#regency romance tropes

[jomiddlemarch]

My vegetable love should grow 

“But Miss Cressida, it ain’t done!” exclaimed the red-headed housemaid Sally, who had an uncanny resemblance to a fox but without any of a vixen’s daring or speed. Her dark eyes were wet with tears of consternation and darted about anxiously.

“It can be as long as I bring a maid with me. You went along with everything else, you cannot draw some arbitrary line at coming on a call with me during calling hours,” Cressida said, striving to keep her tone even, because she had a positive horror of ranting at the servants the way her father ranted at them and anyone else he deemed beneath him, which was everyone other than Queen Charlotte and possibly the Archbishop of Canterbury. Still, Sally was being difficult and Cressida didn’t have enough pin money left to bribe her into compliance.

“If this works out as I hope, I’ll take you with me,” she said to the maid.

“You already asked me to go with you,” Sally replied. “Did Cook addle your brains when she shouted?”

“I meant, if I am successful and secure the affections of Lord Debling, I should ask Mama to allow me to bring you with me as a maid,” Cressida explained. A more clever maid would have grasped her intention, but a more clever maid would have found a way to refuse Cressida’s undeniably outré scheme.

“A lady’s maid?” Sally breathed, as this was evidently what she considered the absolute pinnacle of existence. She couldn’t do Cressida’s hair worth a toss, however, and her mending was only passable.

“We’ll see,” Cressida said.

“D’you mean to go now, my lady?” Sally asked. 

Cressida almost sighed in relief. She’d have boxed the girl’s ears if she had to, but dragging a weeping maid behind her to Lord Debling’s townhouse what not what she’d planned.

“Yes. Fetch my blue pelisse and then we’ll be off,” Cressida said.

“It’s three years old and covered in braid,” Sally said doubtfully. “You don’t want something more fashionable?”

“Fashion isn’t my primary concern,” Cressida said. She suspected Lord Debling would not notice if she wore her grandmother’s hooded wool cloak, other than for its marten fur trim. The blue went with her eyes and she remembered being hopeful when she first put it on; it had been the Season she thought she might make a match with Viscount Aldertwyne and his five thousand pounds per annum and her recollections were all colored with her earlier rosy optimism. 

“If you say so, my lady,” Sally said.

It was not good Ton to snap at one’s servants’ vapidity or that of anyone who wasn’t a Cit, so Cressida held her tongue. 

It was a significant effort.

Twenty minutes later, Lady Cressida Cowper and her maid stood at Lord Debling’s front door. It was quite tall, but in need of a fresh coat of paint, but the dwelling’s bones, as the saying went, were good and it overlooked a park, which she supposed was some relief to a man who preferred to be out in nature. The park provided plenty of greenery, even if none of it were wild. Cressida imagined the street thronged with carriages as the members of the Ton jockeyed and jostled to get into her latest squeeze, the rooms packed, the ratafia nearly running dry, Lord Debling sequestered in his study or Patagonia.

“Lady Cressida Cowper, to call on Lord Debling,” she announced to his butler. The man did not even blink and she considered that Debling’s unorthodox approach to society would stand her in good stead in her mission. She was ushed down a gracefully proportioned hall that was gloomy due to the paper an earlier Debling had selected. She nodded to herself. She’d avoid all paintings of the hunt and any still-life with a dead fowl, that would satisfy him well enough, and she preferred landscapes anyway.

“The drawing room, my lady,” the butler announced, which was helpful, because it looked little like any drawing room she’d seen. Eloise had dragged her to the British Museum on a rainy afternoon and that was what she felt she’d entered, as the room was full of natural curiosities, some in glass cloches or cases, some merely arrayed on shelves or set down on tables as ornaments. Everything that was not an artifact appeared to be sepia. 

The spiky, spiny, curved shell with its pink flared lip seeming vaguely obscene must be a trial for a housemaid to dust.

