#the ninth viscountess

[fitrahgolden]

[helenakwayne]

I remain unsettled after watching season 3. We had more Kate/Anthony than I expected, yet I once again feel like we were short-changed. Any suggestions? How are you coping?

Hi anon. Thanks for writing. My suggestion is to enjoy what you love. Fandom is meant to be an enjoyable experience. How you choose to enjoy it is up to you. But if there's something to love, have at it. Have fun!

I think we got lucky with Kanthony in S3. TBH, we got more screentime for Jonny and Simone than I thought we'd get, and I love those two to pieces. Couldn't have asked for a better Anthony and Kate. And the happy Kanthony scenes this season? Kate interacting with the Bridgersibs in full wise older sister mode? Frannie and Colin speaking about what a great couple Kate and Anthony are? Kate being an awesome viscountess? Anthony being ecstatic about becoming a dad? The sheer hotness that is any scene with those two in it? C'mon! Great stuff.

I mentioned in another post that this show has problems, but I still choose to watch. I think this season--the whole season, not just Kanthony--suffered from inconsistent writing, and that hurts. Re: my fave pair, I think Anthony was poorly written in part 2 because (unlike Kate) he lacked a defined plotline other than becoming a dad. And the decision to go to India seems very OOC to me. But there are worse fates than inconsistent writing and OOCness when you ultimately get a happy ending, which is what we got.

I see no problem with pointing out what you don't like as long as you're also enjoying and celebrating what you do like or even love. Ultimately, I love Kanthony. Long live the ninth viscount and viscountess.

[1016anon]

Title: Tainted Love Author: 1016anon Fandom: Bridgerton Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton/Kate Sharma

A/N -- Graphic depictions of violence, torture, bloody stuff. The section begins and ends with ***** if you'd like to skip. Other warnings: mention of miscarriage (first trimester). Best way to describe this: Regency Horror. Bridgerton, slasher film remix.

Buckle up.

-1-

Anthony, the Viscount Bridgerton gazed out into the jeering crowd.

He stared at the Viscountess Bridgerton, who was looking at him with pure hatred in her eyes.

"Any last words?" the executioner sneered through his black hood.

The Viscount smiled, unrepentant and triumphant.

"Darling, I'll see you in hell."

His voice rang out eerie like a decree and echoing like a benediction in this open square full of the curious and cruel.  Gasps rippled through the audience, all the nameless faces turning to stare at the Viscountess, soon to be Dowager Viscountess.

When she didn't reply, only raised her head higher in defiance, the crowd turned back to the gallows, shouting and cursing, yelling at the executioner to hang the bastard!

The executioner grinned, teeth broken and rotting as he grabbed the lever and--

A roar of approval ripped through the crowd and the executioner took a bow.

Weeks later, the executioner was found dead.

Folk began to whisper-- the ghost of the Viscount was out for revenge.

And he was coming for his Viscountess.

--

Everyone had been shocked-- scandalized!-- to learn that the notorious killer known as the Blind Man was from one of the most respectable families in all of England.

All the authorities in London had scoured the city to find him: the Bow Street Runners, the Home Office, private patrolmen, even criminal racketeering elements had taken up the search.  The Blind Man was considered a danger to all of London-- the killer didn't restrict himself to whores and the homeless.  No one knew how long he'd been killing, but he was called the Blind Man because he killed indiscriminately regardless of class, occupation, title, or sex.  No one-- except perhaps royalty-- was safe from his murderous reach.

And no one could guess his reason for killing.  None of the people he killed were related to each other; all of them were picked over for their material possessions, bodies found mutilated and naked.  But they weren't debtors.  Or if they were, it wasn't the reason they were killed.  No political leanings, no particular vices, maybe some were having affairs, maybe some were hated or had enemies, but many didn't.  If justice was blind, then so was murder.

Some speculated that it wasn't the work of one man, but several.  Because how could one man kill so many people?  In so many different parts of London, going unnoticed?  Perhaps it had once been just one man slitting throats and gouging eyes, but there might be those who copied his methods to deflect suspicion and add to the Blind Man's body count.

