’t kissed you again.” Pause. “Not yet.”

You could still feel his eyes on you. Still hear his breath—low, steady, too composed for a man who had just unraveled you with a single sentence. The marble was cool behind you. The moonlight painted the fabric of your gown in silver-blue waves. And still, your body burned.

Your gloved fingers tightened slightly, digging into the pleats at your side, searching for resolve.

“We should go back,” you whispered, but it came out like a question. Weak. Uncertain.

A pause. He didn’t move. Not an inch. You turned your face just enough to look at him. He stood tall, unmoving, carved from midnight and quiet restraint. But his eyes—those eyes—refused to yield.

They traced your features like memory, like prayer. And yet he stayed still. 

“Rafayel…” you murmured. 

Your voice shook when you said it. Not “my Lord.” Not “Your Grace.” Just his name. As if it tasted forbidden in your mouth, and sweeter for it.

“What is your plan?” you asked. It was meant to be measured. Clever. A way to press distance between you. But your voice betrayed you. Too breathless. Too honest.  “If you’re not going to kiss me again,” you continued, “and you’re not going to let go of this—then what, exactly, do you intend to do?”

His jaw shifted—just barely. And then he exhaled. Not sharply. But like he’d been holding that breath for days.

“I intend,” he said slowly, “to marry you.” You froze. The corridor fell silent. Even the shadows seemed to lean in.  “Not because it’s proper,” he continued. “Not because your mother expects it, or your sister has released me, or because the Ton would nod in approval.”

He took a step closer. Just one. But it was enough to set your blood roaring. “But because I cannot stomach the thought of you dancing with anyone else—of watching another man offer you tulips and tenderness and settle for your hand when I’ve already tasted your soul.” 

The breath left your lungs. Gone. He leaned in just enough for the moonlight to catch the edges of his cheek, the shadow at his throat. 

“Because I wake and ache for you,” he said, “and I would rather be cursed by scandal than live one more day in polite silence.” 

He didn’t touch you. But you felt it. Every word. Every inch. Every imagined night wrapped inside that vow.

The air did not move. Neither did you. His words had poured over you like the tide breaking—not crashing. But consuming.

“I intend to marry you.”

They echoed in your bones. Down your spine. Through the silk of your gown and into the space just beneath your ribs, where your soul had already begun to ache. You had known. Your mother had told you. He’d asked. She’d nodded. The possibility had bloomed like a quiet seed.

But hearing it from his lips—in this hush. In this place. With moonlight catching the edge of your throat and his voice holding your name like a sacred thing—It was different. It wrecked you. You couldn’t breathe. Not truly. You stood there, your gloved hands trembling, your chest rising too quickly against your corset. Your cheeks were flushed so deeply you felt it in your ears, your neck, your thighs.

Everything in you pulled tight. The ache was no longer just between your legs or behind your lips. It was in your spirit. In the part of you that wanted to lean forward and place your head against his chest—not to be kissed, not to be taken— but to rest. To belong.

You opened your mouth. But no words came. Only his title. A whisper. “My… Lord…”

It was breathless. Almost broken. Your eyes searched his, wide and unsure, your lips parted with heat you didn’t know how to hide. He stepped closer again. Not touching. But just near enough that you felt the warmth rising off his chest like a hearth you wanted to fall into.

And then he spoke. Quieter this time. Surer. As if he saw the unraveling behind your eyes and vowed to meet it with gentleness.

“I’ll do it properly.” His voice was low. Steady. “I will ask you the way I should. The way you deserve.” A breath. His gaze dropped once—just once—to your lips. Then back to your eyes. “But when I do… I hope you do not refuse me.”

Your heart lurched. Stumbled. He said it without command. Without possession. Just hope. And something in you shattered a little at that—because he could have kissed you. He could have undone you here. But he didn’t. And somehow…that ruined you more.

You left first. You had to. Your knees were too soft. Your chest too tight. And his words—his voice—still curled around your spine like silk and fire.

“When I do… I hope you won’t refuse me.”

You’d expected heat, scandal, another kiss that would undo your virtue beneath starlight. But instead, he gave you that. Hope. You walked the corridor alone, one hand skimming the wall for steadiness, the other pressed gently to your ribs like you might hold yourself together if you tried hard enough.

The music was still playing when you slipped back into the ballroom. The light—too bright. The voices—too loud. The wine—too sweet. You smiled at someone who passed. Laughed at a remark you didn’t quite hear. But your body was elsewhere. Your mind was elsewhere. Still in the hush. Still beneath his eyes.

He returned a few minutes later. Not rushed. Not ruffled. As if nothing had happened at all. But you saw it. The loosened edge to his jaw. The distant fire behind his gaze. You didn’t speak again. You didn’t have to. You finished the night on opposite ends of the room—drifting, orbiting. Never touching. But never truly apart.

The night stretched long once you returned home. The house was quiet. The lamps burned low. And though your maid helped remove your gown, though your corset loosened, though your hair spilled down around your shoulders—sleep never came.

You lay there. Sheets soft. Skin hot. Eyes wide in the dark. And he replayed in your mind like a secret melody,

“Let them see me near the only woman I have ever wanted to kneel for.”

“I will ask you the way you deserve.”

“I hope you do not refuse me.”

Your thighs pressed together under the blankets. You turned onto your side. Then your back. Then sat up entirely, breath shallow, heartbeat unrelenting. You couldn’t bear it anymore. You rose from the bed. Slipped down the hallway. And knocked once—twice—on Eleanora’s door.

She blinked awake beneath pale linen, rubbing her eyes before she saw you.

“Is something wrong?” she whispered, sitting up.

You shook your head. Your lips trembled. 

“No. I just… I need to tell you what he said.” 

And in the dark, with only a candle flickering between you, you told her everything. Every word. Every ache. Every hope that now lived inside your chest like a flame you could not contain.

© zaynessbeloved 2025

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taglist: @syluslittlecrows

next part

[pankowcrumbs]

Kingston's X Will Poulter

MasterList

Will Poulter Masterlist

The first time I met Will Poulter was on the set of Kingstons, a new Regency-era television series for Netflix. The show had been greenlit after the overwhelming success of Bridgerton, and it was clear Netflix wanted to carve out more space in that era. Kingstons was a lavish production filled with opulent gowns, forbidden glances, and slow-burning romance the kind that made hearts flutter and screens sizzle.

I had been cast as Teresa, the youngest daughter of a prestigious lord and lady, whose storyline revolved around being married off to a suitable suitor. However, her heart was set on the boy next door her childhood friend, Thomas, played by none other than Will Poulter. It was the classic boy-next-door love story, filled with longing looks over garden hedges, secret meetings under moonlit balconies, and love that defied social constraints.

From the first table read, Will and I hit it off. He was charming and effortlessly funny, breaking the ice by cracking a joke about the absurdity of our character’s long-winded monologues. It helped that we were both British, which meant we understood each other’s dry humour and could complain about the cold cups of tea on set together.

Throughout the first season, we grew close. There was an easy chemistry between us that translated well on screen. Our characters were tethered by their deep emotional connection, and it wasn’t difficult to pull off it felt natural. Will was an incredible scene partner; he listened, reacted, and made every moment feel effortless.

The show premiered a year later, and the response was explosive. Fans fell head over heels for Kingstons, praising its romance, drama, and the undeniable chemistry between Thomas and Teresa. Hashtags like #ThomasAndTeresa and #PoulterAnd(Y/L/N) trended for weeks. Netflix wasted no time greenlighting two more seasons, and before I knew it, we were back on set, diving into the deepening romance between our characters.

This time around, the lines between fiction and reality started to blur.

Season two was all about Thomas and Teresa finally getting to explore their feelings for each other. The stolen glances turned into secret kisses, the lingering touches became passionate embraces, and the emotional yearning exploded into unbridled romance. Filming such intimate moments required trust, and we had that in spades. But with every take, every whisper of I love you, and every touch that lingered a second too long, something changed.

The chemistry was no longer just a tool for the cameras. It seeped into our breaks between scenes, into the way Will’s hand would linger on my back after a take, the way his eyes would stay locked on mine a little longer than necessary.

“Cut!” the director called one afternoon after a particularly intense scene. Will and I had just filmed our first on-screen kiss, and my heart was hammering in my chest. I stepped back, brushing my thumb over my lips, and tried to shake off the feeling coursing through me.

“Still in character?” Will teased, grinning. But there was something behind his eyes, something unspoken that made my stomach twist in the best way possible.

I laughed, but my voice was breathy. “Yeah… must be that.”

Neither of us acknowledged the tension outright, but it was there, simmering beneath the surface, undeniable.

By the time filming wrapped for the day, I felt like I needed air. I wandered off to the trailers, only for Will to call out, “Fancy grabbing a drink?”

That was how it started. A quiet pub tucked away from prying eyes, the soft hum of conversation surrounding us as we laughed over our pints. It was easy, like we had always been meant to orbit each other. We talked about everything our careers, our families, the absurdity of some of our more dramatic dialogue. And when the conversation turned to the show, he hesitated before asking, “Does it feel different this season?”

I swallowed hard, knowing exactly what he meant. “Yeah,” I admitted, “it does.”

There was a moment of silence, and then he reached across the table, his fingers brushing against mine. It was the lightest of touches, but it sent a shiver down my spine.

From then on, things escalated. It was subtle at first the way he’d find me on set even when we weren’t filming together, the way our stolen glances off-camera mirrored those on-screen. Then came the late-night rehearsals that turned into whispered confessions, and the lingering touches that neither of us had the heart to pull away from.

One night, we were filming a particularly emotional scene where Thomas and Teresa finally admitted their love for each other. It was raw, vulnerable, and by the time the director called “cut,” I felt breathless.

Will didn’t let go of me immediately. His hands stayed on my waist, his forehead resting against mine as we steadied ourselves. “Tell me you feel it too,” he murmured.

I did. God, I did.

Before I could respond, one of the crew members called for us, snapping us out of whatever moment we had been caught in. But from then on, there was no denying it we had crossed a line, and there was no going back.

That night, we ended up in his trailer. What started as a casual conversation quickly turned into something more when he cupped my face and kissed me. It wasn’t choreographed, it wasn’t for the cameras it was real.

And it was perfect.

From that moment on, we were inseparable. We kept it under wraps as best we could, not wanting the media to turn our relationship into a spectacle, but the cast and crew weren’t blind. Mad glances turned into knowing smirks, and our director made a passing comment about how our chemistry was somehow even better this season.

It wasn’t until the second season premiered that we realised just how many fans had picked up on the shift. Social media exploded with theories about whether we were together, dissecting our interviews, our body language, our interactions. Neither of us confirmed or denied anything, letting the speculation run wild.

Then, during the press tour, we were seated next to each other at a panel. A fan asked about our favourite scenes to film, and Will smirked before answering, “Oh, that’s easy. The love scenes.”

The audience erupted in laughter, but I could feel my cheeks burning. “Careful, Poulter,” I teased, nudging him. “You’ll start rumours.”

He leaned in, his voice low. “Maybe I want to.”

I stared at him, my heart skipping a beat. And just like that, the line between fiction and reality disappeared entirely.

Our love story, much like Thomas and Teresa’s, had started as something scripted. But somewhere along the way, it had become something real, something tangible.

Something that was just ours.

And we weren’t hiding it anymore.

[yeoldecorprusarium]

Crashcraft's vintage sets in Cluedo colors

✿ This is for the sims 2 ✿

Here are recolors I made of various Cashcraft sets for use in Éclaire. I recolored only the objects I thought I'd like to use in my game, so not all of the sets are present in full.

Please also note that I wrote cluedo colors, and not woods. No way in hell I was going to handpaint all that to change the wood grain, sorry.

What's included?

✿ 6 objects from the Magnolia Hill Dining set (buffet, china cabinet, curio, hutch, mirror and sideboard);

✿ 6 objects from the Regency set (tea set, dining chair, cabinet, sideboard, china cabinet and armchair);

✿ 30 objects from the Vanity Fair sets (armchair, canopy, cash register (req. OFB), chaise, coffee table, curtain, desk chair, end table, footstool, handbag, hat, 3 lamps, mirror, parlor chair, perfume tray, round table, sewing basket, sewing clutter, cutting board, desk, screen, sewing shelf, worktable, sofa, tall cabinet and vanity);

✿ 7 objects from the Victorian set (chafing dish, chair, painting, sideboards, hutch and table);

✿ 5 objects from the Vintage Charm set (alarm clock, bed, books and 2 lamps).

DOWNLOAD (SFS)

Meshes, swatches and previews included, files compressed and clearly named.

✿ I renamed the meshes to remove any special characters, so check your download folder for duplicates manually if you already have Cashcraft's sets in your game.

Credits: Cashcraft, @cluedosims.

[ramblingthoughtsofayoungadult]

Lady of Shadows-Anthony Bridgerton x Black!Reader

Warnings: None outside of Regency era appropriate language. Slow-burn.

A/N: This is only the first part and I had to cut myself off. Lmk if you want a second part. I don't own the gif or Bridgerton and don't claim to.

Word Count: 8k

Dearest Gentle Reader,

Each spring gives relief not only from the bitter, unforgiving English winter but also from sheer boredom. 'Tis the ton’s favorite time of year for a new crop of fresh, bright-eyed debutantes looking to make their impressions on the queen and the most eligible suitors. Few can ever live up to the diamond herself, Duchess Daphne Basset, but many can try. This year, Her Majesty appointed the title to Miss Edwina Sharma, a newcomer to the ton. With her wide eyes and perfected manners, she made a favorable impression on many of the men. However, what no one expected during the debut of a shining new star was a return of a familiar face.

Last night at Her Majesty’s first ball of the season, Lady _____ Talbot, nee Warwick, dowager Viscountess of Edinburgh, made a grand re-entry to society that not even her childhood friend, the aforementioned Duchess of Hastings, expected. The once shrinking violet stunned the ton during her initial debut with her marriage to Lord Henry Talbot, a man nearly twice her senior. Whispers throughout respectable society claimed the marriage had much less to do with love and more to do with the Talbot name and endless financial support. Despite the fortune hunting accusations, Lady Talbot held her head high and continued to engage in all societal functions and countess duties until her late husband’s business required them to relocate to his family estate in Scotland.

There were scant whispers about the quiet beauty until the unexpected death of Lord Talbot three years ago. The only thing more unexpected than the Viscount of Edinburgh’s death was the rumored inheritance bestowed upon his young wife. It is rather unusual and curious for a widow to receive the entirety of her husband’s estate, especially considering that the Viscount and Viscountess of Edinburgh were married for half a decade. One must wonder if it is true of what they say about the quiet ones or if the dowager countess is much more charming and strategic than anyone gave her credit for?

I also cannot help but wonder what Lady Talbot’s intentions are for the season. Is it to assist the Duchess of Hastings’ efforts to ensure Miss Eloise Bridgerton has a smooth season? Is it to stir drama and scandal? Could it possibly be for love? Whatever it is, I am sure her addition will make for an eventful season.

Lady Whistledown

Lady Talbot sipped her tea while musing over the column. In a sense, it was comforting that Lady Whistledown was still reporting on the scandals of the ton. In her initial debut, _______ recalled reading each edition aloud with Daphne at the Bridgerton home. At the time, she hadn’t minded taking a backseat to the spotlight since Daphne’s love life was much more exciting to observe. However, Whistledown’s mention of _______ presently couldn’t help but make her smile.

“Is that the new Whistledown?” Her father, Lord Warwick, questioned behind his newspaper.

As per usual, the patriarch looked every bit the esteemed political power broker he was in a pressed navy suit with exquisite gold accents. His short gray hair was cropped close to the scalp, highlighting his dark skin and eyes. Lady Warwick sat perpendicular to him at the vast dining room table in the Warwick townhome. Her silvering dark hair was styled in an elegant updo, and the subtle grays were the only tell that she was nearing five and sixty. Her blush pink day dress highlighted her willowy stature and unblemished dark brown skin.

“I thought gossip was below you, Lord Warwick,” Lady Talbot teased.

Lord Warwick cleared his throat. “It is not gossip if it is valid and favorable. Besides, you would like to be discussed in such a popular piece, yes?”

“Of course, every young lady wants Whistledown to write of them favorably, dear,” Lady Warwick insisted. “However, I do wish she mentioned your gown; it took Madame Delacroix ages to create the perfect shade of red.”

“I do wish you had gone with a less…provocative color,” Lord Warwick mused.

Lady Talbot gently set her teacup down in favor of another forkful of eggs. “I had to do something to stand out. All the debutantes are barely one and twenty while I am approaching thirty. Considering the…severity of the situation, I hope you can forgive me, Father.”

Lord Warwick opened his mouth but quickly closed it and returned to his paper, muttering something about Italian foreign policy. It was almost comical how cautious the baron was about his daughter’s pursuit of a second marriage; in her first attempt, ______ was positive her father would have a stroke any time a suitor said something flirtatious. Then again, _____ would not realize the flirtations until either her mother or Daphne pointed it out.

But ______ was older, wiser, and well aware of several men’s eyes on her as she navigated the ballroom last night. She even surprised herself with how easily she conversed with them. Of course, _______ had not expected to net the same amount of attention as the typical debutantes, but she was flattered by the attention. In her initial debut, ______ struggled to string together a proper sentence in front of men, particularly handsome ones.

Like Anthony, her inner voice teased.

Her stomach clenched at the thought of the dark-haired rake. Even though she’d known him since childhood, _______ could never figure Anthony out. She remembered when he used to be much more lighthearted and regularly participated in whatever mischief Daphne, Benedict, and _____ would get up to. Everything changed when his father died, and it was as though Anthony’s personality muted. For a long time, ______ had a loose idea of what the responsibility and title meant. As a dowager viscountess, she felt like she could empathize with Anthony a little more.

Part of her was grateful that Anthony was not actively engaged in the marriage mart when she and Daphne debuted. While it was hard not to laugh when Daphne complained about his interference, she appreciated it when Anthony gave her his honest assessment of Lord Talbot.

“You deserve every happiness, ______, and he has consistently proven that he’s willing to do whatever it takes to provide you with it,” he’d stated.