Lord Debling set down the book he’d been perusing and removed the spectacles which Cressida would have thought would suit him ill yet somehow contrived to make him more attractive. She didn’t need him to be very attractive and hadn’t anticipated how to respond to his appealing countenance and very broad shoulders in well-fitted superfine. She offered a polite smile, allowing her lips to curve slightly and showing a glimpse of her teeth, while she waited for him to approach her with a greeting.

“Lady Cressida, good afternoon,” he said. “It is good of you to call. I trust I find you well.”

He said all the necessities but as if he were bored by them. His eyes drifted down to her hands and when they returned to her face, there was an expression of interest she’d rarely evoked in a prospective suitor.

“The weather is very pleasant,” she replied.

“I must admit—”

“I expect you—”

They both stopped after speaking at the same time, Lord Debling startled into a laugh that was not one Society would approve, too unstudied, too spontaneous. 

Cressida approved of it quite heartily.

“I’ve brought you something I hoped you might enjoy, but I’m afraid my aspiration may have exceeded my execution,” she said.

“You would have me set my standards low,” he said.

“It’s a vegetable tart, made from a receipt of the French,” Cressida said, using one hand to uncover the pie from its cloth where it sat perched on her knee. Uncloaked, there was no hiding the fact that some of the unevenly sliced vegetables were burnt and the pastry was sadly pale in places. Possibly raw. She hadn’t dared to poke at those spots and risk the entire collapse of the tart. “I know you eschew meat in your repasts and I thought to convey my…appreciation with a dish designed to suit your tastes.”

“I’m sure your Cook has done an admirable job,” Lord Debling said.

“Oh, no, she had nothing to do with it! If she heard you say that, she’d surely give her notice, to think I allowed anyone to believe this a measure of her culinary skill. I made this myself,” Cressida said. 

It was the coup de grâce, or what she believed a coup de grâce was, given the limitations of her last governess whose French was markedly poor, the final blow that would deliver Debling to her or send him fleeing.

“You can cook?” he asked.

“Not very well,” she said, without false humility. “I did not think it would prove that difficult, if it was something a servant could do, but I’ve discovered my talents don’t lie in the realm of cookery.”

Sally, who was amusing herself looking at some pressed leaves or somesuch, made a sound like an incredulous guffaw and Cressida could tell that Lord Debling heard and had schooled his face to remain unaffected.

“I did not think any ladies of the Ton would ever venture to cook or bake or do anything domestic other than prepare a cup of tea with milk and sugar,” he said. 

“They don’t,” Cressida said. “I wanted you to understand, I’m not like the rest of them.”

“Do I need to eat the tart to grasp that fact conclusively?” he said.

“Not really,” she said.

“Good. Then I will eat my portion purely for the enjoyment of it,” he replied.

“That will be little enough,” Cressida said. There’d been a savory custard to be poured over the vegetables that had looked curdled but she’d persevered; now she realized she risked maiming or killing him if he consumed much of her possibly poison pie.

“Allow me to decide, Lady Cressida,” he said and she did not think she mistook his intention. “I think I shall like it very well indeed and will owe you a debt of gratitude. You will need to tell me how I may repay you for your thoughtfulness.”

“You might begin with a waltz at Lady Thimbleberry-Fenwick’s ball tomorrow night,” she said. 

“And perhaps the supper dance as well,” he replied. “Though she will not present a tart anything like this one.”

“Thank the good Lord for that,” muttered Sally in a carrying whisper.

Cressida did something she hadn’t for over a decade. She blushed to the roots of her hair and all the way down her decolletage. She gave thanks for her lace fichu.

“No one has given me anything that has pleased me so well since I was just out of dresses,” he said.

“Truly?” Cressida said, knowing she sounded for all the world like a miss fresh out of the schoolroom.

“Truly,” Lord Debling said. “I don’t bother with lies. Waste of time.”

[moliathh]

the scorpion and the frog

[bitchcakegreen]

I did a rewatch of the first two episodes of S3 (mind ya’ business. I’m obsessed) and something occurred to me.