He was also called the Blind Man because he gouged out everyone's eyes.

But when the killings stopped after the Ninth Viscount Bridgerton was hanged (not even a child to pass on the title; his brother inherited the Viscountcy; the poor widow!), that speculation was put to rest.  As difficult as it was to believe, the Viscount was responsible for all the murders.

And good riddance!  London was safe again.

Then--

--

Did you hear?

They whispered in the pubs and clubs, a supernatural chill running through them.

Lord Hodge, the judge from Viscount Bridgerton's murder trial, was found dead yesterday.

His eyes gouged out?

That's what I read in the newspapers.  The Blind Man is back.

It's what my friend in the coppers was telling me last night.

No, everyone's saying his eyes were gouged out but word is they're just saying that to keep the public calm.

Keep the public calm?  They call this keeping the public calm?  Bad enough the Blind Man's back and killing.  They got the wrong man!

It's better than the alternative.

You don't really believe--

My brother, he's got an in with the Bow Street runners, see.  Said Ole Hodge's eyes were wide open and his face was frozen.  With terror.

Like he saw a ghost?

That's what some in the Runners are saying, and I believe it.

My Sally told me one of the maids in that house said she felt an evil presence that night.

You really think it was the Viscount's ghost?

The cook said it too.  Said her candle snuffed out right in front of her and the house turned cold as the grave.

You've been listening to too much womenfolk talk-- it's all from them runnin' their mouths, spreadin' superstitious tales.  They're scared of everything.

I'm telling you, it can't be anything but a ghost.

You told us your wife screamed because she thought she saw a shadow and it was only the curtains moving.  They jump at anything.  Just the other day, Doris nearly dropped Lady Kerr's favorite tea set because a spider dropped from the doorway.

Doesn't matter.

Maybe one of Viscount Bridgerton's brothers--

No, it weren't them.  Couldn't be a person.  No one heard a thing, see.  Not a single peep.  And that door to his bedchambers was locked from the inside.

It's heavy too.  Someone would've heard the door open.

But not a soul heard a damn thing.  It's his ghost, I tell you.  The Blind Ghost.  He's come back from hell to punish them that sent him there.

It's bad luck is what it is.  Maybe he had brain fever.

Yeah, or an attack of the heart.  My gran, she keeled over one day.  Healthy as a mule on Sunday, then she was grabbing her chest and dead the next moment.  Doctor said her heart just stopped beating, right there.

Then how come the door was still locked on the inside?  The room's got no windows-- can't be anything else but the Blind Ghost.

You're talking hogwash.  Someone must've had the key.

Did they find another key?

No one knows.

It's not a ghost.  Everyone thought the Blind Man was a ghost, and it turned out he was just a man.

What if the Blind Man was the Blind Ghost all along?

Then why did the murders stop after Bridgerton was hanged on the gallows?  He's deader than a doornail, not rising from the grave.  It's got to be one of the brothers, out for revenge.  They've always been a weird family anyway.

And around and around, until everyone was eavesdropping, eager and uneasy.

Listen, one of the men leaned in and everyone at the table gathered closer too, bound by the spell.

A hush fell over the room.

The man looked over his shoulder, as if the Blind Ghost might appear right behind him.

Ole Hodge died without a scratch on him.

He looked over his shoulder again.  The men at the table looked over their shoulders also, twitching like spooked horses.

They leaned in closer.

But there was writing in blood, right there on the wall.

They held their breaths, terror dawning.

It said,

Wait for me, my love.

I'm coming for you.

--

My Dearest Benedict,

I do not consider myself a hysterical woman prone to flights of fancy, but I must beg you to come to Aubrey Hall.  I know these rumors that Anthony's ghost is haunting London, seeking revenge, are nothing but rumors-- I do not believe in such superstitions.  If I should ever begin, I will know I have gone mad.