_______’s late husband was, admittedly, not the most handsome man pursuing her, but he was certainly the kindest and most considerate. ______ was comfortable around him, and Henry patiently listened to her ramble about everything from fashion to philosophy. Henry also never expected her to be any less intelligent than she was.

“Tis a dangerous thing to have both an admirable appearance and wits to match,” Henry would say.

_______ sighed at the thought of him. He was far too kind and generous for the world, let alone the ton. She used to feel sick every time someone made a rude comment about their different ages or mentioned the fortune hunter rumors. But Henry never let it bother him, and he was not bothered by much.

Lady Warwick smiled softly. “It is only natural for you to still miss him, ______.”

______ blinked and continued eating her breakfast. “I know. It feels strange to try to replace him.”

“Unfortunately, the choice is not yours.”

Her mother’s words stung, and it almost kept _____ from clearing her plate.

Almost.

Usually, the mention of Mr. Charles Smith was enough to make her gag. At three and thirty, the man was Henry’s oldest male relative. Though they were never close, Charles had made it his mission to discredit ______ in any and every way from receiving his uncle’s inheritance. Charles had no care or concern for how investigating Henry’s state of mind while he wrote up the will or attempting to find any flaws in ______’s character made the grieving process all the more grueling. After eight months with no success in either endeavor, Mr. Williams, Henry’s solicitor, executed the will and ensured that ______ received the entirety of the Talbot estate and holdings.

However, ______ was not foolish enough to believe that Charles would quit nipping at her heels. Unfortunately, there was only one way to keep him at bay: an advantageous marriage. _______ would have to marry a man with a high title that would secure her estate and shield her from Charles.

She would have to play the society game mercilessly, she doubted that any other woman could ever understand her predicament.

Lord Warwick drank the last of his coffee and rose from his seat at the end of the table. “I must be off to my meetings now. I will see you all at dinner and look forward to a favorable report.”

Lady Warwick and ______ stood and curtsied. Seconds after they did, Lord Warwick exited the home and _______ relaxed back in her chair. Ellie, Patricia, Lucas, and Sarah, some of the house servants, started clearing the half-empty platters and Lord Warwick’s place from the table.

“What time are the callers to arrive?” _______ asked.

“Thirty and ten,” Lady Warwick answered.

______ glanced up at the clock on the light green wall. She had around half an hour to mentally and emotionally prepare herself. Her father must have been pleased that she chose a soft lilac day dress to accept callers. The color highlighted her deep ebony skin and made her dark brown eyes pop. Anita, one of the maids, had pulled ______’s dark curls into a stylish updo.

Ms. Brown, the head maid, curtsied before approaching the table.

“Lady Warwick, Lady Talbot,” she greeted.

The older woman always managed to look put together in her all-black uniform. ______ had never seen Ms. Brown’s hair leave the simple, low bun at the nape of her neck. Her dark gray eyes saw everything.

“Ms. Brown, I must insist you call me ______, especially since you insist on reminding me how much you once had to change my nappies,” _______ teased.

Ms. Brown smiled softly. “My apologies; my training requires me to address all nobles of their title.”

“In the company of myself and my parents, you have my permission to use my first name. I will not cause you distress by requiring it of you during social engagements.”

“How many callers are we expecting today, Ms. Brown?” Lady Warwick asked.

“Four, Lady Warwick: Mr. Nicholson, Lord Bexley, Lord Russell, and Mr. Ashbrook.”

Though none were listed in particular order, all four of them came from well-established houses and were well-connected. Also, all four tied for irritating quirks.

For ten minutes, Lady _____ Talbot suffered through the wiry blond Lord Bexley expound on his moronic political takes, with no mind at how much spittle escaped his mouth. Lord Russell threatened to one up Lord Bexley’s carelessness with his hyper awareness.

“My apologies, Lady Talbot, but this is quite bothersome,” the young brunet insisted as he picked up a speck of dust from Lady Talbot’s skirt.

It would have been less irritating if he had not stopped the conversation several times to straighten a pristine teacup or to check his appearance in the silver teapot. When Lady Talbot glared at his retreating figure, Lady Warwick reminded her that the Bexleys had strong royal ties.

Lord Russell started off well enough but then….

“My apologies but I must inquire, what would the dowry look like with your new title. Solely for me to be prepared, of course,” he inquired.

It was all Lady Talbot could do not to throw him out herself.

“Thank you, Mr. Ashbrook, I will recall your wise words if I am ever to visit…”

The pause was not as strategic as _____ hoped it would be.

The stout man huffed. “New Guinea.”

“Right, thank you for your time.”

As soon as the door closed behind him, ______ collapsed into a plush cream settee with a huff.

“How is it that all four of them were insufferable? That must be an anomaly,” she groaned.

Lady Warwick paused from her needlework and wandered over to her daughter. “While they all had their faults, I do not think any of them should be taken out of consideration.”

______ stared at the older woman. “Truly? If I were to become Lady Bexley, in my husband’s ideal world, I would be unable to leave my house without submitting a request two weeks in advance.”

“The Bexleys are…conservative in their beliefs, but they do have some of the strongest royal ties in the ton.”

Royal ties were nice but not the primary objective. The primary objective was for ______ to find a husband she could get along with and keep Charles at bay. She would not, could not let her family fall in shame.

Lady Talbot pushed herself up and slid a large slice of seed cake onto her plate. “I do not recall my debutante season being this…exhausting.”

Lady Warwick smiled softly. “No, the late Lord Talbot was a godsend; he made the courtship simple but it was obvious  that he cared deeply for you.”

_______ nodded absentmindedly as she started digging into the cake. She had been too busy pretending to be interested in the callers to indulge in anything Andrew, the house cook, prepared for the occasion. The spread was immaculate, as always, and _____ was thankful for a moment to breathe. The first bite of the cake was absolutely sinful and _____ had to suppress a groan.

She was about halfway through when Elijah, the footman, arrived to the sitting room. “Lord Anthony Bridgerton and Mr. Benedict Bridgerton for Lady _____ Talbot.”

The gasp ____ was about to let out sucked the piece of cake into a strange position in her throat. Immediately, she started coughing and hacking and Lady Warwick and Sarah tried to assist her. Her vision went blurry as she wondered what the eldest Bridgerton brothers wanted.

Finally, she recuperated and wiped away her tears.

“Send them in,” Lady Warwick instructed.

Seconds later, Benedict strolled into the room, his smile bright and his eyes filled with mirth. Anthony trailed closely behind him, shoulders squared, and his gaze sharp.

“Lady Warwick,” Benedict greeted with a slight bow. He turned slightly towards _____. “Lady Talbot, I hope I did not cause you any inconvenience.”

“No.” _____ coughed as she rose to her feet. “Not at all, I can always make time for an old friend.”

Anthony politely bowed towards ______ and her mother. “Lady Talbot; Lady Warwick.”

There was something piercing about Anthony’s gaze that almost made ______ hold her breath. However, she managed to breathe normally while Lady Warwick quietly relegated herself to her seat, a respectable distance from the trio. Both Bridgerton brothers took seats on the couch across from ______.

“Tea?” ______ offered.

“Unfortunately, we will not----,” Anthony began.

“Tea sounds lovely, we always have time for tea,” Benedict interrupted.

_______ raised an eyebrow before delicately pouring both of them tea and set it in front of them. “You are a little late for calling hours, Benedict.”

“As I said earlier, I do not mean to cause any inconvenience.” Benedict sipped some tea. “We were in the area and thought we would stop by.”

“Some more insistent than others,” Anthony commented.

“You caused quite the stir last night, and we barely had a moment to speak,” Benedict playfully complained.

“You danced twice,” Anthony pointed out.

“And with no room for conversation either time!”  

_______’s face warmed at the memory of all the suitors who flocked to her after her entrance. Most were young and a bit younger than she would have preferred. However, they neglected to send letters or request an audience. Either their mothers wanted them to have the freshest of debutantes, or the allure of marrying into money was something only men had the advantage of utilizing.

“I did not mean to cause such a stir,” _____ insisted as she started to pick at her cake.

“Oh, please, maybe you never did in the past, but last night seemed quite intentional,” Benedict grinned. “I remember how you were shaking at your debut and could barely look at any of the suitors who approached.”

“I recall being terrified, but I do not recall multiple suitors.”

“I believe my favorite part was when you stepped on Anthony’s foot and immediately spilled lemonade on his favorite cravat,” Benedict reminisced.

_______’s cheeks and nose warmed at the memory. The floor fell out from under her at the time, and she had been positive Anthony was going to chastise her in front of the ton. Instead, he took several deep breaths as she profusely apologized and tried to dab as much lemonade from him as possible.

“Why must you remember only the most embarrassing things?” Anthony griped.

“I find that the more embarrassing the moment, the better the story,” Benedict replied before turning back to ______. “But nothing was embarrassing about you last night. You were truly a vision, like Venus herself emerging from the sea.”

______ chuckled behind a gloved hand. “I must say I missed your artistic perspective.”

“How was Scotland? Did it make you miss the ton?” Benedict asked.

“It was lovely; the accents were quite thick so it was hard for me to understand what any of the staff were saying for months, but they are some of the friendliest people I’ve met; truly warm,” _____ reminisced.

“You sound like you miss it,” Anthony commented.

_____ blinked. “Sometimes.”

“I have to ask what would make you leave a wonderful place and return here?” Benedict questioned.

_______ finished her cake and started nursing her cold tea. “It was time. I had not seen any of you for so long and I wanted to take the opportunity when it presented itself.”

“Just in time for the season,” Anthony mused.

______’s eyes darted towards him. “I am glad that the timing worked as such since I was able to assist Eloise.”

Benedict smirked while Anthony’s shoulders tensed. It was obvious that they did not have much faith in the younger sister to marry anyone anytime soon.

“Ah, yes, and I’m sure she appreciated it,” Benedict added. “Will you be attending the art exhibition tomorrow?”

“Of course, I would not miss it for the world,” ______ stated.

“Wonderful, I will enjoy listening to all your insights.”

Anthony cleared his throat. “I must ask, ______, how are you doing…really?”

_____ hesitated.

She had no idea where to start; most days, she felt somewhat normal, and then she would smell high-quality tobacco or read an article that she and Henry would have debated for hours. On those days, she would fall apart as soon as she was alone in her room. Then, there were others, where she remembered her aunt, Constance, sending her money to buy dresses for various balls and parties in her initial debut. She recalled all the nights she heard her parents arguing about money. The most daunting memory was the look in Mr. Smith’s eyes when he vowed to honor his uncle’s wishes.

His deep blue eyes were simultaneously soulless and terrifying. However, that would be too much to explain, so ______ said, “Fine, I am happy to be home. It’s nice to see everyone.”

Anthony frowned slightly. “I believe you will tell me how you honestly are when you are ready.”

_______ nearly balked. “I….It’s complicated. I do miss Henry, but I need to be wise about my future.”

“Of course; you always thought ahead, even when we were children.”

“How else would Benedict have successfully smuggled port from your father’s secret stash?”

______ chuckled at the memory while Anthony raised an eyebrow. However, _____ noticed the smallest quirk at the corners of his mouth.

“I still cannot believe he roped you and Daphne into his scheme,” Anthony mused.

“Come on, Anthony, everyone needs a little danger in their lives once in a while,” Benedict argued.

“I will never forget how furious you were when you found us,” ______ reminisced. “I couldn’t tell if you were going to lecture us or whip us.”

“Probably both,” Benedict concluded.

Anthony rolled his eyes. “The point is that you have always planned for things, and I am sure that you have carved out a way for yourself to survive.”

Even though he was observant, ______ couldn’t help but be taken aback at knowing that he paid such close attention to her. It made her wonder what else he noticed.

______ pushed the thought out of her mind. “Thank you, Anthony, but I hear that I am not the only one here carving out a way for myself.”

Anthony frowned for a moment until he caught a glimpse of Benedict’s mischievous grin and ______’s smirk. “I am not sure what you mean.”

“Oh, come off it, Anthony,” Benedict waved him off.

“Every eligible lady knows that Viscount Bridgerton is in the market for a bride,” ______ stated. “And everyone in the ton knows that he will not settle for less than the best.”

Anthony pressed his lips together and sipped more tea. “It could not be avoided forever…it was time.”

“And just when Miss Edwina Sharma makes her debut and becomes Her Majesty’s favorite,” _____ observed. “Interesting timing.”

“If you must know, I was on my way home from visiting with Miss Sharma when Benedict insisted, I accompany him here.”

“There’s no need to get defensive; Miss Sharma is a lovely young woman, and I am sure she will see your…charm.” ______ smiled. “It is good that we are both seeking something stable this season.”

Benedict pouted. “And why am I not included in this endeavor?”

“Because your idea of stability is only occasionally forgetting what happened during a raucous night,” ______ dead-panned.

Benedict could not help but chortle at her tone, and she joined him. _______ noticed Anthony watching her and Benedict with a look in his eye that she could not quite place. There was no need since decoding Anthony Bridgerton’s expressions was not on her list of responsibilities.

Anthony stood. “I do believe we took enough of your time, Lady Talbot.”

Benedict slowly rose but the twinkle in his eye was still evident. “You must visit us soon, _______. I believe you are the only one who can quell Eloise’s constant need for political debates.”

“I shall as soon as I can,” _____ promised.

Benedict bowed one last time to _____ and Lady Warwick before exiting the room. The room was silent, save for the occasional carriage passing by outside.

“It was nice speaking with you again, Lady Talbot,” Anthony said.

“And you as well, Lord Bridgerton,” ______ replied. “I do mean what I said earlier; I am happy that you are looking for something or someone you can rely on.”

“I appreciate it, Lady Talbot.” Anthony paused, and ______ could tell that he was mulling something over. Finally, he stated, “I do hope that you find what you need this season.”

While Anthony had a way of stating everything like fact, his words did something to ______. It was as though they permeated something in her, something deep within that she could never name but always sensed. She wondered what it could mean.

Over the next few days, Lady ______ Talbot would suffer through dull conversations, stunted flirtations, and horrid breath with her rotation of suitors. Every time they met, she reminded herself that this would all be worth it. All she needed was someone titled enough to keep Mr. Smith’s paws far away from the Talbot estate.

Besides the suitors, the most irritating thing she had to contend with was the hawk-like eyes of mamas and their suspicious daughters. Every move _____ made was scrutinized, whether it was the material of the gloves she chose or who she chose to speak to for more than a few seconds. It was only sensible that these dynamics followed her to the Cowpers’ garden party.

The tastefully lavish estate was donned in colorful spreads of hyacinths, magnolias, and peonies and the guests blended in perfectly with the environment. Servants in crisp whites floated seamlessly through the crowds with trays of lemonade, quiches, and finger sandwiches. The string quartet’s performance added to the elegant ambiance.

Chatter filled the air as Lady Talbot and Lady Warwick entered the Cowper’s garden. Lady Warwick donned a bright white cotton gown for the occasion and tastefully accessorized with pearls. Her daughter chose yet another daring outfit in her mint green silk dress complete with low neckline. Her matching scarf added even more regality to her appearance and a few curls fell into her eyes.

Lady Talbot fought the urge to smirk as the chatter began to dwindle as the heat of more eyes trilled through her body.

“You are no longer afraid of risk, Daughter,” Lady Warwick whispered as they descended the stairs.

“A lifetime of listening to you and Papa encourage me to accept risk in life sunk in,” she muttered back.

Lady Cowper’s raised eyebrows betrayed her true feelings as she and her husband approached them. “Lady Warwick, Lady Talbot, I am so pleased that you could join us.”

Both women curtsied.

“Of course, we would be remiss to not attend one of your lovely garden parties,” Lady Warwick insisted.

Lady Talbot nodded. “Your home is even lovelier than I remember, Lady Cowper.”

“Thank you, dear, and you are much…bolder than I recall.”

The woman could barely hold back her disdain, but Lady Talbot forced the nerves rising from the pit of her stomach down.

“I have learned that fortune honors the bold, Lady Cowper. If you would excuse me.” Lady Talbot curtsied before wandering further into the party.

As she maneuvered, she pretended not to see several men ogle her while their debutantes pouted or tried not to huff. She nodded politely to a few women she knew from childhood before helping herself to a glass of lemonade.

“Lady Talbot, I am grateful that you were able to make it today!” Mr. Ashbrook bounded up to her similarly to how Puck, her childhood dog, would greet her.

Mr. Ashbrook’s large teeth and stiff posture were a far cry from her loyal companion. ______ forced a soft smile.

“Mr. Ashbrook, a pleasure,” she replied.

“I was wondering when I would see you again.” His eyes drifted to her dress, and his cheeks reddened. “I saw an article in The Defender that made me think of you.”

______ sipped some lemonade. “Really?”

“Yes, it was all about how the infrastructure in Asia has been negatively impacted by----”

“Mr. Ashbrook, I am truly sorry for interrupting, but I must borrow _____ for a moment,” Daphne interrupted.

She had appeared out of nowhere in a lightweight baby blue dress, deep blonde hair styled in the most elegant updo. Mr. Ashbrook sputtered something, but neither woman caught it as Daphne whisked _____ away.

“You are an angel,” ______ sighed.

“I do try from time to time,” she teased.

When they got far enough away from him, they stopped, and Daphne adjusted the white shawl around her shoulders. “You must tell me everything that has been going on. I cannot believe I am getting updates about my best friend from Whistledown of all sources.”

“Well, you have been busy with Augie and the Hastings estate. I did not want to burden you with such trivial matters.”

“I am never too busy to catch up. Now, please tell me you were conversing with Mr. Ashbrook out of kindness.”

_____’s hesitation spoke louder than any words. “Despite his dullness, his new appointment in Parliament has yielded quite generously.”

Daphne glanced back at the man, who had somehow trapped Colin in conversation. She looked away before Colin could silently beg her to rescue him.

“While it is always good to keep a man’s standing in mind, it is not everything,” she asserted.

“But, of course. However, it is quite a large thing women must consider, especially if she is eight and twenty,” _____ replied.

“I did not mean any offense, ______, I simply mean that I want more for you, and you should also want more for yourself,” Daphne insisted.

Before _____ could reply, Benedict sidled up to Daphne. “If Lady Hopkins tries to push her daughter upon me one more time, I will scream.”

“How gentlemanly of you,” Daphne teased.