The Queen says “why should I chose a diamond?” And also says “My sparkler will turn out to make the best match of the season” both of these lines come before she sees Francesca playing the piano. But after she sees Penelope in the green dress and asks Lady Danbury about her.

Not just drinking kool-aid or delulu juice BUT…when Colin and Pen marry, she will have made the best match of the season. As Colin is the most “eligible bachelor on the market” as remarked by many, included Eloise.

Pen is the Queen’s sparkler or diamond this season and no one knows it. Not even the Queen.

[markantonys]

i was curious to see what people are thinking about the new bridgerton episodes and oh my god this person NEEDS to get into wheel of time, it would cater to them so well

[phoenixyfriend]

I want to read more fics where people have arranged age-gap marriages that are like. Pleasant.

Not mega horny. Not unhappy. Not strained. Just… okay. We Can Work With This. Yes this is a younger person who married a rich older individual without falling in love, but both parties went into it knowingly and willingly, who didn't really want a charmed romance or an escape from anything, they just. Saw an option for whatever they actually needed (a beard, an heir, a cushy lifestyle, protection from unwanted suitors, whatever), and decided to sign a contract and make it work..

There's a "married a friend of my dad's for the money" thing in a show I'm watching and I just. That one ended poorly, but it got me thinking about how I want more variety in arranged marriage plots.

Where is that "Yeah, he needed an heir, I didn't mind a pregnancy, and I wanted a cushy lifestyle that he could provide if I just had the kid and did my part in managing the estate" landed gentry energy when you need it.

I just want "we had a convenient contract signed and cohabitated without any real issue afterwards"

[imthefailedartist]

Is Colin a virgin in the show?

I remember a joke about his lack of worldliness, but I can't remember if he was going to brothels and clubs with Anthony and Benedict.

I hope he is. It'd be nice to see Penelope and Colin exploring and learning together. A one breaks out of their shell because the other brings that out of them would also be nice. Especially since all the girls are virgins. That whole, he's super experienced, and she's a shy little virgin who's never even touched herself, and he's going to show her how dynamic is annoying after so many times.

I kind of hope they make it so Sophie isn't a virgin. Especially because she holds no title and has no reputation to protect.

Because if we have to wait all the way until Franchesa for one of these Bridgerton girls to shove him down and show him how it's done, I'll scream.

[medusanova]

Ok Rivusa historical au marriage of convinces! Pretty please with cherry on top!

Musa observed the crush from her position at balcony, tapping a fingertip anxiously against the glass of the watered-down swill tonight’s hostess passed for wine.

Below her was a horde of blushing, simpering debutantes, fluttering about the dance floor like frantic rabbits, hopping to and fro in hopes of attracting a mate. And, of course, there were the desperate, unfortunate gentleman putting every effort into dodging their advances — and, who’s fathers (or dwindling coffers) had, quite probably, imposed the lodestone of “marriage” around their necks this evening.

If she had to hear a fortune-hunting mama say the words “secure your future” once more she’d strangle herself with her corset. The damned thing was one tug away from asphyxiation anyway.

Though her father had every reason to believe it too was Musa’s time to secure a husband with a decent title, there was only one problem: she didn’t want a blasted husband, did she?

Sometimes she was glad her dearest mother wasn’t around to see the man she’d loved turn into a soulless, title-grabbing merchant with his sole focus reduced to being accepted into any gentleman’s club. Even if it meant throwing his only daughter into the lion’s den.

Unfortunately for him, Musa refused to be reduced to an obedient piece of chattel for his gain. Refused to allow anyone, even if it was her father, to dictate her life. Refused to sit back and just let it all happen.

Which is why tonight, Musa was taking her fate back into her own hands. She tapped the glass harder until a staccatoed tinkling echoed from the glass.