More than that, I cannot believe in them.  Even confronted with the terrible, incontrovertible proof that my husband did, indeed, kill all those innocents, my heart refuses to contemplate that he would harm me in any way, even from beyond the grave.

I am writing to you because I believe someone-- perhaps many such someones-- harbors ill-will against me.  I cannot say I blame them-- the death of a beloved family member or friend is always terrible to bear.  However, there are still those who think I must have played a part in carrying out Anthony's unforgivable crimes.

I know we agreed it was best for me to remain in the country until the furor receded, but I believe this person has taken advantage of the rumors in London and has decided to play a cruel prank on me.  That, or some among the staff are conspiring against me.

I will spare you the details of everything which has transpired in my weeks here.  You and the family have been so kind during this tumultuous time, I did not wish to be a burden by bothering you with these minor instances.  However, whoever it is that's orchestrated these vicious pranks has become bolder.

Please come as soon as you are able.

K.

Lord Benedict,

I hope you will forgive me the impertinence of writing to you, but Lady Kate has refused to take up her pen to apprise you of what has truly happened.

Her Ladyship was in an accident.  Woodrow has determined that the carriage meant to convey her to the village was sabotaged-- the axel broke while they were crossing a bridge and Lady Kate was nearly thrown into the river.  It was only by the grace of her Ladyship's quick thinking and nimble feet that she was able to avoid meeting a terrible fate.

She is unharmed for the moment, but we all fear that will not be true if another attempt is made in the future.  There is no question in our minds that someone nearby wishes her dead.

There are many who believe her Ladyship is now without friends or protection, and it has shaken us deeply.  Her Ladyship has always been a kind and fair mistress who has weathered this storm with unimaginable grace, and we fear that if her life is not ended by those who wish her evil, that she may fall into the same melancholia which beset Lady Violet.

If your Lordship is unable to come to Aubrey Hall directly, please send a person whom you trust and who may act on your authority.  The presence of such an individual at Aubrey Hall will demonstrate that your Lordship will not stand for such treatment of Lady Kate, and that those who would harm her must think twice before enacting their schemes.

Yours in service,

Mrs. Gilford

My Dearest Kate,

The entire family will be joining you in the country.  London has become unbearable for us all, thanks to the rumors.  I expect we may arrive before you receive this letter-- if not, you can expect us shortly thereafter.  In the meantime, I advise you brace yourself for the reprimand I have prepared to deliver personally.

You are our family, Kate-- you could never be a burden.  My brother may have been a murderer, but he loved you more than life itself.  Rumor runs rampant that he haunts London as a malevolent shade, but I know in my heart this cannot be true.  I know this because if he had really come back to haunt us, the first thing he would do is kill me for failing to uphold my promise to protect you.

I cannot believe you did not tell us what was happening.  I had to hear from Mrs. Gilford about your brush with death.

Please be careful.  I cannot bear to lose another family member.  I cannot bear to lose another piece of Anthony.  You are the only other person who remembers him and loves him so well.

Your Brother,

Benedict

*****

"Woodrow, Woodrow, Woodrow"

He clawed at the hand on his throat, strangling him.

"You would dare seek to kill what is mine?"

He gasped for breath.

"After so many years of loyal service, you would dare try to take what is mine?"

"No!  Please!  I beg of you, she was never meant to come to any harm!  She was never--"

He gurgled, eyes bulging out, choking.

"What is it that they say?  Ah yes--"

Woodrow screamed when the spike descended onto-- into-- his hand.

"The road to hell is paved with good intentions."

First one, then the other, nailing him to the old carriage-house wall.  No one used it anymore.

"Who else."

He blubbered nonsense, not even realizing he'd pissed himself.

"Who else.  Don't make me ask again, Woodrow."

"No one, there's no one!"

"Where was this touching loyalty, I wonder, when they hired you to kill my wife."

A crowbar, pry end in his gut.

Torso ripped open and intestines spilling out like fat, glutted worms.

"Most men don't count loyalty worth this much pain, so that must mean--"

That malicious, spin chilling grin which made Woodrow forget his bowels were on the floor.