“Please, he is doing us all a favor by keeping that shrill shriek inside,” ______ added.

Benedict gasped with faux shock. “Are you insinuating something about me, Lady Talbot?”

She shrugged. “Only that few people in attendance witnessed your reaction to a harmless prank years ago on Halloween.”

“That is unfair; you two knew that I was afraid of ghosts!”

“We were in sheets!”

“It was still terrifying!” Benedict shivered. “The mere thought of it gives me nightmares from time to time.”

Daphne and _____ burst into laughter as Benedict continued pleading his case. However, his wide grin also suggested lightheartedness. As they were reminiscing, Lady Violet Bridgerton approached them.

“Pardon me, but do you mind if I borrow Daphne?” she asked.

“No,” _____ answered.

“Not at all,” Benedict agreed.

“What is the issue, Mama?” Daphne asked.

Lady Violet sighed. “Your sister has trapped Lord Rutherford in a debate.”

Her eyes glanced in the couple’s direction. They were off to the side, with Eloise gesturing strongly with her hands while Penelope stood pensively beside her. The handsome Lord Rutherford looked more flustered than any debutante present.

“Duty calls,” Daphne mused before wandering over to the pair.

Lady Violet turned her attention to Benedict and _____. “Lady Talbot, how lovely to see you again.” She raised an eyebrow. “And that dress!”

“It’s from Paris, all the women are dressing like this,” _____ informed.

“How lovely for you to partake in that,” Lady Violet stated. “Never mind that, I must know when you and your parents will join us for dinner.” “Any time, I am sure.”

Lady Violet glanced at Benedict. “Why did you not extend them the invitation the day you called on them?”

“It slipped my mind, and we had such fun catching up and antagonizing Anthony,” he explained.

“Where is he, anyway?” ______ asked.

Lady Violet gestured towards the middle of the party. There, Anthony made his stake on Miss Edwina clear as he stared into her soul as she spoke. The young girl was brilliant in her golden gown, and her older sister and mother were stunning as well in their posts nearby. Of course, the other eligible suitors circled like hawks, but Anthony’s glare made them less bold.

“They have hardly been apart since their introduction; I do believe it is serious,” Lady Violet said.

“Ah, yes, Anthony has maintained a connection with a woman for longer than a few hours; someone call the historians.”

Lady Violet smacked Benedict’s arm while _____ snorted and immediately apologized.

“No, I believe that is the most charming sound I’ve heard you utter in our entire lives,” Benedict jested.

For once, the air around ______ felt light instead of tense, and she had forgotten how much fun she had with Benedict. Eventually, Benedict offered her his arm, and she gladly accepted it before they approached Anthony and the Sharmas.

“Now, brother, I thought you had better manners than to keep a lady all to yourself,” Benedict teased.

Anthony immediately stiffened but managed a smile. “That was hardly my intent, Benedict.”

“Oh, I do love your dress!” Edwina exclaimed as she stared at ______’s ensemble.

“Thank you, Miss Edwina, you look lovely as well. I do not believe we have ever been properly introduced,” _____ replied.

“Yes, Anthony, introduce our old friend,” Benedict playfully challenged.

Anthony tried not to grit his teeth before turning to Edwina. “Miss Edwina, this is Lady Talbot; she’s an old childhood friend of Daphne’s. Lady Talbot, Miss Edwina.”

Edwina and ______ curtsied to each other.

“You’re the famous Lady Talbot?” Edwina asked.

“Well, I would not say famous….” ______ trailed off.

“Oh, but of course! Everyone knew about your wedding and----” Edwina cut herself off. “My apologies, My Lady, for your loss.”

“You are kind, Miss Edwina.”

Then, Kate stepped forward. “I do not believe we have had the pleasure to meet, Lady Talbot.” Anthony quickly introduced the older Sharma women and Lady Talbot.

“You are even lovelier in person, Lady Talbot,” Lady Sharma gushed.

“Thank you. I am fortunate enough to survive a few highland winters and tell the tales,” Lady Talbot jested.

As they conversed, _____ felt Anthony’s eyes keep darting towards her. Somehow, it was both irritating and something else. ______ could not help but notice how kind he was to Edwina and attentive; she wasn’t sure if she had ever seen this side of him.

When they were both satisfied with their light pestering, Benedict and _____ politely exited the conversation and ended up being drawn into Daphne’s predicament with Eloise and Lord Rutherford.

“…and would it not be daft to include half the population in such serious matters!” Eloise concluded.

“I suppose so, Miss Eloise,” Lord Rutherford mused.

“My sister is quite passionate, Lord Rutherford,” Daphne mused as she intertwined an arm with Eloise. “She will make for a spirited verbal sparring partner.”

“My dear little sister is making a poor, innocent her victim!” Benedict muttered to ______.

Lady Talbot managed to chuckle to herself before stepping forward. “Miss Eloise, I do believe I was promised your ear on a discussion of Greek mythology?”

Eloise blinked. “Mythology is not my specialty, but----”

“Then you will make an even better conversation partner,” _____ interrupted, smoothly pulling Eloise towards her. “Will you excuse us, Lord Rutherford?”

He hesitated and nodded, silently watching Daphne and _____ lead Eloise away with Benedict trailing behind them.

“And what is it about mythology you wanted to discuss,____?” Eloise questioned.

_____ huffed and released the girl from her grip. “Oh, Eloise, do not tell me that Lady Bridgerton never taught you how to spot an opportunistic break in conversation?”

Eloise’s shoulders slumped slightly in her violet dress, but Daphne quickly uprighted her. “Why must we be subject to such pageantry, anyway? All this thought put into floral arrangements, gowns, bonnets, gloves, and worthless skills; do you know what we could have invented in such time?”

“I am sure the future members of Parliament will love to hear your theories and thoughts when you run it but for now, the best thing you can do is try to find a match,” Daphne said.

Eloise huffed. “I am supposed to pick a man out of this group? That’s like asking me to select a fish from a rotting fish stand.”

“Never change, Eloise,” Benedict requested.

_____ giggled and shook her head. “You will always be yourself, will you not, Eloise?”

Eloise hesitated but smiled softly.

“_______, is that you? I could hardly recognize you.” Cressida’s syrupy voice laced with venom as it cut through the air. The heiress sauntered toward them in a magenta gown, complete with matching hat and fan.

“It is Lady Talbot, Miss Cowper,” Daphne corrected.

Cressida blinked in feigned surprise. “Oh, forgive me, Lady Talbot. I did not think you would extend such requirements to old friends.”

“And I did not think you had such a loose definition of the term ‘old friends’,” _____ replied.

Benedict bit back a laugh, Eloise raised an eyebrow, and Daphne smirked in spite of herself while ____ straightened up to face Cressida properly.

“I am glad that you returned to the ton in time for the season. You seemed to be in mourning for so long,” Cressida commented.

“I am happy to be able to assist Miss Eloise in her first season, and spring is the perfect time to visit London, do you not agree?” _____ shot back.

“Of course, whenever would we have the chance to show off our garden?” Cressida purred. “And whenever would you have the chance to wear such brave dresses?”

“It is not brave in Parisian circles, Miss Cowper,” _____ began, “however, one must be curious enough to expand beyond their comforts to learn such things.”

Cressida’s neck started to redden, but she pursed her lips. “I suppose one person’s vulgarity is another person’s respectability.”

The gleam in Cressida’s green eyes screamed that she believed she had landed the killing blow, but _____ continued,

“Yes, as one person’s ignorance is another person’s intelligence.” She smiled. “Thank you again for inviting me to such a lovely party.”

Cressida sputtered before turning on her heel and disappearing into the crowd, as the scheming glee had done to her eyes. _____ turned to her friends to find Benedict beaming, Daphne stunned, and Eloise smirking.

“You have truly transformed, Lady Talbot,” Benedict mused.

“I have never seen someone look like they swallowed a frog before; it was beautiful,” Eloise added.

“You used to whisper such comments to me but never said it to the person in the moment,” Daphne reflected.

_____ shrugged. “I have learned that life is too short to always bite my tongue.”

“Agreed!” Eloise and Benedict shouted.

_____ burst out laughing and continued to converse conspiratorially with the two as Daphne smiled at the exchange, adding her commentary here and there. Just as she looked away, ______ made eye contact with Anthony.

He had not moved far from his original spot at Edwina, and his mother conversed animatedly. Part of her wanted to flinch and look away, but she didn’t. Instead, she stared back at him, noticing his jaw tightening as they did.

If he has something to say, he should just say it, she thought angrily.

That evening, the Warwicks convened for dinner at the Bridgertons’ at Lady Violet’s insistence. However, no one told them that the Sharmas would also be in attendance. The trio was dressed in elegant gowns, each in a jewel tone: Lady Sharma in a vibrant ruby, Miss Kate in a dazzling sapphire, and Miss Edwina in a soft opal. The Bridgerton men were dressed as dapper as usual while the girls all donned varying shades of Bridgerton blue: Lady Bridgerton’s was powder blue, Daphne’s was more of a teal, Eloise’s leaned towards periwinkle, Francesca’s was cerulean, while Hyacinth’s frock matched the color of the afternoon sky.  Of course, the Warwicks looked fantastic as well: Lord Warwick’s suit jacket had the smallest hint of burgundy, Lady Warwick donned a tastefully shiny black dress, and Lady Talbot stayed conventional in an embroidered Pomona green evening gown.

Lady Bridgerton sat at the head of one part of the table while Anthony sat at the other.

“I do believe it is time for a toast,” Lady Bridgerton murmured. “Anthony, if you will.”

Anthony nodded and stood, raising his glass. “It is a pleasure to have friends here for dinner----”

“Some older than others,” Benedict whispered to Edwina, who tried to hide her chuckle behind her glove.

Anthony shot a glare at him. “May we always be in each other’s lives,” Anthony glanced at ____, “no matter how far we go.”

Everyone clinked glasses and the dinner began. _____ carefully sipped wine throughout to quiet her rampant thoughts about Anthony’s toast. It made no sense; how could he do that when they hardly speak?

“Lady Talbot, I hear that you acclimated nicely to Edinburgh,” Kate, who sat across from her, commented.

______ nodded. “Yes, it is a lovely city. I can barely understand everyone but they are quite kind.”

A few laughs erupted around the table.

“My favorite part was the riding, though. Having all that land to gallop across was something out of a book,” ______ quietly mused.

“You ride?” Kate asked.

“Yes, I have since I was little.”

“She used to race us from time to time,” Benedict added.

“And won most times,” ______ teased.

Anthony cleared his throat. “I am not so sure about that.”

______ turned towards him. “I am quite sure that I beat you nearly every time, Lord Bridgerton.”

“Nearly is correct,” Anthony muttered.

“I do recall you being quite upset when she beat you by a hair,” Colin mused.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so red,” Daphne stated.

“Really? Lord Bridgerton was red?” Edwina asked.

“My siblings exaggerate,” Anthony asserted.

Benedict stabbed a cherry tomato on his plate and held it up. “About as red as this, Miss Edwina.”

Kate started to chuckle while Edwina was still processing.

“Benedict…” Anthony warned.

“I believe it might have been a lighter shade than that,” Colin objected.

______ sighed a laugh as she finished the roast chicken on her plate. “It really is no matter since it was ages ago. However, to answer your question, Miss Kate, I do ride. How about yourself?”

“Yes, I love riding as well. It helps me clear my head,” Kate mused.

“I could not agree more.”

Slowly, other conversations broke out around the table: Lord Warwick and Lady Sharma discussed current events in India, Lady Bridgerton juggled correcting Hyacinth and Gregory’s table manners, Francesca chatted with Edwina about their mutual musicality while Anthony tried to provide his views, Lady Warwick listened to Colin’s more recent travel tales, and Kate and Benedict learned more about Lady Talbot’s life in Scotland.

“Is there any decent food?” Kate asked.

“If you know where to look,” _____ replied.

“What are the artists like?” Benedict questioned.

“Depressed but sweet.”

“What was your favorite thing about your husband?”

With her question, Kate silenced the entire table. Everyone must have been thinking it and Lady Talbot wondered if Miss Kate had a knack for saying what others think. Lady Talbot grabbed her wine glass and started swirling it.

“There are many things, but I believe the root of it was his kindness. He treated everyone with respect , no matter if they were titled, and he could listen to his nieces prattle on all day when most would find an excuse to leave.” Lady Talbot paused. “On Sundays, we would always have slow mornings before attending service. He would have the same thing: a perfectly toasted English muffin with fresh strawberry jam, two brats, and Earl Grey tea. We would dine in silence together and follow it with a walk on the grounds. He told me all about his family’s history and never repeated a story. He was rare and I was blessed to know him.”

When she looked up, everyone looked a little blurry and it took her a moment to realize she’d started tearing up. When she blinked them away, she realized everyone else was either tearing up or somber.

“Thank you for sharing that with us,” Benedict whispered.

Lady Talbot blinked again. “Well, I…I did….the last thing I wanted was to make the evening somber.”

“You have hardly done that, my dear,” Lady Bridgerton gently claimed. “You have shared a piece of yourself with all of us, and we are glad you have.”

“And you are also rare, _____,” Daphne chimed in. “Everyone here is fortunate to know you.”

Lady Talbot nodded and sipped more wine. As she set her glass down, she glanced at Anthony.

“I am glad that I consider you a friend, Lady Talbot,” Anthony concurred.

She didn’t know how to receive that but nodded anyway. After this, dinner continued normally until dessert. They gathered in the drawing room to listen to Francesca’s newest piece. The delightful tune filled the room with glee.

Lord Warwick tapped his knee in time while Lady Warwick smiled warmly. Lady Bridgerton was the image of a proud mama while Gregory and Hyacinth struggled to keep their eyes open.

“She’s gotten quite good,” ____ commented as she nibbled a macaron.

“She had to; Mama makes her practice nearly every day,” Benedict whispered.

“She never complains,” Daphne quietly added.

“Well, one of you had to be somewhat agreeable.”

Daphne and Benedict chuckled.

In their laughter, _____ caught Anthony leaning against a wall. His attention seemed divided between Francesca and the Sharmas, who were all sharing a couch to the right of the couch she shared with Benedict and Daphne. Behind them, Eloise kept picking desserts off a tray while quietly bickering with Colin.

______ could not help but wonder what he meant by his earlier statement or any of his lingering looks. She could not recall Anthony truly looking at her before she was married or her return. _____ also could not recall caring about Anthony’s expressions or words since they were children. If she were honest, she felt more like a child around him.

“Do not tell anyone but in a two weeks’ time, a few of my art society friends are having a soiree and I am required to bring at least one debutante,” Benedict whispered.

_____ perked up. “Would you like me to tell Miss Edwina or Eloise?”

“No, no, Miss Edwina is too…polite and Eloise would critique her way out of the venue,” he quietly argued. “I do believe that you count in this scenario.”

_____ smiled. “I cannot possibly get into any trouble or scandal so early in the season, Benedict.”

“Who said anything about trouble? I am simply offering you a night with outcasted bohemians, filled with cultured conversation and absinthe; I know that you are starving for both.”

“It’s quite bold for you to assume that I have partaken in drinking absinthe.”

“Forgive me, Lady Talbot, but I would be delighted if you would grace us with your presence.”

“I shall see if I am available at that time.”

Francesca finished the note with a flourish, and everyone applauded. She curtsied politely before wandering over to her mother. Edwina stood and rushed to her, gushing about her performance while Kate watched on.

Anthony strolled over to Daphne, Benedict, and ______’s couch and leaned towards Benedict. “A word.”

His tone was so serious that Benedict could not banter back. He politely stood and followed his brother out of the drawing room.

“That looks fun,” _____ deadpanned.

“He’s probably only stressed. I do believe this is the first time we have had the Sharmas for dinner, as well,” Daphne assured.

____ leaned back against the couch. “I would have thought Anthony would have learned to relax by now.”

After several moments and many more macarons, Lord and Lady Warwick decided that it was time to leave. Lady Talbot rose as well and began to bid Daphne and her sisters farewell when she realized that she did not have her wrap.

“Oh, I believe I left it in the dining room,” she said.

“I can have someone fetch it,” Lady Bridgerton offered. “No need,” ______ looked at her parents, “I shall meet you in the foyer.”

They nodded and she started weaving her way back to the dining room. Amidst the servants cleaning the area, she found her black wrap still hanging off the back of her chair. Lady Talbot quickly grabbed it and started making her way towards the foyer. She was about halfway there when she heard Benedict’s voice.

“I thought you wanted me to converse with more respectable ladies, who is more respectable than _____?” Benedict questioned.

It was coming from the library, and the door was partially cracked. Lady Talbot knew she should continue on her way, but her name was brought up, and she had to know why. She quietly crept to the door and continued to listen.

“Lady Talbot does have her charms, but that is also what got her embroiled in a scandal the first time!” Anthony asserted. “I will not have anyone in this house associating with her; we cannot afford any dalliances.”

“‘Dalliances’? Anthony, she is Daphne’s best friend and one of mine, as well. And she was hardly in a scandal; she could not help that she fell in love with an older man.”

“An older man who happened to be one of the most monied men in society? That’s hardly a coincidence, Benedict.”

______ could not believe her ears. Anthony truly thought so lowly of her even though they were friends? All those looks and words were not from a place of familiarity  but from disdain.

“Sure, as it is hardly a coincidence that the same year you decide you need to marry, you are bewitched by the queen’s new favorite?”

Anthony hesitated. “That is different. Edwina is not a fortune hunter.”

“And neither is ______.”

“Look at the facts: she returns just in time for the season when she could have returned anytime after mourning. She is not here just to help Eloise; she is here for a new husband and probably one wealthier than her first. I will not let you be a pawn in this.”

“I am no pawn. If I want to have conversations with Lady Talbot, I shall. I am old enough to make such a decision.”

Lady Talbot’s heart should have swelled at Benedict’s defense, but it was nearly flattened after Anthony’s sentiments. As she continued on her way, she felt like sobbing. She knew it would be difficult to engage in the marriage mart at her age and as a widow, but she never thought that any of her friends would turn on her like Anthony.

As she continued, the urge to sob turned into the urge to scream. When she entered the foyer, the urge to scream transformed into the urge to fight. When she entered the family’s carriage, the urge to fight was replaced with the urge to make Anthony regret uttering anything about her.