“Good evening, darling,” drawled a low voice from behind her. A large, gloved hand reached out to grasp the railing in front of her. Her tapping abruptly stopped. Speaking of lions…

Musa turned around to find herself looking up at Lord Riven, Marquess of Linphea: rake of the first order, and, regrettably, the man upon which her newly chosen fate hinged upon.

Tall and big-framed, every line of him was taut with feline grace. The twinkling chandeliers overhead highlighted the sun struck golds through the darkness of his hair. His eyes were jungle-green, cheekbones high and straight, and the full curve of his lips sparked a note of erotic dissonance to his otherwise aristocratic features.

She ignored the low heat unfurling through her chest, arching a brow. “‘Darling’, is it? And pray tell, my lord, who’s given you permission to address me with such familiarity?”

“I did,” he stepped closer, twisting his lips into a sensuous smirk. “Is it not a husband’s right to shower his bride in meaningless endearments?”

She looked around to see if there were any eavesdroppers about, lowering her voice. “That may be, but I’m your soon-to-be bride, Lord Riven. So I’d appreciate it if you didn’t take liberties and avoided saying things that might raise suspicion.”

Her irritation seemed to bounce right off of him as he grabbed the glass in her hand and downed its contents, grimacing when he swallowed. “Is this what they make you ladies drink?” He shook his head and set the glass on a nearby table. “No wonder you’re always starchy, overbearing, and uptight.”

Her control snapped, of course he wasn’t taking this seriously, wasn’t taking her seriously. No one ever did. “I will not-“ She broke off, looking around them again before dragging him into the nearest open door — the lord of the manor’s personal study, by the looks of it.

“I will not have you compromising my plan before I can even set it into motion!” she finished, pointing a finger in his direction. “We need to be discreet. And careful.”

Sliding his hands into his pockets, he meandered toward her, slowly, like a lion studying the movement of a rabbit, before he stopped right in front of her.

“Well, maybe if I’d been informed of said plan, I might’ve found it in me to pretend some semblance of either of those.”

His nearness was enough to make Musa’s heart race, but she didn’t back down. This was too important to her. Her own fate, her own freedom. No spoiled lord could ever understand the concept of not having freedom, and she wasn’t about to let one get in the way of her plan.

“I told you, the less it looks like this has been premeditated the better. You court me, you ask my father for permission, the banns are read, we wed. My father gets his title, I get my freedom, you get your inheritance back. It’s as simple as that.”

“Courting? Permission?” He leaned a forearm against the bookshelf, causing Musa’s back to collide with the one behind her. Reaching a hand out, he tugged at the strand of hair by her cheek. “Where’s the fun in any of that, hm?”

“Fun?” It came out in a mixture of outrage and breathlessness. “My plan isn’t meant to be fun, it’s meant to be a series of strict-“

He captured her next words with his mouth. Kissing her once, twice, before he murmured, “Let’s try my plan instead.”

She gasped, unable to keep track of all the sensations he’d brought out of her: irritability and anger and disbelief and wildness and.. and desire. She’d never felt so much at once and while she knew in the back of her mind that her life, her future was in the balance, she couldn’t help but want to explore the tempting chaos he’d just teased her with.

She yanked his collar and pulled him back.

They pressed closer together and he slipped into her mouth, teasing her tongue while he held her close. She gasped at the intrusion, never having felt something like this, like him before. Their breathing heavy when they pulled apart again, only to crash back together against the shelves.

The hair at his collar was soft. The pulse under his cravat was fluttering. Her lips were swollen — and he kissed her harder still. Sucking at the skin beneath her jaw, down to the dip in her throat. Letting his tongue trace her lace collar until she whimpered and pulled him back to her mouth. He was devouring her against the bookshelves, like the heroines she’d read about in the romance novels Terra kept hidden beneath her pillow. And Musa couldn’t get enough of it.

She was still happily drowning in the new sensations he’d conjured within her when he pulled away for a third time, staring at her intently, almost wonderingly- before something caught his sharp gaze over her shoulder.