"How is-- what's his name?  Matthew?"

"NO!" he shouted with agony that reached into his very soul.  "Please my Lord, please not my boy, he wasn't mixed up in this--"

"Not mixed up you say.  I think I should judge that for myself, pay him a visit.  He married last year, did he not?  To Polly, if I recall."

Woodrow was sobbing now, spirit broken.  He had grasped the heart of it-- you cannot bargain with a ghost.

Yet he had to try.

"Please my Lord, I'll do anything, I'll do anything, just not my boy, not my Matthew, he's done nothing wrong, I swear to it, I swear on Lady Kate's life"

"Don't you DARE say her name"

"He came to me, my Lord, said he'd been hired by another person to scare her"

Blood dribbled down his hands.  The spikes were the only things keeping him upright.

"Any idea who?"

Shook his head, slumped forward, pinned to the wall, intestines dangling from the bloated hole of his belly.

"Describe him."

Hiccuping through the tears and despair and desperation

"I didn't see.  We met once, at the back of the tavern at night.  I've never seen him before, I've never seen him in my life.  I'd never kill her, it was just supposed to scare her a little, I'd never--"

There could be more agony.  It did not seem possible, that a man couldn't drown in that infinite well of pain.

"But you almost did.  You almost killed her.  You tried to take what's mine."

His world was made flat with the sound of his screaming.

"And that,"

There was torture-- a method in having his guts scooped out and burst open on the carriage-house floor.  Flies buzzing and descending, already attracted to the shattered entrails.

"That, I will not abide."

Woodrow didn't die until late afternoon.

When he was found, the maggots were already burrowing in his entrails.

The following day, Matthew's body was found under the bridge, head bashed in with a rock and 5-pound notes stuffed in the cracks of his skull.

It was the same bridge where Lady Kate had nearly lost her life.

*****

When Benedict arrived at Aubrey Hall, it was with a feeling of dread and foreboding.  The Bridgerton country seat had not fallen to disrepair-- Benedict was not that incompetent in managing the monies and estate-- but the grounds were not quite as well-kempt.  The pristine lines and orderly flowerbeds were not maintained to the same standard as they had been when Anthony was alive.  The gardens were overgrown; the woods encroached on the tidy lawn; trees needed to be pruned back or trimmed.

However, the undergardener had left their employ and Benedict had been too busy in the past few months dealing with the never ending list of literally everything else.  Hiring a new undergardener was very far down on that list of priorities.

A fair number of staff had left their service once Anthony's murderous habits came to light.  Benedict supposed they were lucky to have anyone left, but the fact remained that Aubrey Hall was a major source-- if not the only source-- of income for many in the villages and towns nearby.  Anthony had always known-- as Benedict was now learning-- that there was almost nothing disgustingly large sums of money could not buy.

And Benedict was now disgustingly wealthy; he'd inherited everything.

Anthony and Kate did not have any children.  In the last two years of their marriage-- before his brother had been discovered, incarcerated, tried, executed-- Kate had gotten pregnant twice and lost both before the fourth month.  The doctors and midwives were not particularly worried, as it was not uncommon for women to miscarry twice and go on to have children; Anthony and Kate themselves had themselves been in no particular hurry, having already raised their siblings.

His brother had even confided in Benedict that he and Kate had discussed the matter of children and decided they did not want them in their first three years of marriage (nine months of which had been spent abroad on their belated honeymoon, taken a year after they'd married).  Kate had some sort of remedy to prevent it.  They were thoroughly enjoying their never-ending honeymoon; even after five and a half years they'd behaved like newlyweds (and all the bed-sport that came with it).

Another, more practical reason was that Kate and Anthony, having both raised fatherless children of ten and twelve, very prudently thought it best to allow the children a period of adjustment.  Gregory had been twelve years of age when they'd married, Hyacinth ten-- both looked to Anthony as a father.

However, after they came back from their honeymoon, it became a point of contention with Violet, who insisted that her eldest son had been dangerously, impermissibly derelict in what she considered his all-important duty: to sire the heir and spare.  He and Kate had to have children as soon as possible and fix the situation, or people would start talking.