[purplesimmer455]

The surprise is revealed as soon as Nancy gets home and Haruo wakes up from his nap: a tea party for the family. Riley and Stephanie moved the Kotatsu to their room, and had set up a table with the tea set that used to belong to Stephanie’s aunt Nancy. After everyone gets dressed in their outfits, Riley bakes up some lactose free Yorkshire pudding, and Nancy makes and pours the tea. “Mx. Takamura, this orange blossom tea smells awesome-I mean splendid.” Nancy says to her parent. “Why, thank you, Ms. Takamura. It is store brought but delicious.” Riley says back, and Nancy grins. Riley catches Stephanie’s eye and winks at her. While they were getting ready in their room earlier, Riley had joked about wanting to butter Stephanie’s crumpet, making her laugh and blush, promising that she’d allow it once they were alone together. Stephanie subtly blows them a kiss, and they catch it.

Riley finishes making the Yorkshire pudding while Haruo sets the table while Nancy places a cup of tea by everyone’s plate. The family sits down together*, and everyone takes a serving of the pudding. “Thank you, Mx. and Mrs. Takamura. This is all so lovely,” Haruo says to his Mom and Ren, trying not to giggle, and Stephanie grins. “Of course, Mr. Takamura” Stephanie says warmly. “I like your dress, Ru.” Nancy says to Haruo, and he grins, “Thanks Nan, Ma and Ren have a bunch of your old stuff in storage, so I wanted to dress up and have fun, especially since dresses are so swooshy and neat,” he says, and Nancy nods. “I get it, I’ve been wanting to wear this dress and hairstyle for so long, so I’m glad I got a chance to.” She says, fluffing out her skirt. “Yeah, it looks really pretty and floofy, so I don’t blame you.” Haruo says. “Also, Ren, this pudding is really good.” He adds to his parent, and Riley smiles. “Thanks Ru.” They says, leaning over to ruffle his hair.

Edit: Technically this was supposed to be a regency era tea party, and I realized later that Nancy’s dress is more 1830s, but it’s fine. I dressed them up and set all of it up and mostly just had fun. 😄 Also, Nancy would not sit with her family at the table either due to a glitch/routing issue or something, and I was a bit miffed but was like eh, it's fine. 😅

I’m reading a regency era romance right now called a Gentleman’s Gentleman by TJ Alexander (they're the same author who wrote Chef's Kiss, one of my fave books). It’s about a trans man named Christoper Winthrope who has to find a wife so he can get his father’s inheritance and keep his estate, and has to hire a valet to assist him as he goes from his quiet country house to London. He hires James Harding, who reminds me of Mr. Darcy in that he's grumpy and handsome, and I like their sometimes snarky sometimes sweet dynamic. Also, I like Christopher as well, he's awkward and goofy and kind, and I'm still only at chapter 13, so it's definitely a slow burn romance. 🤔😊

CC used: 💕

Elizabeth dress used for Stephanie, found here in the Jane Austen collab set by @zeussim

Regency casual top and pants used for Riley found here in the same set, though this is by @peebsplays

Anne Walker hair used for Stephanie found here by @buzzardly28

Nancy's 1830s ball gown found here by @vintagesimstress

[lulublack90]

Prompt 16 - Book

@jegulus-microfic November 16, Word count 590

Previous part First part

James could very easily get used to having Regulus sprawled on top of him fast asleep. He really hoped that he’d never have to give this up. Regulus made a soft snorting noise as he shuffled in his sleep, his hands grasping the front of James’s t-shirt tightly. James cooed quietly to him, stroking his back until he settled down again. 

James’s eyes started wandering around the room, taking in all the little differences Regulus had made to make the room his. When Sirius lived here, it had been a bomb site. He was allergic to putting clothes away. James had caught him more than once doing the sniff test on multiple pieces of clothing to check if they were clean or not. Sometimes, his mum would come over and tidy everything up and clean all of Sirius’s dirty washing for him, and the room would look immaculate, but it never lasted long. James knew Remus wouldn’t stand for it. He’d seen their room, just on the other side of the wall. While it was a bit messy, it was nowhere near as bad as it would be if only Sirius was in it. But Regulus’s room was the complete opposite, neatly ordered. All his clothes were away, the drawers fully shut with nothing poking out, and even his art supplies were organised so he could easily find what he needed. The only messy part of his room was his bedside table. It was piled with scraps of paper with hastily written notes on them. A half-drunk cup of tea, his laptop and a small pile of books stacked haphazardly on top of each other. James plucked the top book from the pile and flipped it over to read the title, ‘Wuthering Heights’. James had heard of it but had never read it. He looked at the spines of the other books, ‘Pride and Prejudice, Mansfield Park, Jane Eyre, Tess of the D’Urbervilles,’ Oh, Regulus liked regency romance novels. James chuckled to himself quietly, trying not to disturb Regulus. He opened the book and began reading. 

“Hey,” Regulus’s sleepy voice startled him a little while later. He’d been completely caught up in the antics of Cathy and Heathcliff and hadn’t noticed Regulus stirring.

“Hey, love,” He said, smiling down at Regulus’s sleepy face. 

“Enjoying it are you?” Regulus asked, nodding towards the book. 

“Yes, actually. Can I borrow it?” James really wanted to find out what happened. A small, sweet smile spread across Regulus’s mouth, curling the corners of his mouth. James wanted so badly to lean down and capture that smile with his lips, but he held himself back. They hadn’t actually kissed on the lips yet. Just little pecks to the cheeks. He wanted to kiss him so badly. 

“Of course, you can,” Regulus said in answer to James’s question, and James, who had been so wrapped up in his thoughts about kissing Regulus properly for the first time, thought Regulus was giving him permission and leant forward, pressing his lips against Regulus’s soft smile. 

They both froze, James’s eyes widening dramatically as he tried to pull away, apologising. But Regulus reached up, held his head firmly between his hands and pulled James’s lips back to his, sinking back into his pillow and taking James with him. James gasped as delicate fingers found their way under his shirt and brushed against his bare skin. He groaned and rose above Regulus, getting a better angle and deepening their kiss. He’d started, and now he didn’t ever want to stop.   

Next part

[dreamwritesimagines]

Garden of Secrets [28] - Poison Ivy

A.N: Thank you so much for your wonderful feedback and support my loves, it made my whole week, you’re amazing!❤ I hope you’ll like this chapter as well, and please don’t forget to tell me what you think, thank you! ❤

Thanks so much to @theskytraveler​ for helping me with the chapter!

Summary: Anger leads to impulsive decisions.

Warnings: Regency era society and social rules, some gender specific language and terms, angst.

Word Count: 4500

Series Masterlist

Well, this—

This was definitely unexpected.

You could feel the fear pounding through your system, the ticks of the clock in the drawing room echoing in your ears. Josie looked almost frozen in her seat, but you knew that expression on her face way too well. As soon as your uncle had left his study, he had asked you all to go to the drawing room so that you could talk about the letter away from Teddy, who was sent to play outside again.

“What does it say?” you croaked out as soon as the maid walked out of the room after serving you tea, and your aunt heaved a sigh.

“There’s nothing to worry about, we assure you.”

“Uncle?”

“What your aunt said,” he said. “It’s just a letter.”

“He doesn’t write to you,” you insisted. “You know I know that. So what is it?”

“Y/N…”

“Can I see the letter?” Josie spoke for the first time and your uncle heaved a sigh, then handed her the letter. You rubbed at your wrist, watching her frown before you extended your hand.

“May I?”

“This is not happening,” Josie growled, holding up the letter and your uncle shook his head.

“Obviously it is not,” he assured her and you pulled the letter out of her hand, then scanned the lines, your heart still beating in your throat.

“…They want to host Teddy for the season,” you murmured, raising your glances from the letter, then shook your head fervently. “No. Not that’s not—”

“That’s not going to happen,” your aunt said. “Teddy isn’t going anywhere.”

“It’s a trick,” you managed to say. “Remember what he was saying when you first got there to get us out, he only wants Teddy with you so that he can use him to get more money from you—”

“I know that,” your uncle said. “Trust me. I see through him very well.”

“And this…” A hysterical laughter spilled from your lips as you checked the letter again. “What is this supposed to mean? Coming to visit?”

“He’s not going to come here to visit,” your uncle said. “As you said, it’s a trick.”

“Uncle, if he tries to take Teddy away—”

“He’s not going to take Teddy away,” your uncle said. “I promise you. He’s not going to get any of you there ever again.”

You threw the letter on the coffee table and flexed your numb fingers before digging your palms into your eyes, shaking your head.

“I will just throw more money at him and it’ll be the end of it,” your uncle said as you lowered your hands. “I honestly wouldn’t have told you if you two hadn’t found the envelope, there’s no reason to be worried.”

“And everyone is safe,” your aunt said, reaching out to squeeze your hand and you offered her a small smile.

“Josie?” your uncle said softly and Josie turned her head.

“I’m fine,” she said and cleared her throat, rolling her shoulders back before she stood up. “I’m fine but um…I need to find Bess, excuse me.”

She walked out of the room in a haste and you exchanged glances with your aunt, then you darted after her as well.

“Josie!”

“I’m fine I said!” she snapped as she made her way down the stairs and passed the foyer with you following her.

“No you’re not!” you told her as you both stepped out of the house and you grabbed her arm to make her stop. “Come on. It’s me. I was standing right beside you throughout that hell, remember?”

Josie turned to you and clenched her teeth, then scoffed a bitter laugh.

“I don’t want to see him, or her.”

“Funny we have that in common,” you deadpanned and she clicked her tongue.

“I might just have to kill him if he shows his face here.”

You grimaced.

“Don’t,” you said. “Bess would kill me if I let you get hanged, and I can’t handle Andrew alone.”  

She heaved a deep sigh and sat down on the marble stairs, and you sat beside her, taking her hand in yours.

“He’s not going to take Teddy away,” she said. “Over my dead body.”

“And mine,” you said and twisted your wrist, trying to ignore the throb of pain but it didn’t escape her notice.

“I almost forgot,” she mumbled and you shrugged your shoulders.

“It’s fine,” you lied through your teeth. “It’s a habit at this point, it doesn’t even hurt anymore.”

“Are you alright though?”

“Um…” you trailed off, pursing your lips before nodding your head. “Yeah. I’m just worried about Teddy, that’s all.”

“And yourself?”

“I’m safe, I have Benedict.”

Josie smiled slightly. “I almost forgot,” she said. “Yeah. You’re married, they couldn’t take you back if they tried.”

“Oh that’s not why—” you paused and shook your head. “They wouldn’t have tried anyway. I’m not the heir, I’m worthless.” A small laugh climbed up your throat. “Look at that, I sound like mother.”

“Don’t say that,” Josie said. “Never say that. You know that’s not true.”

You heaved a sigh, fixing your gaze on the carriage before clearing your throat.

“You know, father sending a letter makes a lot of sense when you think about it,” you mused. “I was beginning to get too much sleep lately with zero nightmares. He must have sensed it or something.”

Josie’s lips twitched for a second and you raised your brows, then tried again.

“Not to mention I have been smiling too much, and Benedict even said he forgot how scary I can look sometimes,” you said. “We can’t have that, I have a reputation to uphold.”

That managed to draw a small chuckle out of her and you smiled at her, squeezing her hand.

“Will you be alright?”

“Probably,” she said. “You?”

“Always am,” you said. “I can take care of myself. Learned it from you.”

She smiled at you softly, then hugged you and stood up from the stairs.

“I will find Bess,” she said. “Will you tell Benedict?”

“Uh…” you trailed off. “I don’t know. I guess so.”

“I’ll just go and come up with a plan in case they do decide to show up,” she said. “Kiss Teddy for me?”

“Will do,” you said and she walked away to get in the carriage. You watched it go down the stone road and heaved a sigh, then stood up as well, threw your shoulders back and made your way to the backyard where Teddy was playing.

“Y/N!” he called out as soon as he saw you and ran to you. “Can we play now?”

You tried to blink back the tears and hugged him tight, then pressed a kiss on top of his head.

“Yeah,” you rasped out. “Of course we can, my sweet.”

                                               *

When you got back home, it was after lunch and you were so tense that you could feel it all over your body. While you were with your family, you had tried to act as if you weren’t worried at all especially because Teddy was with you, but now that you were home and didn’t have to pretend, your head was swimming with possibilities of your parents showing up.

And if they did decide to take Teddy back…

No. That was not going to happen. You were not going to let them, not even if it killed you.

They weren’t going to hurt Teddy, ever.

“Hey you’re back,” Benedict’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts as you were walking past his studio and you turned your head, trying to pull yourself together.

“I am,” you said. “And you’re still here?”

He motioned at the canvas in front of him and you stepped into the room, your eyes finding the covered canvas at the corner of the room before you turned to him.

“New project?”

“You could say that,” he said with a sigh. “I was working on yours but there’s just something in your eyes that I cannot depict on canvas. Not to mention the…rest of you.”

You raised your brows. “What are you working on then?”

“A landscape,” he said as he stood up from the stool. “At least I will be working on it once I get back. Right now only the sky exists.”

“You’re leaving?” you asked, your stomach doing a painful flip and he nodded, then cracked his neck, making a face.

“Yeah I’m meeting Henry,” he said. “It wasn’t in the plans but he insisted. How about you? How was Josie?”

You could feel your throat tightening but you managed to keep your expression calm.

“She’s fine,” you said and shifted your weight, nibbling on your lip. “Benedict, can we um… when you come back, can we talk?”

He pulled his brows together. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah!” you said quickly. “Sure.”

“Because I can stay—”

“No need for that,” you said. “It’s not urgent.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely,” you lied through your teeth and smiled. “It’s just that—it’s a long story. It can wait.”

His blue eyes searched your face as if trying to see whether you were lying and you could feel the panic filling you once more so you cleared your throat.

“You should go, you wouldn’t want to keep Henry waiting.”

He nodded slowly as if still deep in thought and stepped closer to you to press a kiss on top of your head to say goodbye. As soon as he pulled back, you rested your forehead against his chest, his scent filling your nostrils, the lovely sensation shooting through the absolute terror in your mind. You closed your eyes for a moment as his hand went to the back of your head and he pressed his nose into the top of your hair.

“Hey,” he said. “Are you sure everything is alright?”

You swallowed thickly and pulled back to look up at him, wrapping your fingers around his wrist to squeeze at it in an assuring manner.

“Totally,” you said. “I’m just tired I suppose. I should take a nap until the dinner time.”

“Okay,” he said gently. “Then I’ll see you at dinner time and we will talk, yes?”

“Yes,” you said, nodding your head. “At dinner time. Sounds good.”

He kissed your temple, making you smile slightly.

“Get some sleep,” his murmur was soft and he walked out of the room, his footsteps getting distant.

Panic crashed down on you so fast that it made your head spin. Your breath got caught in your throat and you managed to sit down on the sofa before your knees buckled, your heart beating in your ears. You clenched your teeth and closed your eyes, then forced yourself to take a deep, shaky breath.

“You’re fine,” you muttered to yourself as you buried your face into your trembling hands. “You’re fine.”

                                                 *

For the whole day until the dinner time, you felt as if you were watching the world through a haze. The panic was always there at the corner of your mind, and no matter what you did, you couldn’t focus on anything.

Walking in the garden didn’t help.

Trying to read in the library didn’t help.

Going over the ledgers for the staff didn’t help.

You had spent some time in the gazebo to at least enjoy the weather and relax your mind, but even that didn’t help.

You went back to the house around the usual dinner time when the sky turned dark, even if Benedict was nowhere to be found. You weren’t even hungry to be honest, so when the maids asked if you would like to take your dinner, you told them it could wait until Benedict got there and excused yourself to the drawing room.

It took around two hours of you listening to the ticks of the clock on the wall while staring at the book in your hand for Paula to knock on the doorframe, then step inside.

“Ma’am, the food is cold,” she said. “Would you like the cook to heat it?”

You tried to unclench your jaw and took a deep breath.

“I’m actually not hungry,” you managed to rasp out. “Could you perhaps bring me some tea Paula?”

“Of course,” she said and looked over her shoulder. “And—there’s a messenger boy for you.”

That made your head snap up. “What?”

“Shall I send him in?”

“Yes,” you said and stood up from the sofa as she walked out of the room and the boy stepped in.

“Mrs. Bridgerton,” he said and bowed slightly. “Ma’am, I bring a message from Mr. Bridgerton.”

Your heart dropped to your stomach as dread filled your system.

“Is—is he alright?” you stammered, looking at the clock before turning to him. “He’s late but I figured—”

“Oh no ma’am, he’s absolutely fine,” he assured you quickly. “There’s just…there’s this party at Sir Granville’s house and he sent word for you to join them.”

For a couple of seconds you could do nothing but stare at him, your heart clenching in your chest as if someone was squeezing it.

“…He’s at a party?” you heard yourself say and the boy nodded.

“Yes ma’am. A very fun one too. He sent you a carriage to take you there.”

The disappointment hit you so fast that you could feel the tears rushing to your eyes but you blinked them back, turning around so that you could give yourself a moment to pull yourself together.

A party.

Of course.

He was at a party having fun while you waited for him like a goddamn pathetic idiot just so that you could talk to him about what had happened earlier.

The hot red fury burned through your chest and you pressed your lips together, willing yourself to keep it under control before you dug your fingernails into your palms just so that you could focus on something else. You gritted your teeth and sniffled, then cleared your throat and turned to him again.

“What’s your name?”

“Joseph, ma’am.”

“Joseph,” you repeated and grabbed your small purse on the coffee table, then took out two coins. “Would you do me a favor, Joseph?”

“Of course ma’am.”

“Tell Mr. Bridgerton that when you came here, the maids told you I went to bed early,” you said, putting the coins into his palm and his eyes widened, then he looked up at you and nodded.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Thank you for your trouble,” you said and he bowed again before walking out of the room. You went to sit down on the sofa again, trying to ignore how badly your eyes were burning but bit inside your cheek, willing yourself to stop the tears on their way.

Paula entered the room carrying a tray and placed it on the small coffee table.

“I had them put some biscuits and such as well,” she said. “You haven’t eaten the whole day—are you alright?”