Musa’s heart sank because, even before she turned around to see the hostess of this very ball standing at the open door of the study, she wouldn’t have ever been able to mistake her shrill, overly-loud, “By the gods, what is going on in here!” Echoing through the room.

And then, “I hope you’re planning to do right by this young lady, my boy!” A gruff man’s voice joined the shrill one, unsurprisingly more dramatic than the lady’s.

And instead of showing even an ounce of chagrin or remorse, instead of stepping away from Musa, he ignored the gathering crowd by the study door to lean his face close back into hers, throwing away all sense of propriety to whisper, “See? My plans are always better. Darling.”

[weaponizedasshole]

my god…ruehob divorce arc

[apinchofm]

Fic Ship Meme:

Edwina Sharma and Dr Lucas Blakely, Earl of Greymoor in Only You Always by @tiffanytlee

[rpg-queen]

okay wait WAIT what if apollo fucks hob up next episode but doesn’t kill him and then we get to see rue nursing hob back to health???

my heart would explode fr

[stormlit]

@turnedfolkl0re

it is hardly the done thing to charge down the streets of mayfair in the pouring rain at six in the morning, but nate finds himself running --- and without a coat --- before he knows what he is doing. his mind races; why must he be sent orders now, in the middle of the season? he cares nothing for the spectacle itself, nor for the attention on him at the few balls he attends, but...he has had so little time to get to know her. he thought he would have longer. he thought...

he has to tell her. he will not just disappear.

fortunately, the majority of society doesn't wake at this hour, and nate makes his way to the tremaine household unimpeded, bypassing the front steps and making his way to the kitchen door, where he is praying he might find ella (or at least a kind cook or scullery maid who could fetch her). he doesn't feel the cold, he cares nothing about catching his breath, rapping sharply on the door.

[jomiddlemarch]

The Duchess and the Diamond

The ballroom was grand, lit with a vast quantity of candles so that it shone bright as a summer’s noon, but the two women spoke as if they were concealed by a moonless midnight’s shadows.

“Has Lady Maria lost all sense of decorum?” Lady Fletcher positively hissed behind her gently fluttering ivory fan.

“I don’t know what you mean, Agnes,” Lady Shepherd replied. She had an inkling, of course, but it was always better to draw Agnes out as she made the most diverting remarks when she was either indignant or patronizing, and by her tone and the incline of her head, her en tremblant hair combs trembling quite noticeably, the current situation was a perfect confluence. “Lady Maria might be said to be somewhat eccentric, everyone would agree—there is not one lobster patty in sight and she hasn’t served ratafia for the past year and her taste in lace, well—”

“You know very well what I mean, Lydia. I mean that, that man—”

Here Lady Fletcher gestured almost boldly in the direction of the man in question, the object of much attention, curiosity and no little degree of scorn from the high sticklers. 

“You mean Lord Miller?” 

“Even his name speaks to his common origins,” Lady Fletcher said, sniffing in rapturous condescension. “Miller? How might anyone purport to be a member of the Ton with such a surname? What’s next, Lord Cook? Viscount Clerk?”

“Prinny is likely to say his royal favor is enough,” Lady Shepherd replied. “And then, the man is prodigiously wealthy, captured a half-dozen ships and has three battlefield promotions. Though I grant you, he does not quite look the part—”

They both glanced at where Lord Miller stood, a solemn and solitary figure flanked only by a potted palm. While there could be no complaint made as to the cut of his coat and pristine knot of his cravat, there was no denying a certain raw power, a rough-hewn quality to his features, his complexion bronzed, his stance one of a ship’s captain, his gaze accustomed to searching for the North Star and any enemy on the horizon. He was the furthest thing from a dandy one could imagine, whether he wore a properly powdered wig or not.

“No, he does not,” Lady Fletcher said. “To think someone of his stature was granted the wardship of Lady Elinor Ramsay—a Duke’s granddaughter!”