Anthony categorically refused.  The situation blew up when Violet went so far as to blame Kate; Anthony essentially banished his mother from Bridgerton House.  He even fired servants-- some of whom had been with the Bridgerton family since Anthony was a boy-- who'd allowed Violet to enter.

Violet was the former Lady Bridgerton.

Kathani, the Ninth Viscountess Bridgerton, was the lady of the house.

Sides were taken, battle lines drawn, Benedict ended up acting as a sort of unwilling envoy on behalf of his mother, a role he came to resent.  Benedict himself spent more and more time with Kate and Anthony; any time spent in the presence of his mother devolved into her making petty remarks about her son and the new Viscountess Bridgerton.  Mother needled Benedict and increasingly directed her ire at him.  Was it any wonder that he began avoiding her?

Meanwhile, his brother and sister-in-law flourished.  They were happy, in love, and never ashamed to show it.  Sometimes Benedict thought they glowed with joy-- and anger, and argument, and sadness, and the entire spectrum of human emotion to be found in married life, but first and foremost joy.

They never mentioned Violet.  Anthony conducted any and all communication through letters or their solicitor; he never once relied on Benedict to ferry unpleasant messages between Bridgerton House and Number 5.  In fact, Benedict had heard Kate gently correct Francesca, Gregory, and Hyacinth on multiple occasions for speaking unkindly about Violet.

Their mother had been raised differently, she told them.  She was taught that women must first and foremost bear children, and Violet had been lucky enough to have a loving, attentive husband who looked forward to being a father.  It was not surprising that she thought raising children was the ultimate happiness a woman could achieve; Violet did not understand that happiness could be found in many places.

Unspoken was the fact that raising children had been an experience fraught with grief, pain, and crushing responsibility for Kate and Anthony both, forced to take on the role of father and mother to keep their families afloat.  It was only after Anthony married Kate that Benedict saw how truly miserable his brother had been and how heavy the burden he'd shouldered.  Now that Benedict was Viscount, he understood how thankless the duties Anthony had carried out every day were.

Some days, Benedict did not blame his brother for turning to extracurricular murder.

Yet it was undeniable that no matter the contentious relationship between Anthony and their mother, he was the pillar who held the family together.  If the matter of children had fractured the Bridgerton siblings, Anthony's trial and execution utterly broke them.

The past months had hollowed the family to a mere shell.

It felt like a shock-- it was a shock-- and a betrayal of the highest order that their beloved eldest brother was a notorious serial murderer.  Benedict still did not know how he felt about it; the only things he knew were that he still loved his brother-- perhaps now more than ever-- and he did not blame Kate.

Benedict was like Kate.  He did not deny-- not that he could have even if he'd wanted to-- that Anthony had killed all those people for no rhyme or reason.  Benedict did not seek to excuse his brother or provide some sort of craven justification for Anthony's actions.  He did not even understand why Anthony did it; he wasn't sure if he wanted to; he wasn't sure it was possible.  Anthony was monstrous; Anthony was a monster; Anthony was the best man Benedict had ever known.  All of these things were true.

Perhaps he should have hated Anthony.  Perhaps he should have been angry.  Instead, he felt profound grief when Anthony was executed.  Justice, fairness, right and wrong did not matter.  Love confounded all of it.

This was not true of everyone else in the family.

It was far from true for everyone else in the family.

Kate was the only other person whose love for Anthony remained steadfast.  She understood what Benedict came to realize: the same Anthony he'd loved and admired for all these years was the same Anthony who'd killed all those people.  Benedict had loved a murderer all along-- the only difference was that now he knew his brother was a murderer.

Anthony's habit of killing had long predated Kate's entrance into his life.

Most of the family disregarded that.

[cepheusgalaxy]

"I don't know what is in the ninth one."

Irae lifted an eyebrow. "Don't? Haven't you worked here for almost trhee years?"