Your throat tightened as you tried to swallow, still keeping your eyes on the fireplace.

“Yeah,” you rasped out. “Yeah I just realized something.”

“Realized what?”

“How much of a fool I’ve been,” your voice came out as a whisper and you sniffled again before clearing your throat. “Paula?”

“Yes ma’am?”

You turned to look at her.

“There’s uh…” you motioned at the door. “In my bedroom, there’s a vase with a tiny sprout in it. Can you give it to Mr. Binsted? Tell him it’s geranium and that he can plant it in the garden or put it in the greenhouse, or throw it away if he wants.”

“Of course ma’am,” she said. “Now?”

“Now would be good, thank you.”

She offered you a small smile and left the room. A bitter laugh climbed up your throat and you shook your head slightly, a tear escaping from your eyes. Your hand shot up to wipe it away quickly and you heaved a trembling sigh, then pulled your knees up to your chest and wrapped your arms around them, resting your chin on them and fixed your gaze on the flames in the fireplace.

                                               *

You knew how to deal with anger.

Growing up in that hellhole your parents called a home had taught you a thing or two. You knew how to function with anger burning in your veins and remain completely calm to the outside world, no matter how much you wanted to scream.

And you should have seen that coming. It wasn’t as if this was Benedict’s first time telling you he would be there and then not turning up, it had happened when he had promised you a dance for the first time as well.

Not coming home at night was new though. You had read about it on Whistledown before you got married of course, but it hadn’t occurred to you that it would take place within your marriage as well.

Yet another thing you should have seen coming.

People didn’t change, really.

You couldn’t sleep that night no matter how much you had tried. You kept tossing and turning in bed, and when the morning came you decided there was no use trying, so you made your way to the breakfast room, the smell of delicious food filling your nostrils before you sat down, and a maid filled your teacup.

“Thank you. Can I have the room please?” you asked and the maid and the footmen walked out of the room, leaving you there. You pushed at the food in your plate and sipped your tea, grimacing at how hot it was before you heard the footsteps coming closer and soon enough the door opened.

Benedict.

Even the sight of him was enough to break your heart but it didn’t take long for sadness to be replaced by absolute fury. You could swear the rage was powerful enough to blind you but bit inside your cheek as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

“Good morning!” he said, smiling. “Y/N you have no idea what happened last night.”

Your jaw clenched as you watched him grab a piece of toast before he bit on it, your eyes taking in his whole appearance. He looked rather disheveled in a way you would have thought was handsome if it were any other time, but right now it only poured gas over the flame of your anger. His cravat was loosened, his hair was ruffled, he had rolled his shirt up to his elbows and the excited gleam in his eyes signaled that he’d had a rather fun night.

“I just got home by the way, I know I missed dinner but I sent a messenger boy to you last night but you were already asleep so I figured—anyway, last night there was this party at Henry’s, and Lord Easton was there!” he said, oblivious to your silent form. “My hero in art! And Henry introduced us, and he even showed some of my sketches to him and he said I was very talented! And Henry had this room for the party for artists only, and we all painted while drinking and Gordon—that’s Lord Easton by the way— he thinks I should apply for the Academy this year as well, can you believe that?!”

Your fingers curled into fists as you dug your fingernails into your palms, that fire in your chest climbing up your throat.

“I drank too much,” he said with a small laugh. “I absolutely lost the track of time around evening and we all fell asleep elsewhere at dawn, Margery was telling Lucy how her back will never go back to what it used to, and I woke up merely half an hour ago starving.”

You raised your brows, trying to keep your anger under control while he grabbed his cup to pour some tea, and took a sip.

“I’m just going to have a bath and a change of clothes after breakfast,” he said. “I can’t wait to introduce you to Gordon—he is a genius and he actually thinks I’m good! He was telling Henry how he didn’t exaggerate at all when he mentioned me to him!”

It felt as if you were swallowing glass shards.

“…Congratulations,” you managed to say through the haze of anger and he smiled.

“Thank you,” he said and sat down on the chair near yours. “Anyway, sorry about missing dinner last night. What did you want us to talk about?”

A silence fell upon you as you tried to see through the red haze of anger. You grabbed your fork just so that you could do something with your hands and pushed at the food on your plate, biting inside your cheek.

Calm down.

“It’s uh…” you rasped out. “It’s not important, I solved it myself.”

He tilted his head, now his whole attention on you.

“There was a problem?” he asked and you stopped the hysterical laugh threatening to spill from your lips at the last second, pursing your lips together.

Calm the hell down.

“It’s not important,” you repeated through your clenched teeth, willing yourself to keep your anger at bay as you kept your gaze on your plate. He shifted his weight, and out of the corner of your eye you could see he was frowning.

“Wait, I didn’t know—”

“It’s not important Benedict.”

“If I knew you needed me—”

“Why on earth would I ever need you?” the words left your lips like poison from a snake as your eyes snapped up to his, and even you were aware of just how cold your glare was.

As it was when you two had first met.

And even though you had been trying so hard to think through the fury and remain calm, you knew it was not going to work. The familiar fury had already taken over you, you were tired and sleepless and hungry and the worst of all, the tension that had been pulling at all your muscles since yesterday made you feel as if you were about to shatter into pieces.

He pulled back slightly, and from the look on his face you could tell that he recognized that cold glare just fine.

“What happened?”

A bitter chuckled escaped from your lips and you clicked your tongue, watching him with narrowed eyes.

“If this is about me spending the night somewhere else,” he said after a moment. “You were asleep already and I assure you nothing happened. I would never.”

“I assure you I couldn’t care less if anything happened,” you replied. “Your overestimate my interest in your life as usual. You are free to do whatever you want with whoever you want, that’s not the issue at all.”

“Then what is?”

“That you almost had me fooled,” you mused. “Which I admit was a mistake on my part to let you but you had yourself fooled as well so I suppose it’s not that surprising.”

His frown deepened.

“How am I fooling myself?”

“You’re not in love with me.”

A look of shock crossed his handsome face and you shrugged your shoulders, anger still pulsing through you.

“You—you’re just—” you stammered. “You’re an artist, a very good one at that, who was so desperate to fall in love and get some inspiration that you made yourself believe you were in love with the first person you found slightly interesting.”

“You don’t believe that,” he said, his eyes locked in yours and you scoffed.

“Why would I not?” you asked. “It’s the truth. You’ve never had any issues in your entire life so you had to create one, and you found the solution by making yourself think you loved me because all artists are supposed to be tortured and suffering, but life has been too good to you. Endless praise, endless wealth, endless opportunities with zero responsibilities, ought to be hard to find something to suffer in all that.”

His jaw clenched in anger. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“No?” you asked, trying to provoke him but it was no use, because even if you could tell that he was angry, he didn’t even let it seep into his voice as he spoke.

“Not at all.”

“Even you have to see how convenient this all has been for you though,” you said with a small, insincere smile as you stood up from your chair, leaning your hands on the table. “You had to find someone who wouldn’t bore you to tears but still be accepted by the ton, so you found the one person who didn’t swoon at the sight of you just so that—”

He stood up as well, running a hand through his hair, taking a step away from you as if he was trying to keep his calm.

“Y/N.”

You kept going as if he hadn’t interrupted you. “Just so that you could have an inkling of what all the other artists were driven by.”

He turned to you and narrowed his eyes. “You’re honestly being nonsense right now.”

“No, I think it’s the first time since I met you that I can actually see clear,” you retorted. “That’s what I meant by fooling me. And this?” you motioned between you two. “This was never supposed to get to this point. You didn’t even want to marry me, you merely wanted to find someone whom you could use as your inspiration because you’re so used to getting everything and everyone you want—”

“Don’t.”

“And you figured you might as well pretend to love me—”

“That’s not—”

The impatience got the best of you; “Do not interrupt me!”

“I will interrupt you all I want if you’re going to throw false accusations around!” he snapped back and you let out a bitter chuckle, a momentary silence falling upon the room until you broke it.

“I’m not accusing you,” you ended up saying. “If anything, I’m thanking you.”

He raised his brows, sarcasm etched in his tone. “Oh you’re thanking me?”

“Absolutely,” you said. “Now that we both know the truth, I do not need to feel guilty or bad.”

“For what?”

“For not feeling the same.”

That managed to get an actual reaction from him. The flash of pain crossing his face was more than enough to make your throat tighten, tears filling your eyes but you quickly blinked them back, trying to ignore just how badly your chest was hurting.

“You do not love me,” the words spilled from your lips like a growl, and you leaned in to lock your eyes with his, your palms on the table. “And I do not love you. I will never, ever love you.”

With that, you pushed yourself off the table and walked out of the room without looking back, tears burning your eyes but you managed to keep them at bay until you reached your room and slammed the door behind you and fell on your knees.

And then you started sobbing.

Chapter 29

[thakefurniture]

Card Table, Tea Table - Elegant Regency mahogany D shaped tea table. Folding, crossbanded top with boxwood and ebony stringing, over a frieze with inlaid panels. Raised on reeded tapered legs.

[silverhallow]

Benophie prompt-Regency

Kate, Anthony, Violet ,Benedict and Sophie are having a discussion about the guest list for the wedding and Sophie want of the servants for Bridgeton House to attend

The late afternoon sun filtered softly through the tall windows of the drawing room at Aubrey Hall, gilding the space in warm gold. Outside, the gardens bloomed in full glory, but inside, the atmosphere was comfortably intimate. A tray of tea and a half-finished plate of lemon biscuits sat untouched on the low table between them.

Violet sat with her usual poise, her hands folded over one another as she surveyed the gathering with a contented smile. Anthony lounged beside Kate on the settee, a glass of brandy in hand, his expression unusually relaxed. Kate leaned slightly forward, ever alert, ever kind, her dark eyes dancing with curiosity. Benedict had claimed the armchair closest to Sophie and watched her with the open fondness of a man who adored his wife beyond reason.

Sophie, seated upright and hands knotted in her lap, took a breath.

“There’s something I’d like to ask,” she said, her voice quiet but steady.

The room hushed, though not tensely. Only expectantly.

Benedict tilted his head. “Go on, darling.”

She glanced down at her clasped hands, then looked up again, meeting each of their eyes in turn.

“I’d like to invite some of the staff from Bridgerton House and from Penwood House… if that is okay?. To… to the wedding.”

Anthony’s brows lifted faintly, but he said nothing. Kate smiled, encouraging. Sophie pressed on.

“Mrs. Gibbons, my old housekeeper… Hazel from Bridgerton House, John the footman… They were my friends. They treated me with kindness when I was still a maid. I… I understand if it isn’t usually done, but…”

“Sophie,” Kate said gently, her voice warm and sure, “of course it isn’t usually done. But that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be.”

Sophie looked at Violet, a flicker of anxiety behind her eyes. “It wouldn’t feel right without them there. They were my world for so long.”

Violet’s face softened at once. She reached out and covered Sophie’s hand with her own.

“My dear girl,” she said, “this is your wedding. And we are having it here at Aubrey Hall, where we may do exactly as we please.”

Sophie let out a quiet breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.

“I would be delighted to welcome them,” Violet continued. “They cared for one of my children long before she ever became my daughter. That makes them family, too.”

Anthony gave a small grunt of approval, and Kate beamed.

“I think Mrs. Gibbons will cry,” Benedict added with a half-smile.

“She cried when I gave her a ribbon before I left Penwood House,” Sophie said, laughing quietly. “This might undo her entirely.”

“Then we shall be sure to have handkerchiefs at the ready,” Violet said firmly.

Kate leaned in toward Sophie. “We’ll make sure they have a place of honour. You’re not leaving anyone behind, Sophie. Not now, not ever.”

Sophie looked around the room, at this family that had once seemed so far beyond her reach, and felt a warmth bloom in her chest that had nothing to do with the sunlit afternoon.

She nodded, blinking back tears. “Thank you.”

[starryevermore]

the house of snow (25) ✧ coriolanus snow

the house of snow ✧ a royal coryo au | pinterest board| ao3

pairing: king!coriolanus snow x fem!reader

series summary: the king of panem is in search of a bride. and, for reasons you can never understand, coriolanus snow has set his sights on you. it would never be a happy marriage, you’re sure of that. but none of that matters, because when snow decides he wants something, he will do everything in his power to ensure it is his. 

chapter summary: coriolanus’s obsession brings distance, and you are not sure you can handle such a thing. 

word count: 2,334

series warnings?: 18+ MINORS DNI, royal au, regency au, arranged marriage, rivals to lovers, obsessive!coryo, jealous!coryo, protective!coryo, eventual smut, eventual pregnancy, more tags to be added later

chapter warnings?: angst angst angst, pet name (petal), not proofread

Your work with Coryo had slowed rather drastically. Though there were days you had the energy to join him in the office, you had primarily distracted yourself with reading or the occasional nap. Much of your time, however, had been spent making arrangements for your babe’s nursery. It was one of the few times Coryo did not protest you doing any sort of work. If it was because this work only involved you flipping through catalogues, neither of you made a comment. 

Things were…strange between yourself and Coryo. Ever since you had asked if you could give birth at the cottage, he had grown…distant. In the early days, you pretended you did not notice. But as time wore on, it became increasingly difficult to ignore. 

Even now, as you sat across the table at him during breakfast, Coryo might have been stationed on a Peacekeeper’s base on the outskirts of Panem. When he might have stared at you as if you hung the stars in the sky, he kept his gaze to the newspapers brought to him. You had long since stopped eating, but he had yet to notice. 

Where he might have once been asking you of your plans for the day, you found yourself being the one inquiring so. 

Coryo finally spared you a glance. “Primarily answering demands for the Crown’s assistance, scheduling meetings with the Electors. And, of course, we have the ball we are attending this evening.”

You waited for him to ask if you were going to join him in the office, or if you are still well enough to attend the ball. He did not. You stirred your spoon around in your tea cup, the metal clanging against the porcelain. “Sounds eventful. I shall spent the morning, then, in the library.”

When you rose from your seat, you expected Coryo to rise after you. To pull in for a searing kiss before letting you escape to the library. In your mind, you imagined him chasing after you minutes later, demanding that you not leave his side for a long while. But as you watched him remain at the table, back to glancing at the papers, you knew he would not. 

“I love you, Coryo.”

He looked up at you again. He smiled, but it did not quite reach his eyes. “And I you, petal.”

Ordinarily, such a response would send butterflies aflutter in your tummy. Yet, as he refused to say the word love, only bile began to rise from your stomach. You turned, and you did not wish him a good bye. 

You never felt smaller than you did as you traversed down the halls of the palace. It no longer quite felt like a home to you. A part of you, the part that once thought that this marriage would be a loveless trap, wanted to run away to the cottage—Coryo be damned. If this was the manner in he was to conduct himself, you would stoop even lower. There was no one, after all, that could hit Coryo where it hurts harder than you. But the part that loved him still, the part that wanted him to stop whatever nonsense this was, desired to stay. For better or for worse, or however the vows went. 

That did not mean, of course, that you could not make him squirm. 

You passed the library and continued all the way down to the servant’s quarters, ignoring the strange stares you received. A passing maid gave you directions to the housekeeper’s chambers, and you entered without knocking. The woman jumped upon seeing you, quickly rising from her bed and sinking into a low curtsy. 

“My apologies, Your Majesty. If I had known you were looking for me, I would have come to you with great haste.”

“If things do not improve between myself and the King by the end of the week,” you said, “you shall have my belongings moved to my personal chambers.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

“But not the ones across the King’s chambers. I think I would like to take up residence on the other side of the palace. And, of course, should I make this move, the babe’s nursery shall follow.”

The housekeeper fidgeted, but still maintains eye contact with you. A braver woman than the King, you mused. “Shall I inform the King of this move?”

“No. Let him come to his senses on his own, or else let him retire to his chambers without me by his side. Whatever shall happen shall be his decision alone.”

“How do you fare this evening, Your Majesty?” a lord, whose name you couldn’t be bothered to remember at the moment, asked as Coryo stepped away to fetch you a refreshment. He avoided looking you in the eyes—either out of fear of the King’s ire should anyone look at you too long for his liking or out of discomfort at your so-called “condition.” You knew the ton was not accustomed to pregnant women maintaining an active role in society. Though they could not ostracize you the way they could anyone else, you also knew they were waiting for a moment to whisper scandalized words about how a Queen should not conduct themselves in such a manner.

Your hand came to rest on your barely-there bump. In just your fourth month, much had already begun to change. Perhaps not physically yet, but things were changing between yourself and Coryo. He still worshipped the ground you walked on, to be sure, but there was an odd look in his eyes whenever he would gaze upon you. As though he was already trying to go accustomed to a life in which he loses you. 

“I am quite well, thank you,” you said. Since the lord would not look you in the eyes, you took the time to glance around the ballroom. It was a standard ball, nothing out of the ordinary. Except for, of course, you. Bile rose in your throat at the looks people sent you when they didn’t think you were looking. You took a breath and, unable to hold your tongue, said, “Or at least I had been before I came to this sorry excuse of a ball. A shame, I think, that your wife is so uninspired by your love for her, or rather the lack thereof, to throw together anything worthy of my time.”

His eyes snapped to yours. “I beg your pardon?”

“You must be so unaccustomed to begging,” you said. You turned away from him. “I only mean that, if a woman felt the love of a man, she would be inspired to ensure that every aspect of their lives would be safe from tarnishment.”

“As if you have done anything but tarnish the Crown,” the lord scoffed. When your head snapped to look at him, he at least had the good sense to lose all color in his face. “What I mean is—”

“That you have chosen to disrespect the King and, more importantly, his Queen,” you said. You squared your shoulders and, though he was much taller than you, you looked your nose as though he was an ant beneath your shoe. “The Crown shall not forget.”

A cold glass was pressed into your hand. You did not have to look to know if your Coryo who had returned. Nor did you have to look to see the grin on his face as you threw the drink in the lord’s face. Gasps erupted around you, heads swiveling to see who had the poor sense to offend you. In the distance, you could see the lord’s wife pushing her way through the crowd. You turned to her as the lady reached you and held up your hand. She stopped in your tracks.

“Don’t,” you said. “I have no issue with you. Your husband, however, is daft and unworthy of a woman such as yourself. If he took offense of my recognition of such, then that is his burden to bear. If he decided to take that offense and hurl it into an insult at me, then he is only to blame for the consequences that followed.”