“Impoverished, though,” Lady Shepherd pointed out. “Lord Miller’s evidently declared he’ll dower her well from his own coffers, there’s not the least hint of any impropriety, save what she causes herself. She’s quite a hoyden, she’s been through three governesses in the past six weeks according to my lady’s maid. Miss Mischief, she’s called among his staff, though I cannot say they fully disapprove of her.”

“She hasn’t a chance of making a good marriage with only Lord Miller to sponsor her, no matter how well he dowers her and how many teas and balls he can convince Lady Maria to organize on her behalf,” Lady Fletcher said. 

“You cannot have heard then?” Lady Shepherd said, leaning in slightly. Lady Fletcher would not care for being the one who must admit ignorance, but the prospect of gossip about Lord Miller was too tempting to refuse. 

“Do go on, Lydia, it’s quite rude of you to tease.”

“Lord Miller is determined to marry this Season and marry well enough that his new bride might provide entrée for Lady Elinor. He had hopes of Lady Carmichael, as he served with her brother, but then she was compromised by that horrid viscount, Cord or Gordon or somesuch, the one who looks most terrifyingly like a mushroom, and Lord Miller had to step aside, as he could not rescue Lady Carmichael and ensure his ward’s acceptance in good society,” Lady Shepherd explained.

“Poor Tess,” Lady Fletcher remarked with what sounded like genuine sympathy. “The viscount is known to have a rather weak constitution—she may retreat to her Scottish holdings and hope a harsh winter carries off the scoundrel or whatever is passing for cuisine among the Highlanders. She would have been wasted on Lord Miller though—”

“They had some affinity, but it’s irrelevant, as she’s due to marry in a fortnight,” Lady Shepherd said.

“I suppose Lady Maria and the Duke of Wesley are determined to help Lord Miller secure a wife,” Lady Fletcher said. “The Duke considers him a brother, after all.”

“As much as they may, I’ve heard. Lord Miller is very proud and brusque. But the Duke’s valet found a man for Lord Miller, so that he might appear well-turned out in company. My maid says when he’s at home, he goes about in his shirtsleeves and a scuffed pair of Hessians,” Lady Shepherd said. 

“He hasn’t the hands for a quizzing-glass, that’s most evident,” Lady Fletcher tittered. 

“He holds the ribbons of his curricle light enough,” Lady Shepherd replied.

“Shall that attract him a charming and wellborn bride? I shouldn’t think so,” Lady Fletcher said. 

“It may attract her brother or father. He’s a fine stable of horses,” Lady Shepherd said.

“It almost sounds as if you’d entertain a suit for your Flora,” Lady Fletcher said, an eyebrow raised in skeptical inquiry.

“Her father might. I shouldn’t risk it. Flora’s a dear but she’s rather timid and it would be like pairing a canary with a falcon,” Lady Fletcher said. “Besides, if we did, think of the disappointment of the Ton—everyone is so looking forward to seeing Lord Miller run amok on the marriage mart. We may even learn if he’s capable of waltzing—”

“I assure you he’s entirely, eminently capable,” Lady Maria said, having approached the party from the rear, a military maneuver she’d learned from her great-aunt, a woman renowned for her stratagems, her cutting tongue, and her collection of bejeweled turbans which she’d taken to at age thirty and had worn despite any variance in fashion for the remainder of her life. To be so confronted by their hostess was an indication that they’d grown too engrossed with their conversation or too comfortable with their positions, forgetting that even the hint of a scandal could topple the most sterling reputation unless one was an original or a Duchess. As neither lady fulfilled either category, they both pursed their lips in the apologetic simper that was required to show their pretense at remorse.

“One might expect it of a sea-captain,” Lady Shepherd hazarded. “I believe they must be quite nimble on board. There is an excessive quantity of rope and one hardly ever sees a senior Naval man missing a lower limb. They do speak of sailors dancing jigs and whatever a hornpipe is, surely a commander must master the steps as well.”

“Lord Miller would be glad of your confidence,” Lady Maria replied in such a tone and with such a glance as to ensure both of her listeners understood she meant the opposite. “He is indeed everything accomplished, however stern he may appear, and any wise young lady would be fortunate to receive his offer.”

“But that assumes the young ladies this Season are wise, when I do believe I have never seen a sillier, giddier collection of misses presented to the Queen,” Lady Fletcher said, meaning to pounce upon Lady Maria’s remark and regain some superiority. Lady Maria was unperturbed, her gloves unwrinkled, her hem kissing the polished floor with the greatest elegance possible.

“If Lord Miller intended to consider only those young ladies making their debut, that might perhaps be a dilemma. As it stands, he has imposed no such restriction, only seeking a wife worthy of his hand and well-suited to the guidance of his ward,” Lady Maria said. “He is quite devoted to Lady Elinor, for all that she taxes his patience; one cannot resist her liveliness and she shows every sign of being deemed her year’s diamond.”

“Lady Elinor? A diamond of the first water?” Lady Fletcher exclaimed. “You would make such a prediction?”

“I would make such a wager,” Lady Maria said. It was widely known Lady Fletcher regularly overspent her pin money and would likely have gambled away her family estate; she would not be able to decline Lady Maria’s proposition and Lady Shepherd would not keep the exchange to herself. It would be the choicest gossip of the night’s ball, unless there was an impromptu betrothal between crusty, long-time bachelor Earl Nicholas and the sprightly Honorable Frances Bartlett, an event so unlikely they would not even record it in the betting book at White’s.

“What stakes?” Lady Fletcher asked.

“I know they say ladies must never offer anything of great value, confining ourselves to flower cuttings or ices at Gunter’s, but when I gamble, I prefer for it to be worth my while. As I far outrank you, I shall stake a favor, to be called in at the time of your choosing. On your part, I think it is only fitting you stake your diamond parure—”

“The Fletcher diamonds?” Lady Shepherd exclaimed. Lady Fletcher had turned a peculiar color that resembled old whey and emphasized the somewhat heavy hand that had rouged her cheeks.

“Diamonds for a diamond, what could be more poetic? More apt?” Lady Maria said.

“I don’t think—” Lady Fletcher began.

“Naturally, if you are not sanguine about the wager, you needn’t make it, though I’d expect you to offer your vocal support to Lady Elinor and Lord Miller,” Lady Maria said.

“I’m confident the chit won’t be anything like the Season’s diamond. Nor even an original,” Lady Fletcher said. “I’d go a step further and say I wager Lord Miller cannot become engaged to a member of the Ton before Lady Elinor’s presentation to the Queen.”

“What an intriguing elaboration,” Lady Maria said. Lady Shepherd thought that Lady Fletcher ought to blanch at their hostess’s tone, but arrogance had restored her complexion. The diamonds at her throat and earrings sparkled and Lady Shepherd wondered how they might look on Lord Miller’s ward.

“I take it you accept?” Lady Fletcher said.

“Gladly,” Lady Maria said. “What a very delightful Season this promises to be!”

This fic is for @tessa-quayle who deserves to be having a better day!

[glitterdustcyclops]

anyway i got a bit of a migraine a'brewin and left work an hour early so i'm gonna go lay down in the dark and think gay thoughts see y'all later

[sixteen-stars]

If I have to see one more person say 'ugh, I hated Colin, this season sucks' because he was pretending to be someone he's not (which is made very clear from the get go of this season)? I will fucking scream

Like Jesus fucking Christ it's like y'all can't suspend disbelief for a whole minute to immerse yourselves in a story and understand that not everything a character does is meant to be taken at face value

[fahye]

book recs: june 2024

it's been a weird few months of swinging wildly between mood reading of new things and needing to reread old favourites. all of these were new-to-me, and * means I read an ARC so they're not out yet BUT keep your eyes peeled/preorder if you like the sound of them.