“I am so deeply sorry, Your Majesty—” the lady tried. 

You raised your hand again, and she stopped. “It is not you I take issue with. I will, however, soon take issue if you don’t direct the band to begin playing again. I should like to dance with a man worthy of my breath.”

She gave a small nod and hurried off to the band. Slowly, the ton began to return to their own conversations, though their eyes still remained on you. You fought the urge to snarl at them.

“She provoked me,” the lord hissed to Coryo. If he thought your husband would take his side, speak to him man-to-man, he was sorely mistaken. 

“And you must be so simple so as to take the bait,” Coryo said. He plucked the now empty glass from your hands and passed it off on a passing server’s tray. His fingers interlaced your own. “And simpler still if you think I would do anything but wholeheartedly support her in her scathing review of your character.”

The lord sputtered, but Coryo was too occupied letting you lead him onto the dance floor to care. 

The two of you fell into an easy waltz as Coryo spun you around the floor. Finally, finally, the eyes of the ton melted away. You felt yourself relax in Coryo’s arms.

“Pregnancy has made you combative,” Coryo said, holding your body closer against his. 

“I do not like the way the ton looks down upon me for being out, for showing that the love between us is culminating into beautiful life,” you said. You spared a glance out at the crowd. “The night of our wedding, I recall your ire at the lack of respect the ton showed me. It did not bother me so much then, when I thought our marriage would be a loveless affair. But now that I know your love, that you would do anything for me, it stokes this fire inside me to see the ton think I am the ruination of the Crown.”

Coryo smiled, the kind of smile that would look wicked to anyone else but so clearly reflected his love for you as you gazed upon it. You had missed this look. Why did you have to cause a scene to receive it? “I take this to mean you will allow me to force the ton to bow before you?”

You leaned in, pressed a kiss to the corner of his lips and ignored the increase of whispers around you. “Bring them to their knees.”

And yet, even still, as Coryo undid the fastenings of your gown in the comfort of your shared chambers, the ire still stoked a fire inside you. While your gown pooled at your feet, you found yourself pushing Coryo’s hands away from you. You stepped behind a privacy screen and finished undressing before slipping on a nightshift and climbing into bed. Coryo followed soon after. 

When he reached for you, you pushed his hands away again and turned on your side, facing the wall. You could very nearly see his frown in your mind’s eye. Coryo shuffled closer to you. You moved closer to the edge. 

“Alright, what is the matter? I did as you asked, my petal. I reminded the ton of the might of the Crown.” He reached out and ran his fingers through the ends of your hair. A shiver ran through you. “Did I misunderstand you?”

You swallowed thickly. “I fear I might be the one who misunderstands. Coryo, you said this was to be a marriage of equals, did you not?”

He was silent for a moment, as if trying to determine if you had any riddles hidden in your words. “I did, yes.”

“And you meant that, did you not?”

“I did.”

You rolled over. He was so close to you now that your noses brushed against each other. “Then why, I beg of you, have you treated me like a fragile little thing ever since we learned I was with child?”

Coryo’s jaw clenched and unclenched. “You know why.”

“History shall not repeat itself. And even if that should be my fate, why do you regard me as though I am already gone? If I am to die during childbirth—”

“—don’t say that. Please, don’t—”

“—then at least let me feel my husband’s love in whole. Do not deprive me of that. Do not make me beg for that.” You wiped your cheeks with the back of your hand, feeling the wetness upon them. “And do not say that you have been giving me such love. I know you, Coryo. I know how you loved me so fiercely at the cottage, and before, and after. You have seldom left my side, but you have never been more distant.”

“Petal…”

You squeezed your eyes shut and let the tears fall freely. You flinched away as his thumb stroked across your cheek, wiping them away. “I told the housekeeper to have my belongings moved to other side of the palace by the end of the week. In the morning, I shall tell her to hasten the move. And, at the beginning of my eighth month, I shall make the move to the cottage.”

Coryo sat up. When you looked at him, his eyes held more emotion than they had in weeks. Your heart ached, but you could not back down now. “Please, don’t.”

“I should like some space. Of course, it shall not be so different than how it already has been the last few weeks.” You rolled back over to your other side and faced the wall once more. “If you should choose to join me at the cottage, you may. I will not deprive you of that.”

“Petal, I do love you.”

“Then why can’t I feel it any longer?”

[rarepairdumpster]

Regency AU Part 3

Part 1 | Part 2

Pairing: Viktor/Silco (Arcane) Rating: M C/W: Trans Viktor, Societal Trans- and Homophobia, Insecurity, A+ Trans Ally Silco, Trans Pregnancy

Viktor growing quiet and a bit withdrawn while he and Silco are in Europe for their honeymoon.

Silco giving him space to process whatever he's feeling, but when it continues after a month, Silco sets his newspaper down on the breakfast table and asks, "Are you having second-thoughts about the plan? If you are, its alright." 

And Viktor looks up, holding his glass of fresh juice, and hesitates before saying, "My courses are late."

And Silco is silent for a long moment. He remembers pulling out on their wedding night and each night the two of them have coupled since, but....he supposes such a method can't be infallible.

"I see," Silco answers finally,   reaching across the small table to capture Viktor's hand. He gives it a warm squeeze.  "This complicates things, to be sure, but we can handle it. Together."

Viktor returns the squeeze and lets out a breath. "I wasn't sure how you'd react, or what you'd want to do about it."

"Darling, whatever is happening," Silco is careful not to give it a name, not wanting to upset Viktor, "is happening within your body and is entirely your choice to make."

Viktor stays silent and  looks at their joined hands, furrowing his brow in thought. 

"I've heard of a doctor in Germany" Silco continues. "He's understanding and compassionate regarding your unique medical needs."

"We could also look for some pennyroyal teas," Silco adds gently, voice soft. "It might be...less invasive, if the idea of seeing a doctor is uncomfortable."

"Can I...think about it?" 

"Of course." Silco brings Viktor's hand to his lips and presses a soft kiss. "Whatever you decide, I'll support you."

Viktor gives Silco a soft smile. "Thank you. I didn't mean to worry you."

"It is my sincere pleasure to worry about you."

Viktor stands up, comes around the table, and winds his arms around Silco's neck  in a tight embrace.

"What did I ever do," Viktor murmurs, "to deserve a husband like you."

Silco hums and turns his head to kiss Viktor's cheek. "All you ever have to do is be yourself, my love."

It takes Viktor about two weeks to decide what he wants to do. They're laying in bed at the end of a long day, Viktor tucked under Silco's arm, resting his head on his husband's chest. Silco is reading over some business proposals by lamplight when Viktor starts to tap his fingers nervously on Silco's sternum.

"Yes, darling?" Silco asks softly, moving the book out of his way of seeing Viktor.

"Would you see me differently?" Viktor almost whispers. "If I went though with it?"

"Yes," Silco answers softly, gaze gentle, "but never as a woman. You're still a man. You're still my husband. But if you went through with this, you'd also be the father of my child. That requires a particular level of care, no?"

Viktor looks up at Silco, still not sure how he was lucky enough to be chosen by someone like him. 

"I want to," Viktor clutches Silco's shirt. "I want to have our child."

Silco sets his book aside completely, and then reaches to cup Viktor's face, caress his soft cheek.

"Then I believe a celebration is in order." 

And Silco twists, his fluid movement encouraging Viktor to shift and roll onto his back.

It prompts a little giggle from Viktor as Silco settles between the spread of his thighs before Silco kisses him

Viktor nips at Silco's bottom lip and wraps his legs around Silco, pulling him close. 

"I missed you," Viktor admits. He was glad that Silco had been giving him space, but now he needed him.

Viktor is wearing one of Silco's spare nightshirts, and the hem has ridden up to his hips now that he has his legs wrapped around Silco.

The shadow of his bosom is visible through the soft white material.

And the sight floods Silco with a familiar, possessive heat

Silco sneaks a hand under the hem, letting his fingers trail along the soft skin on Viktor's side, before coming to rest on his chest. 

He brushes his thumb across Viktor's nipple, and swallows Viktor's whine with a kiss.

Silco massages and squeezes, grip alternating between soothing and bruising, as he's come to learn Viktor loves.

And when he feels Viktor getting riled up and so wet below, Silco slips him his cock with familiar ease. 

This time, when Silco climaxes, he doesn't bother to pull out. Just pumps him full.

And Viktor whimpers when he feels the unfamiliar rush of heat

When Silco goes to move, Viktor holds onto him, not wanting to separate yet.

Silco kisses Viktor's jaw and neck, holding him close as Silco softens and slips out of Viktor after a few minutes. 

Viktor clings to Silco when he tries to move again and Silco chuckles. "I'll be back in a moment, darling, I promise."

Viktor pouts.

Silco taps his nose with an affectionate finger.

"Trust me; you don't want me to linger. Separating is unpleasant when it dries."

Viktor curls up in the sheets while Silco goes to clean himself and retrieve a damp cloth. By the time he gets back, Silco can tell Viktor is moments from sleep.

Silco pulls the sheet away, causing Viktor to voice his protest, but moans a little when Silco slides the cloth up the inside of his thighs, rubbing against the sensitivity between his legs.

After, when Silco is back in his arms, the man smiles and kisses the top of his head.

"You should write to your mother," Silco advises, voice soft. "Since we'll need to put off our plans for awhile, being with child will provide an acceptable excuse for our extended trip. Avoid the stress of travel and all that."

Viktor sighs. "I don't know. I fear she'll want to visit. She had always talked about grandchildren and I don't expect she'll be happy not meeting hers."

Silco hums. He doesn't like the idea of surprising her with a grandchild when he does return to England eventually, young "tutor" in tow. But he understands Viktor's worries

"What if we...never return?" Viktor asks, sitting up a little to look at Silco. "I know you have business and holdings there but, I...I'm not sure I want to raise our child where they may feel forced to conform to something they're not."

"We can remain in Europe," Silco answers carefully, frowning a little. "I'd have to look into purchasing properties here; we can't spend our lives flitting from hotel to hotel. Eventually, I would still have to make a trip back to England -- speak with the workers, bankers, et cetera. I just assumed you'd want to return home in time."

"My life is with you," Viktor admits. "My real life. If we return, I'll constantly be in the shadow of my previous self. They will miss her far more than they will ever embrace me."

Silco sits up with him and takes his hand. Gives it a squeeze.

"Thank you for telling me."

Viktor still stays in contact with his mother as the weeks go on, mentioning the desire of a child and asking for advice, while not confirming anything.

He feels the changes happening in his body though, and as much as it's scaring him, Silco is always there to reassure him. Viktor finds himself wanting to be around Silco more often, craving his touch or just his presence.

Viktor is absolutely clingy when pregnant.

It gets to the point where Silco almost always has a hand resting on some part of him, the warm weight of it a comfort.

Part 4

Arch + Woods

[zaynessbeloved]

A Duke's Promise

Synopsis: In a world of whispered expectations and carefully arranged futures, your life was meant to unfold quietly beside your sister’s—until the man promised to her began to look at you instead.

The Duke of Ravencourt was meant to be hers. Courted her with duty, danced with her out of tradition. But slowly—delicately—his eyes began to wander. To you.

Content warnings: Regency Era AU, Regency Romance, Slow Burn, Forbidden Love, Arranged Marriage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Tender Romance, From Courtship to Marriage, First Time Feelings, Mutual Pining, Letters as Love Language, First Kiss in a Garden, Longing Across Ballrooms, Dancing as a Love Language, Love Confessions, Marriage Proposal, Wedding Night, Honeymoon Seclusion, Flash Forward Epilogue, Loving Marriage, Reader is Pregnant in the Epilogue, First Time, Consummation After Marriage, Fingering (implied), Oral (female receiving), Breeding Kink (soft & emotional), Table Sex, Library Sex, Bath Intimacy, Hand Kisses through Gloves, Stolen Glances.

Pairings: Rafayel x reader

Word count: 8.6k

Chapter 7

The days that followed passed like petals on water. Soft. Unhurried. Sweet. Your body still remembered. Still ached sometimes, alone in your bed at night. But your heart—it began to bloom. Especially when word reached you, whispered from the corner of the drawing room…

“The Duke of Ravencourt called again upon Mrs. Everleigh.”

Not for tea. Not for pleasantries. Something more. The whisper curled beneath your skin like a ribbon drawn tight. 

It was late morning when you sat with Eleanora beneath the open windows of the east salon. Sunlight spilled across the floor like warm silk, catching the edge of your teacup. A breeze lifted the lace curtains in gentle waves. You turned your spoon slowly in your saucer.

“He’s called again.” Eleanora glanced up, tilting her head with a knowing smile. “Has he?”

“Not for me,” you added quickly. “At least—not yet. He asked for Mother.”

She said nothing at first. Only poured more tea into your cup with steady hands. You looked down, cheeks warm. “Do you think…” you began. Then paused. “Do you think he’s spoken of intentions?”

Eleanora smiled softly over the rim of her cup. “Has he not already spoken them to you?”

You looked away. The memory of the garden. His hand around yours. His voice in the dark. Your cheeks flushed.

“Yes,” you whispered. “But hearing it—and hearing him speak it to her—those are not the same.”

Eleanora reached out, her fingers brushing yours. “Then perhaps soon,” she said gently, “they will be.”

The tea had long gone tepid in your cup, but neither of you noticed. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, scattering golden light across the lace tablecloth, glinting off silver spoons and pale porcelain. The faint floral scent of jasmine and warm pastries drifted between you, curling in the air like a secret not yet spoken.

Eleanora sat opposite you, her gown a soft shade of blue, her expression—lighter than you’d seen in days. There was a softness at her mouth now. A smile that lingered even when she wasn’t aware of it.

And you couldn’t help it. You tilted your head slightly, your voice hushed over the clink of china. “You haven’t stopped smiling.”

She looked up, feigning innocence—but her blush gave her away. 

“Haven’t I?” she said, reaching for her tea. 

“No,” you said, grinning now. “And I think I know why.”

She arched a brow, hiding behind the rim of her cup. “Do you?”

You leaned in, elbows just brushing the edge of the tablecloth. “Lord Ashcombe.”

Her blush deepened. She didn’t deny it. Instead, she looked down for a breath, then back at you—eyes warm, almost gleaming. “He’s… good to me.”

You smiled softly. “You like him.”

She nodded. It was quiet for a moment—just the breeze, the porcelain, the low hum of the world beyond the windows. Then she spoke again.

“He listens,” she said, her voice gentler now. “Even when I don’t make sense. Even when I talk too much. He remembers the little things. Brings me books he thinks I’ll enjoy. Flowers that aren’t just roses.”

She laughed quietly, brushing her fingers along the edge of her cup. “He asked me once what color I think the sea would be if it reflected a secret. I didn’t even know how to answer, but… I’ve never forgotten the question.”

You stared at her, a little stunned. Eleanora had always been lovely. Poised. Graceful. But now—now she looked alive. You swallowed past the tight warmth in your throat.

“Do you think he’ll… ask you?” you murmured.

She hesitated. Then nodded, cheeks pink, eyes brighter. “I do. I can feel it. Every time he takes my hand now, it feels like something more. Something waiting.”

You reached for her hand, laced your fingers through hers.

“You deserve that,” you whispered.

She looked at you, her smile softer now. Wiser. “So do you.”

And though neither of you said his name—you both felt the air shift.

The Duke of Ravencourt. His voice. His promises. Waiting, like something written on the edge of tomorrow.

————

The garden had never looked so peaceful. The air shimmered with soft warmth, touched with the perfume of late-blooming lilacs and the bright green of new leaves. Birds chattered gently in the hedge nearby. The silver spoons glinted on the tea tray between you, and the tablecloth stirred with every passing breeze.

You lifted your teacup slowly, cheeks warm from the sun, eyes not quite meeting his. But you felt him watching. Not in a way that unsettled. In a way that anchored. His presence always did that. Even in silence.

“I’ve missed this,” he said softly, fingers curled around his own teacup. “Not the tea, though it’s lovely. But this—you.”

You smiled into your sip, but your heart gave a soft flutter.

“We only saw each other last week, My Lord.” you murmured.

“That’s far too long, Miss Everleigh.”  

Your smile deepened, but you didn’t look up. Not until his voice changed—quiet, but firmer, more deliberate.

“I should tell you… I won’t be attending the next ball.”

You blinked. Looked up. “Oh?” You tried to keep your voice even, but your heart stuttered. “May I ask why?”

He took a breath, his gaze holding yours across the garden table. “Because I was hoping,” he said, “that you might not attend either.”

The breeze caught your curls just then, brushing them across your cheek. You stilled. Surprised. Caught. Heart suddenly loud in your ears.

“I beg your pardon, My Lord?” you said gently, the heat rising fast to your cheeks. 

He didn’t tease. Not this time. His gaze remained steady, the edges of his mouth soft with something that felt too serious to smile. “I’ve spoken to your mother.”

You set your cup down—slowly, carefully—your fingers tingling. “You… you have?”

“I asked her permission to take you away for a few days,” he continued. “To my estate in the south. It’s quiet. Safe. Beautiful, this time of year.” 

Your eyes widened. The flush spread to your throat.

“Alone?” you whispered.

“No, of course not. Your chaperone will accompany us. As will my staff.” He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting with practiced elegance. “I would never risk your reputation, My Lady.” 

“Then… what—” Your voice broke softly. “What would we do there?” 

He tilted his head. There was a flicker in his eyes now—mischief tucked beneath devotion. “Walk. Talk. Ride, if you wish. I might read to you.” 

“Read to me?” 

“Yes,” he said smoothly. “There’s a library there. A lake. And a surprise.” 

You stared at him. “A surprise?” 

“Mmm.” He sipped his tea. “One I’m rather fond of. And terribly good at keeping.” 

Your heart fluttered, wild and hot behind your corset. You tried to compose yourself, fingers trembling slightly as you lifted your cup again. “You’re being deliberately vague, My Lord.”

“I’m being delightfully vague,” he corrected, eyes sparkling now.

“And you expect me to trust you?”

He leaned forward just enough for his voice to wrap around you like silk. “Haven’t I already taught you, Miss Everleigh, that you can?”