SOMEONE YOU CAN BUILD A NEST IN by john wiswell - sapphic monster romance but make it asexual rep (woo!) between a protagonist who is usually a ball of shapeshifting goo, and a woman whose awful family is trying to hunt down the shapeshifting monster. it's both delightfully gruesome and a sweet, angry story about two hurt people finding and saving one another. this book deserves to become tumblr-famous.

LORD OF SCOUNDRELS by loretta chase - an absolute platinum-level classic in regency romance history, and for good reason. jessica trent: best heroine to ever appear on the page. wild hijinks, superb feelings, jessica can we please be best friends so you can teach me all about your antiques dealership.

THE SAINT OF BRIGHT DOORS by vajra chandrasekera - everyone describes this as 'impossible to describe' and they're right. truly original urban-ish fantasy about the oppression of underclasses, magic, identity, the inconvenience of being prophesied to kill your father, and a support group for failed messiahs. it's splendid and will stretch your mind like a muscle.

ALL THE SINNERS BLEED - by s.a. cosby - a contemporary crime thriller about a black sheriff in the american south trying to catch a serial killer in the face of systemic racism and obstruction. dark themes, wonderfully written, extremely gripping: I read it in a day.

THE UNDERHISTORY by kaaron warren - an elderly woman running tours of her infamously 'haunted' family home is confronted with a group of dangerous escaped killers looking for somewhere to hide. half slowburn crime horror and half a fantastic, meandering exploration of one person's history. you all know I love a vaguely fucked-up house, and this one comes with an older protagonist hiding secrets of her own.

THE DEATH OF VIVEK OJI by akwaeke emezi - there's a new emezi book coming out soon so I finally let myself read this one! a brief, bittersweet slap of a novel about gender and sexuality and family and longing, told in emezi's uniquely electrifying prose style. I wish I could write like this.

THE FRIEND ZONE EXPERIMENT* by zen cho - zen's first contemporary romance! inspired by kdrama tropes! a hardworking singaporean entrepreneur heroine in london! I enjoyed the romance itself but even more I enjoyed watching renee fight to prove herself in the face of various terrible men.

THE FORMIDABLE MISS CASSIDY* by meihan boey - if susan sto helit is your favourite discworld character, you will love the hell out of this. no-nonsense magical governess deals with folklore monsters and social drama in 19th century singapore. lively and heaps of fun. I wish it was an episodic buffy-esque tv show.

THE PAIRING* by casey mcquiston - two exes accidentally reunite on a food & wine tour of europe for the sluttiest and most self-indulgent bisexual summer ever. food porn, drinks porn, european scenery porn, feelings porn, porn-porn: this is a book that is 95% Various Vibes and Porn and if that sounds like your kind of thing, you'll love it. warning: will make you very hungry.

[qbdatabase]

Book bans are on the rise across the US, but even if you want to go read and buy as many books with LGBT+ representation as you can get your greedy little hands on--it's hard to know what you don't know :/

The Queer Books Database lists over 3,500+ fiction and non-fiction titles in a google docs spreadsheet that lets you search by representation, or just by age, genre, year published, and more. It doesn't just track LGBT+ rep but also tags for people of color, disability, mental health, neurodivergence, fat rep, older characters, and religion!

You can use the database to search for:

multiple identities at once--find rep for a schizophrenic asexual lesbian, an autistic black boy, or a non-binary soldier with tinnitus

age appropriate books--search for children's books, junior chapter books, teen titles, and YA

non-fiction education--this includes biographies and memoirs, self-help, mental health, sexual education, LGBT+ history, legal resources, and affirming spiritual texts

trope/setting/time period--get a list of ghostly paranormals, queer fiction set in africa, gay regency romances, enemies-to-lovers, dark academia, and tons more!

Using the database, supporting my patreon, or buying me a ko-fi also really helps out the autistic transgender librarian who put this all together during the pandemic! Please share and reblog if you can~