 ———— 

The morning was impossibly clear. Not too warm, not too brisk—just soft enough that the breeze kissed your skin and made your cheeks flush before you’d even stepped onto the drive. The carriage gleamed in the light, its polished wood dark and elegant, the wheels already dusted with the gravel from the turn.

He stood beside it. Impeccably dressed, of course—always—but today there was something else in his posture. Something quieter. Not solemn. Not stern. Just aware. As though he, too, understood what this journey meant.

Your breath caught the moment his eyes found yours. And then—he smiled. Not wide. Not playful. Just enough to warm the space between you.

“Good morning, Miss Everleigh,” he said, offering his hand.

You placed yours in it—gloved for now, delicate and pale against the strength of his fingers—and let him help you into the carriage. Your chaperone followed, settling beside you with a polite nod, eyes respectfully turned to the view through the window. The footman closed the door behind you with a soft click, and the horses stirred into motion.

The road stretched out ahead, winding through green fields and budding trees. Your hands rested in your lap. The Duke sat across from you, legs crossed, gloved hands folded over one knee, gaze resting lightly on you—though he said nothing.

For a while, the only sounds were the rhythmic thrum of wheels, the occasional call of a bird, and the breeze brushing past the windows. Your heartbeat faster than it should be. Not from nerves. From anticipation. From the knowledge that, for a few days, you would be away. From the balls. The whispers. The expectations. From everything. Except him.

You must have been quiet too long. Because after a gentle lull, he shifted—just slightly—and his voice reached across the velvet and air between you. “You’re thinking too hard, My lady.”

You blinked. Met his eyes. “Am I, My Lord?”

“You haven’t looked out the window once. You’ve been staring at your gloves as if they hold the secrets of the universe.”

You glanced down. He was right. You hadn’t realized how tightly your fingers had curled in your lap. Your cheeks flushed. Again. He tilted his head. “May I ask what’s on your mind?”

He didn’t ask like a man trying to intrude. He asked like a man who already knew you were holding something behind your eyes—and only wanted to be allowed in.

You smiled faintly, lifting your gaze just enough to meet his. The chaperone sat beside you still, quiet and respectful, her attention focused beyond the window as if she sensed the need for privacy without ever turning her head.

And so—you measured your voice.

“I’m… excited,” you said softly. “And a little nervous, My Lord.”

His brows lifted. You glanced away, brushing your gloved fingers down your skirt.

“It’s not every day a lady is swept away to the country by a Duke,” you added quickly, with a smile that was just a little too composed.

He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, his expression thoughtful, amused.

“Swept away,” he repeated. “That’s what this is?”

You looked up at him again, cheeks warming. “Isn’t it, My Lord?”

His mouth curved—not quite a smile. Something softer. Something that curled slowly at the corners. “Only if you wish it to be, Miss Everleigh.”

You looked down again. Your heart thudded just once—loud, sharp, sweet. He didn’t press further. But his eyes lingered. And when he spoke again, it was with the kind of gentle tease that never tried to undo you—it only reminded you he could.

“You don’t hide nerves as well as you think you do.”

You turned your face to the window, lips parted in faint protest. “I—”

“It’s endearing,” he said smoothly, before you could defend yourself. “Utterly.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too much. The chaperone said nothing. But the air in the carriage shifted—lighter, warmer, charged with the smallest spark of shared understanding.

It was quite some time later, after the countryside had grown greener and the trees more wild, that the carriage slowed. The gravel changed under the wheels—finer, paler. A breeze slipped through the slight opening in the window, carrying with it the scent of lavender hedges and cedarwood and something like sea air.

Your breath caught faintly as the estate came into view. Not grand in the way of London’s stone and spire. But wide, open, and beautiful. Sprawling gardens, low terraces, a manor made of warm sandstone, its windows catching the sun like glass kissed by gold. The carriage rolled to a gentle halt. He stepped out first, offering his hand as though it were second nature.

“Miss Everleigh,” he said, smiling as he looked up at you. “Welcome.”

You placed your hand in his. And as he helped you down—your foot touched the stone walk, your skirt swayed, and your breath caught in your chest again. Because you were here. With him. Far from the city. Far from rules. And for a moment, it felt like the world might truly belong to just the two of you.

The sun slid lazily down the sky, casting amber light over the low garden walls and the wildflower beds that framed the estate. You took his hand again as you stepped off the final step of the carriage platform—more out of habit now than necessity.

He didn’t let go immediately. But he didn’t hold too long, either. Just enough to make your fingers warm under the glove again. A maid approached with a quiet curtsy, ready to show you to your chambers. But the Duke turned to you first.

“Would you like a moment to rest?” he asked. “The ride was long. Your rooms are prepared.”

You looked up at him. Your heart beat high in your chest. The answer formed before you could temper it.

“No,” you said, soft but certain. “Not yet, my Lord.”

He studied you for a moment—then nodded. “Then let me show you something.”

You walked side by side, down a stone path softened by moss at the edges and sun-warmed petals curled at your feet. The manor behind you cast long shadows now, its sandstone catching the light in a way that made it seem alive—gold one moment, rose the next.

“This part of the estate was designed by my grandfather,” he said, hands behind his back as he led you past an archway of blooming wisteria. “He believed a home wasn’t whole without a place meant for beauty alone.”

“And do you, My Lord?” you asked, voice light as the wind catching your skirt.

He glanced at you, then ahead. “I do. Though it took me longer to understand what that meant.”

You smiled faintly, taking in the view. Every inch of the estate felt… thoughtful. Not ostentatious. Not cold. Just lived in. Loved. And quiet. You passed a marble bench wrapped in ivy, then a tucked-away sundial carved with unreadable script.

“What does it say?” you asked, gesturing gently toward it.

He stepped closer, eyes on the weathered stone. “Time reveals the truth.”

You paused. The words slipped into your chest like a warm stone in a velvet pouch. You didn’t reply. Not because you had nothing to say. Because the silence between you was enough.

He led you farther—past a long hedge wall, past the orchard where bees hummed drowsily in the white blossoms, to a quiet alcove with a view of the distant hills.

There, a wrought-iron bench waited beneath a canopy of climbing roses. He didn’t offer to sit first. He waited. You lowered yourself slowly, smoothing your skirt. He joined you, only when you were settled. Not too close. Not far. Just—near. The scent of earth and flowers and late sunlight lingered in the hush.

“You truly love this place, My Lord.” you said softly.

He looked out over the hills. “I do.” Then he turned to you again. “But I haven’t loved sharing it… until now.”

Your heart caught, your fingers twisting faintly in your lap. He didn’t press further. Only let the moment rest between you like the sun sinking gently over the land.

The light shifted slowly. First golden. Then amber. Then something close to lavender—muted, lingering on the edges of the sky. The breeze cooled just enough that your gloved fingers brushed the inside of your arm now and then, chasing the warmth his presence stirred in your blood.

You passed beneath arches of climbing roses and through a tunnel of yew hedges where soft lanterns had been hung and lit by some unseen hand. The flames danced gently in the glass, flickering gold onto the path. He walked beside you in silence for a time, hands behind his back, head tilted slightly toward the breeze.

It wasn’t uncomfortable. It was—comfortable. Like the hush between familiar chords of a song already beloved. When he spoke again, it was with that same ease. “There’s a clearing at the edge of the south grove,” he said, voice low. “The stars begin early there.”

You turned toward him with a soft smile. “Will we see it?”

“Another night,” he promised. “For now, I thought perhaps…” He glanced upward. The sky had begun to soften into twilight. Behind you, the windows of the estate flickered like fireflies. “You might dine with me.”

The question didn’t feel like a command. It felt like something sacred. Shared.

“I’d like that, my Lord.” you replied quietly.

He smiled—just faintly—and offered his arm this time, the first formal gesture since your arrival. You took it without hesitation.

The dining room was smaller than you’d imagined for a manor of this size. Cozy. Elegant. Firelight danced in the hearth, and a low chandelier sparkled above a table set only for two. The scent of roasted herbs and fresh bread filled the air, and your chaperone had long since retired to her own dinner with the staff.

He pulled out your chair for you, as always, and didn’t sit until you were settled. The meal unfolded slowly. Easy conversation. Sips of chilled wine. Laughter soft enough to catch on the firelight. And when it ended, you felt full—not just in body, but in heart.

As you rose together, he walked you down the hallway lit by golden sconces, each step echoing faintly in the warmth of polished stone and dark wood. At the base of the stairs, he paused.

“Are you tired, My Lady?” he asked gently. 

You turned toward him, heart fluttering again. “A little,” you admitted. “But it’s… it’s a lovely sort of tired, my Lord.”

He smiled again—soft and unreadable. “Then the maids will take you to your rooms. Everything should be ready. If not, I trust you’ll let me know.” 

You nodded, fingertips grazing the fold of your skirt.

“Thank you. For the garden. And for dinner. And for… this.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “You’re welcome, Miss Everleigh.”

“Goodnight, my Lord.”

“Goodnight.”

The fire had burned low by the time you changed for bed. The room was quiet—too quiet, at first, after the warmth of his voice, the soft clink of cutlery, the easy laughter shared between candlelight and shadows. You sat at the edge of the bed, your fingers brushing the embroidered edge of the coverlet, cheeks still warm.

Everything about the day felt surreal. The garden. The walk. The low timbre of his voice when he asked if you were tired. Not because it was unfamiliar. But because it felt so safe. So easy. And tomorrow—Tomorrow, he would be yours again.

You slipped beneath the covers with a soft breath, your heart full of something too large to name.

The morning came gentle and golden. Birdsong filtered through the sheer curtains, and a soft breeze stirred the scent of wildflowers and sun-warmed stone. The maid tapped lightly on the door, entering with grace and a knowing smile.

“Good morning, Miss,” she said. “The Duke is awaiting you.”

You blinked sleepily, then sat upright—heat rushing to your cheeks, your heartbeat quickening.

“He is?”

“He asked the staff to prepare something special in the garden, by the lake.”

Your breath caught. A smile tugged at your lips before you could temper it.

“Thank you,” you said softly.

You chose your dress with care. Not too formal. But soft, and feminine—something that would flutter in the breeze. You picked the pale pink muslin gown—summery and sweet, with puffed sleeves and delicate embroidery at the hem, a shade so soft it glowed like blush against your skin. The maid helped fasten the buttons at the back, smoothing the folds gently.

You left your hair half up, soft curls brushing your shoulders, pinned only with a little ivory ribbon. You caught your reflection in the mirror—and blushed. Not because of vanity. Because you wanted to look lovely. For him.

The path to the lake twisted through blooming hedges and golden-leafed trees, the breeze lifting your skirts in soft waves. Two maids walked discreetly behind, guiding you along a gravel trail toward the far side of the estate. And then—you saw it.

A shaded spot beneath a low cypress, where the lake stretched out like glass. The water glistened in the sunlight, lilies dancing near the edge. And there—on a blanket of soft woven fabric, beside a low table set with fresh pastries, fruits, tea, and sun-warmed bread—He stood, waiting.

Without a coat this morning, in shirtsleeves rolled at the forearm, a waistcoat of dark blue silk, his hair just slightly tousled by the breeze. Your breath caught. And when he saw you—his entire expression softened. Not with mischief. Not with charm. With something else. 

“Good morning, Miss Everleigh.” His voice was like the breeze across the lake. “You look lovely. As I knew you would.” 

He gestured once—subtle, unhurried—and the maids offered twin curtsies, retreating down the winding path until only the lake birds and the soft rustle of trees remained.

The moment they vanished, a hush fell. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just… intimate.

You stepped forward—slowly, carefully—your slippers brushing across dew-soft grass, the folds of your pale pink gown catching the light like rosewater. But you stopped just short of him. Not to be coy. To look. To see. Because there,without the usual layers of grandeur and title and ballroom polish—he looked so very real. 

The morning sun slipped through the trees and kissed the edge of his dark waistcoat, catching on the faint texture of silk beneath it. His hair moved slightly in the breeze, and his stance—relaxed, sure—was nothing like the Duke who held court in candlelit parlors. 

This man—this man was his own. And somehow, impossibly, yours too. Your lips curved before you meant them to. “You look rather scandalous without a cravat, My Lord.” 

He blinked. Then his brows lifted. “Do I?”  

You tilted your head, fingers laced before you as if you were a schoolgirl pretending not to flirt. “Very improper. I daresay I might faint if the sun strikes your forearms any more directly.” 

His laugh broke across the garden like a bell. Full. Unrestrained. Utterly real. The kind of laugh that made the lake shimmer brighter. The kind that made your heart skip—then flutter madly, your cheeks warming with something bright and wild and foolish. He shook his head, one hand at his hip, the other gesturing toward the blanket.

“Do sit, Miss Everleigh,” he said through the last breath of his laugh. “Before I scandalize you further with the suggestion that I might remove my waistcoat altogether.” 

You gave a mock gasp, pretending to clutch your pearls. Then, laughing, you stepped forward and lowered yourself onto the blanket with practiced grace—heart racing, smile softening. “You wouldn’t dare, My Lord.”

“Wouldn’t I?” he replied, sitting beside you. “We are dreadfully far from society’s reach.”

And when your eyes met—you saw it again. Not mischief. Not power. Something joyful. Something his. Just for you.

You sat opposite him, the sun tracing a line of warmth along your spine where your dress dipped at the collar. The blanket beneath you was thick and soft, the grass underneath plush as a cushion. Your skirt fanned around you like a pale pink cloud, warm at the knees, cool at the ankles. The table between you was low, delicately set: silver spoons, rose-patterned china, a bowl of fresh strawberries so red they seemed to hum in the light.

You reached for one. But first—You slipped off your right glove. Then the left. Deliberately slow. Not scandalous. But not entirely innocent, either. Your fingers curled gently around the fruit, and you raised it to your lips, taking a small bite. Juice kissed the corner of your mouth—sweet, sharp. 

You didn’t meet his eyes immediately. You didn’t have to. You felt him watching you. And then— “That,” he said quietly, “was a rather artful display of nonchalance.”

You blinked. Licked a trace of juice from your lip—perhaps a touch more slowly than necessary.

“Nonchalance?” you echoed, tilting your head, feigning innocence. “Whatever do you mean, My Lord?”

He leaned back on one arm, the other resting casually near the basket, but his eyes—his eyes—never left yours.

“The gloves,” he said, a smile curling slowly at the edges of his mouth. “The strawberry. The way you’re not looking at me while knowing I’m watching.”

You raised a brow, brushing a thumb over your lower lip. “You sound quite confident in your assumptions, My Lord.”

“Experience, Miss Everleigh,” he murmured, “breeds confidence.”

You looked down at the strawberry stem in your fingers, then back at him—a little braver now, the sun and his laughter still warming your skin.

“And what experience,” you asked, voice soft but pointed, “taught you to read the language of glances and ungloved fingers, My Lord?” 

He stilled—only just. But the smile deepened.  “The kind no gentleman would speak of aloud.” 

You hummed thoughtfully. Then reached for another strawberry. This time, you held it without eating—just resting it in your bare palm as your fingers grazed the edge of the linen.

“And if I said I wanted to learn that language?” you asked. 

The air shifted. Not silence. But stillness. The kind that came right before something else. He didn’t move. Didn’t reach across the blanket. Didn’t touch you. But his voice—his voice dropped. “Then I would say you’re already fluent, My Lady.”

You didn’t answer him at first. You looked down at the strawberry resting in your palm, red and soft against the pale of your skin, the juice already staining the pad of your thumb. Your cheeks burned—but you didn’t look away. Instead, you took another bite.

Slow. Purposeful. Feigned indifference wrapped in the delicate arch of your neck, the way your lashes fluttered when you caught his gaze again. And yes—he was watching. Not just your lips. Your hands. Your fingers. Bare now, resting on the blanket, soft and open in the sun.

“You flatter me, My Lord,” you said at last, your voice light but breathless beneath it. “But I think you might be reading too much into my breakfast.”

He laughed again—but softer this time. Low. Like the roll of distant thunder behind the summer hills.

“You think so?” he murmured.

You reached for a small napkin, dabbing at the corner of your mouth with unnecessary precision.

“Or perhaps,” you said, carefully folding it, “you’re simply used to ladies using strawberries and silks to steal your attention.” 

He arched his brow. “And here I thought I was the one seducing.”

Your lips parted. The blush deepened. But you refused to look away. “Perhaps we’re both guilty,” you said. 

That silence again. That shift. Even the air between you felt heavier now—charged with something sweet and sharp, like the fruit still warm in your hand. He leaned forward, just slightly. Not enough to crowd. Just enough to close the space between playful and dangerous.

“You speak of guilt, Miss Everleigh,” he said, voice low, “as if this is something we should be ashamed of.”

You swallowed. The tension, the sunlight, the look in his eyes—it was too much. But not enough.

“Then what would you call it?” you whispered. 

He smiled. Slow. Terrible in its beauty. “Hunger.” 

You held your breath. Not from nerves. Not from fear. But from the way his voice had settled inside you—low, rich, warm like sunlight on skin too long starved of light. 

The word lingered in the space between your bodies like smoke curling in the air. You barely moved. Your heart ached. Your thighs pressed together where your skirt pooled across the blanket. But before it could deepen—before the ache could turn into need again—he breathed in.

And pulled back. Not sharply. Not in rejection. Just enough. Enough to make the heat ease from your cheeks, the tension in your shoulders slacken like silk loosening from a tight knot. 

And still—still your stomach curled at the retreat. Just a little. Not from disappointment. From wondering what might have come next if he hadn’t. But you didn’t speak. Because he was already reaching—to the side, beneath the edge of the linen-covered basket where something small had been tucked in the shadow of the wine and preserves. 

He brought it forward. A velvet box. Simple. Elegant. Deep purple. He didn’t open it right away. Instead, he looked at you—quiet and steady, the fire still there, but dimmed now by something more solemn.

“I spoke with your Mother before we left,” he said. 

Your breath caught.

“I asked for her permission,” he continued, “though I suspected I might not find peace until I asked for yours.” 

He turned the box in his hand once—just once—before lifting the lid. Inside, nestled in a bed of ivory satin, was a ring. Not ornate. Not gaudy. But beautiful. Ancient. Weighty. A deep silver band inlaid with a narrow twist of gold, and at its heart: a small, polished sapphire, dark as the night sky.

You knew—instinctively—what it was. His family’s. His. He held it between his fingers, reverent.

“This has belonged to every Ravencourt since my great-grandfather,” he said softly. “But it will never belong to anyone else again, if you say yes.” 

The lake was still behind you. The breeze had stilled too. Only the birds sang. Only the sunlight shone. And your breath—that delicate, trembling thing—was caught somewhere in your throat.

He looked at you. And he meant it. “I cannot offer you simplicity,” he murmured. “Nor a life free from scrutiny. But I can offer you myself.” His voice cracked—just a fraction. “I am yours, Miss Everleigh. I have been for some time. All I ask is that you free me from the torment of not having you.” 

The world spun. Or maybe it stilled entirely. Because you couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t speak. Your hand fluttered, trembling, halfway to your mouth. Your cheeks were warm, burning. But your chest was warmer. And your heart—Your heart felt like it had bloomed open in your ribcage.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried again. And finally—You whispered. “My Lord…”

It was all you could say. For now. You hadn’t realized your hand was moving until it was already there—pressed softly, helplessly, to your chest. Your fingers curled just slightly into the fabric of your dress, right over your heart, as if they could still the trembling beneath your ribs.

It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t even shock anymore. It was too much feeling. Too much truth. He noticed. Of course he did. And his voice came gently, the velvet pulled back now to reveal only sincerity.

“You don’t have to answer now,” he said. “I’ll wait. I’d wait a hundred lifetimes if it meant—”  

“Yes.” The word fell from your lips before he could finish. Soft. Breathless. But certain. You met his gaze. Your lips trembled. “Yes,” you whispered again. “My Lord, I—yes.”

The air shifted. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. But it was everything. His eyes widened just enough to betray how tightly he had been holding himself still—how afraid he had been to hope too deeply. And then—then he exhaled. As if he had been holding that breath for months. Years. Forever. 

He didn’t speak again right away. He only reached—carefully, reverently—for your left hand. You extended it to him, trembling still. Your fingers curled just slightly, the air between your palms charged with something electric, something that bloomed heat up your arm before he even touched you. But when he did—when his fingers brushed yours—you forgot how to breathe entirely.

Because his touch wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t cool or composed. It was warm. Sure. Almost worshipful. He slid the ring onto your finger, slowly, carefully, as if it were made of glass and flame at once. The band settled just beneath your knuckle. And it fit. Perfectly.

Your cheeks burned. Not from embarrassment. From the rightness of it. The ring on your hand. His hand on yours. And the sound of his voice, thick with emotion, when he spoke again.

“You have no idea,” he whispered, “what you’ve just given me.”

You looked down at the ring. Then back at him. And smiled.

“I think,” you said softly, “I’m beginning to, My Lord.”

The air between you felt different now. Not because he had given you his ring, not because you had said the words that tied you to him—but because everything had shifted. His fingers had brushed your skin. The ring was on your finger. The promise was made. And still—still you felt the pull.

So you pulled it back—slowly, resting it in your lap, fingers folding over the band as if trying to protect it. To protect yourself. From the swell of emotion that had cracked open inside your chest like sunlight spilling through a stained-glass window. You were promised now. His. Not yet a Duchess. Not yet his wife. But his.

In name. In promise. In aching, unspoken need. He saw it in your face. And as always, he gave you a way to breathe. He sat back slightly, a faint smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, as if ready to shift the conversation to safer ground. 

“There’s a rose garden just past the grove,” he said gently. “I’d hoped to show it to you before—” 

But you moved. Just slightly. Your skirt rustled as you shifted closer, the space between you thinning to a breath, a sigh. Not scandalous. Not yet. But bold. You didn’t look at him right away. Your gaze lingered on the edge of his sleeve, the line of his thigh beneath the soft wool of his trousers. And then you whispered.

“My lord,” you whispered again, the words barely breaking the silence. “Now that I am promised to you… is it proper for me to do this?”

His breath caught. You turned your head—slowly, carefully—and found his eyes. They darkened. Not with anger. With something far more dangerous. More tender. 

“No,” he said, just as softly. “It isn’t proper.” Your lips parted. But before you could draw back, embarrassed—his voice dipped lower. “But God help me, I want you closer anyway.” 

Your heart tripped. Every nerve beneath your skin pulsed. He was still so careful. His hands didn’t reach. His posture didn’t shift. But his voice—his voice wrapped around you like warm silk drawn too tight. 

“You make it impossible to remain proper,” he murmured, his eyes locked on yours. “Especially now that you are mine, even if only in promise.” 

You closed your eyes for a moment. And even though his words spoke of restraint, his body moved—just enough to catch your attention. His arm shifted, the heat of his body near you, but still that thread of control holding him just a hair's breadth away.

But the air between you was electric. It was thick with something both unspoken and undeniable. Because your body was burning again. Your throat thick. Your thighs pressed together, aching. Your hands trembling in your lap. And still—you wanted to be closer. You whispered again, barely daring the words. “Even now…?”

His voice cracked. And his answer—“Especially now.”

Your pulse fluttered in your throat, and the ache between your legs was sharp and tender, almost unbearable. You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. Instead, you let the moment hang there, like a promise too beautiful to break.

The garden held its breath around you. Birdsong softened into hush. The lake rippled in silence. The trees swayed without sound. And you—you sat there, his yes still ringing in your chest like a bell struck deep, trembling with something that felt like truth. 

Your fingers tightened gently around your skirt, your palm still warm from when he’d slid the ring onto your hand. You stared at it for a long moment. Then looked back at him. He wasn’t watching the lake anymore. He was watching you. 

As though he could feel your thoughts before you spoke them. As though he was already bracing for what he could not—should not—allow himself to have. You shifted again. Closer. The smallest breath. And still—it felt enormous. Your knee brushed the edge of his. Barely. A whisper of fabric. But his breath hitched. So did yours.

“I don’t want to sit far away from you, My Lord,” you said softly, your voice too steady for how your heart was shaking.

His eyes locked onto yours. “Miss Everleigh—”

“I know,” you whispered. “I know we shouldn’t.” The ache in your chest cracked open further, blooming down your spine, curling low in your belly like coals stirred too long. “But I—” You paused, breath trembling. “I ache for you. Even now. Even like this. And I don’t know what to do with it.”

His entire body went still. Not cold. Not distant. Just held. Like he was wrestling every fiber of control he still possessed. And then—his hand twitched. He didn’t reach for you. But his thigh pressed slightly toward yours, that inch of space becoming nothing at all. You watched the tension ripple through him—his chest rising harder, lips parting slightly, jaw clenched so tight it trembled.

“You mustn’t say things like that,” he said, voice hoarse. “Not when we are alone. Not when I’ve given you my name and placed my ring on your hand and sworn to wait, but my body—” He cut himself off. You didn’t breathe. But his eyes—his eyes burned into you. “My body,” he said again, quieter now, “does not wait so patiently.”

Your cheeks flamed. Your throat tightened. And your thighs pressed together beneath your gown, the ache growing unbearable. You said nothing. You didn’t have to. Because he could already see it in your face. In your trembling. In the way you didn’t pull away. And he—he could do nothing now but feel it too.

You didn’t move. Though your pulse demanded it. Though your body whispered closer, just a little more. You sat still in the sun-warmed hush, your hands folded gently in your lap, the sapphire ring catching light like a promise that shimmered too brightly. Your cheeks burned. Not with shame. But with the ache of wanting. Of knowing what you couldn’t have—yet. Of feeling it between your thighs, beneath your ribs, blooming like something forbidden and already yours. And so—you asked. 

“What would happen,” you said quietly, “if we did something improper here?” 

His breath caught. You didn’t look at him at first. You looked at the lake. The way it held the sky. The way it knew how to keep secrets. Then your gaze slid back to his.

“No one is watching,” you whispered. “Just like that night in the garden, My Lord. When you kissed me.” You saw it in his face—how the memory struck him. How it undid him, even now. “I am already tainted,” you added, voice barely audible. “At least by the rules of society. Only you and I know it. So what would it change, really, if we…?”

You couldn’t finish the sentence. Because your voice shook. Because your body ached. Because he was right there, and so was your yes, wrapped around your finger like a tether you never wanted to remove. He turned toward you more fully now. His voice came low. Measured. But not cold.

“Everything,” he said. You blinked. Your heart thudded once—hard.

“Everything?” you repeated.

“Yes,” he said softly. “Because I love you. And I will not make you my secret.” 

The words landed in your chest like fire. He leaned in—closer now, but still not touching.

“I kissed you in the garden because I could not stop myself,” he murmured. “But I did not go further because I would not have you as anything less than mine in the eyes of the world.” Your breath trembled. “You’re already mine in promise, yes. And in my heart—you’ve been mine for longer than you know. But not yet in name.”

His eyes burned into you. “If I touched you here,” he said, voice thick with longing, “if I gave in now… I would be robbing you of what you deserve most.”

“Which is?”

“Honor. Celebration. A love not hidden behind hedges and silence. A love that stands tall, in daylight, with your name on my lips and my ring on your hand before every soul who dares to look at you.”

You couldn’t breathe. Tears stung faintly at the edges of your vision—not from sorrow. From knowing. From being seen. And still—the ache did not fade. But you understood now. Why would he not take you in secret. Why he held himself back with hands that longed to tremble over your skin.

You didn’t speak at first. You simply moved. Slowly. Carefully. Your fingers left your lap like they were pulled by something older than choice, something woven deep into the ache of your chest. You reached for him—not to tempt. Not to undo. But to see. To feel. To tell him that you understood. Your hand hovered for a breath, trembling slightly, before pressing—soft and open—against the center of his chest. His breath caught. Beneath your palm, his heart thundered. Not like a drum. Like a storm held behind glass. He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But every muscle beneath your touch was drawn tight—coiled with restraint so precise it could only come from love.

“It hurts, My Lord” you whispered, voice breaking just slightly. “This wait. This wanting.”

Your thumb moved in a small circle. Not to soothe him. To soothe yourself. His hand rose slowly—hovered for a breath—and then settled over yours. Warm. Large. Steady. His fingers didn’t curl to pull you closer. They simply held you there, where you already were.

“I know,” he said, low and rough. “Believe me, I know.” You looked up at him. His eyes were dark now—burning low, but deep. “But you won’t have to wait much longer.”

Your breath stuttered. “You swear it?” you asked, barely a whisper. 

His hand tightened just slightly over yours. “I would burn down the world before I kept you waiting a moment longer than I must.” 

The wind stirred the edge of the lake. The birds sang again, softer this time. But all you could feel was the beat of his heart beneath your palm and the sacred ache in your own chest that told you—this was love. This was devotion. This desire was honored. And for now—this was enough.

The silence between you melted like morning dew beneath the rising sun. You let your hand fall softly from his chest, your fingertips trailing across the fabric of his shirt like a secret. His hand lingered for a moment longer over yours, before he, too, drew back—reluctantly, reverently. And then—he exhaled. You both did. And the moment shifted. Not vanished. Not forgotten. But softened—tucked into the space between you like a shared flame left quietly burning.

You reached again for a strawberry, this time with a small smile tugging at your lips. “Well,” you said, tone lighter now, “I suppose now we’ll need to decide what sort of cake we want.”

He blinked once. Then laughed—really laughed. “That’s your first concern after I offer you my family’s most treasured heirloom?” 

You popped the berry into your mouth with a faux-innocent shrug. “Cake is important, My Lord.” 

He shook his head, smile wide now, dimples forming in the corners of his cheeks as he poured more tea into your cup. “You’ll be the death of me, Miss Everleigh.”

“Not yet,” you said, feigning solemnity. “At least not until the vows.”

He raised a brow. “And what else do you demand for your grand Duchess wedding, hm? Shall I procure a gown woven with gold thread? A cathedral strewn with lilies? Doves released into the sky?” 

“I’ll settle for lilies,” you teased, cheeks pink. “And perhaps a little less spectacle. I do believe all I truly want is a lovely dress, my sister and mother beside me, and you at the end of the aisle.”

He stilled at that. For only a second. Then the smile returned—but softer now, glowing from somewhere deeper. “You’ll have all of it,” he said. “And more.”

You sipped your tea quickly to hide the warmth rising in your face, but it didn’t help—the cup rattled just slightly against the saucer as your hand trembled.

“Though,” you added, trying for a casual tone, “you must promise not to stare at me so dreadfully during the ceremony, Your Grace. I do worry you’ll make a spectacle of yourself.”

He leaned in slightly, voice low and teasing. “I plan to stare, Miss Everleigh. Unashamedly. It will be entirely scandalous.”

“I should hope so,” you whispered back.

And just like that—the laughter returned, lighter than air. Not to dismiss the depth. But to live beside it. The rest of the breakfast unfolded with ease: conversation drifting from the wedding to the lake, to the curious shape of a nearby tree that made you laugh until you nearly spilled your tea.

And every now and then—his hand brushed yours. Not by accident. Not entirely. And your ring caught the sun. And you blushed all over again.

The remnants of breakfast were left behind as he rose and turned to you, offering his hand. You took it. Not with practiced poise. Not with the performance of society’s expectations. You took it like you meant it. Like your heart beat where your fingers met his. Like your body remembered the ache of that conversation, and still leaned into the safety of his warmth.

The path beside the lake was wide and shaded with tall trees arching above like cathedral vaults of green and gold. The water rippled with reflected light, and now and then a lily dipped with the movement of a soft breeze or the brush of a dragonfly’s wings.

He said nothing at first. Neither did you. Because there was no need. Because silence had become another language between you. But when you spoke, it was with a smile still tucked into your voice. “I suppose we shall have to set a date soon, My Lord.”

“You suppose?” he echoed, his voice full of that soft amusement that always made your chest flutter. “You accepted my ring with trembling hands and flushed cheeks, and now you speak as if you’re drafting a ledger, My Lady.”

“I am simply being practical,” you replied, squeezing his fingers slightly. “There’s so much to be done. Invitations. Flowers. A gown.” You hesitated. “A wedding night.” 

He turned his head slightly, not in surprise—but in attention. He didn’t speak. Not yet. You kept walking, though your cheeks burned deeper now, the weight of your own words curling low in your belly. “It’s just… something one thinks about.”

You felt him watching you even as he walked beside you, the tension in the air turning warmer, softer. Not heavy. Just aware. “Is that what has you blushing so sweetly?” he asked, voice velvet-smooth. “Thoughts of our wedding night?” 

You covered your face with your free hand. “My Lord.” 

He laughed again—not loud, but delighted. “You’ll be the one to undo me, you know. Not the other way around.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” you murmured from behind your palm.

He slowed slightly, letting the path curve with them, his hand never once leaving yours. “May I show you something now?” he asked softly. “The rose garden I spoke of?”

You nodded, grateful for the change of subject—though your heart still danced in your chest, and the heat between your legs didn’t ease so easily. He led you through a break in the hedges, down a path of pale stone dusted with petals. The air changed here—thicker with scent, honey-sweet and wild. And there it was. The rose garden. Not prim. Not manicured. Alive.

Roses spilled over trellises and climbed up archways, pinks and creams and deep, aching reds swaying together in quiet harmony. Bees hovered lazily between blooms, and in the center stood a marble bench shaded by a lattice wrapped in ivy and blush-colored petals.

You stopped. The garden surrounded you in color, in scent, in hush. He looked at you again—and this time, didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. Because you were thinking of it again. The wedding. The vows. The dress. And what would follow. And your body—sweet, aching, barely patient—was thinking of it too.

You stepped forward. The path beneath your slippers was lined in pale stone, but petals drifted across it like snow, kissed with sunlight and scent. The roses reached for you from all sides—blushing ivory, deep coral, the softest shade of pale violet. And you—you slipped one glove from your hand.

Not out of propriety. Not out of flirtation. But because your soul ached to feel. Your bare fingers reached for a bloom and brushed its open curve, tracing the velvet edge of a soft pink petal. Behind you, he watched. Not with hunger. But with something quiet. Something that looked like peace. You let your touch linger, then moved to the next blossom, and the next. Slowly. Thoughtfully.

“Do you ever wonder,” you said softly, “what kind of life we’ll have, My Lord?”

He was only a step behind, but his voice was closer still when he answered. “Every day.”

You turned slightly, but not fully. Your eyes stayed on the roses, your fingers brushing along stems as if their thorns might tell you secrets. 

“I’ve never known what it means to be a wife. Let alone a Duchess.” The word still felt too large in your mouth. Too heavy. Too bright. “I wonder what will be expected of me,” you continued. “How I’m meant to hold myself. What if I fall short of it?”

There was silence for a moment. Only the wind through trellises. The hum of bees. Your own breath in your throat. Then you felt it. His presence behind you. The warmth of his hand at your back—not quite touching, but there. Always there.

“You will be expected,” he said gently, “to walk through every room the way you walked into my life.” You looked at him then. He smiled. “With grace. With your head high. And with fire in your eyes.”

You parted your lips, but nothing came. “You are not expected to be perfect,” he added. “Only to be yourself. And to know that when you falter—and you will—I will be there. Not behind you, but beside you.” 

Your heart cracked open just a little more. His voice dropped to a hum. “You will not carry the weight of Ravencourt alone, My Lady. You’ll share it. As my wife. My equal. My love.” 

You turned to face him fully now, your ungloved hand at your side, your chest trembling with quiet breath. “You make it sound so easy,” you whispered. 

His smile deepened. “It won’t be. But nothing worth having ever is.”

Evening came quietly. The garden tucked itself beneath the dusk like a secret sealed in honey. You returned to the manor through halls lined with oil lamps, the rose-sweet scent of the day still clinging faintly to your hair, to your skin, to your joined hands.

Dinner was quiet, intimate—not for lack of conversation, but because there was no longer need for words to fill the spaces. You ate beside him in a small sunlit room off the western wing, where the glass windows caught the last of the golden sky. He poured your wine, cut your meat, and asked about your favorite poet. And every time you laughed—he looked at you like it was the first time.

Sleep came easy. Your body still ached for him, yes, but now with a kind of permission folded into it—we are to be married. And in the quiet of your bedchamber, your hand rested softly over the ring on your finger, as if pressing it into your skin might make the truth sink deeper still.

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