He shook his head. "Two and a half. I was one of her favorites, actually", June said. But", he added. "Nobody's ever got there. Just a special cleaning staff, and Katarina. We weren't allowed at the ninth lobby."

He hesited a bit and then added:

"Never."

June was a servant at the Von Waldeck's House. The Von Waldeck viscountess, Katarina, plays the role of evil queen in this story: She is now the queen of Araxacy, and Snow White (aka Roseanne)'s team had to make a trip to her former house to pick some informations. It's a part of their plan to defeat her.

However, Katarina's younger sister, Olivia von Waldeck, assumed the family's territorry, becaming the Von Waldeck viscountess, and later, the Von Waldeck duchess*. Rose and her friends/allies/team had to wait for a chance when Olivia wasn't home, and then they used June's deep knowledge of the Von Waldeck's House to pick everything they needed to, hiding from the guards and the staff. Luckly, June knows everything in the House.

Or at least, almost everything.

*Olivia became the duchess of Von Waldeck when her sister became the queen, since the monarch's close family mostly gets hight ranks in the kingdom.

[thebadgerclan]

The Ninth Viscountess: Chapter 1

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x reader

Summary: Here comes the bride...

Dawn had barely arrived when your eyes opened.  At once, you were filled with a giddy, light sensation; you were getting married today to the love of your life.  Anthony Bridgerton had announced his want for a wife at the beginning of the season, which had naturally attracted countless young ladies.  The Viscount had intended to find an amenable woman, one who would be tolerable to be around, bear his children, and fulfill the duties of Viscountess.

Then, he had found you, the daughter of a marquess, a young lady who possessed every quality he looked for in a wife.  You were kind, compassionate, well-read, intelligent, and yes, Anthony would be a fool to ignore it, strikingly beautiful.  Your love was not a spark, it was a slow thing, an ember lieseruly working its way into a burning flame.  Anthony called upon you every day for five months, bringing you flowers, candies, a book of poetry with his favorite stanzas annotated, always bringing a flower for your mother as well.

Your family cared not that you’d be marrying below your station, they cared for your happiness, and the day Anthony asked for your hand was the happiest day of your life.  He had never thought such love to be possible, believing his parents’ love something of a miracle, but you had thrown his world off its axis and breathed life into his soul, and now, Anthony could not imagine life without you.

Your maid knocked on your door, not surprised to see you awake.  “Miss!” she said, voice chipper.  “We have the bath drawn for you, and a light breakfast will be ready shortly.”  You smiled as you rose from bed, throwing your dressing gown over your shoulder.  “Thank you, Anna,” you said, throwing open the curtains.  The sun was barely peeking over the horizon, rising on a day begun as Lady Y/N L/N, but setting on a day ending as The Right Honorable Viscountess Bridgerton.

You bathed and dressed in your dressing gown, forcing yourself to eat some toast despite your nerves, knowing it would be hours before you could eat a proper meal.  Your brief solace didn’t last long, as your mother, Anna, and a few other maids bustled in.  “Y/N, my darling!” your mother cried.  “How are you feeling?  Nervous?  Excited?  Oh, my love, I am just so happy for you!”

She pulled you into a tight embrace, and you smiled, hugging her back.  The next three hours consisted of you being readied for the wedding: your stays and gown laced up, your hair curled and pinned up, your veil secured, and your gloves pulled on.  You looked in the mirror, gasping as you did.  As vain as it felt, you looked gorgeous.  Your gown sparkled when it caught the light, and Anna had darkened your lashes just so, making your eyes look brighter.

“My darling girl,” your mother said, dabbing her eyes.  “You make such a beautiful bride.”  “Thank you, Mama,” you said, folding her into another embrace.  “Well, we mustn't be late.”  Anna lifted your train and veil as you exited the house and stepped into the carriage; drawn by four white mares and draped in white flowers and ribbons.  Before you departed, your mother took your hand and squeezed it.  “Are you ready?”  You thought of Anthony, your love, the life you would build, and nodded.  “Yes, I am ready.”

***

Daphne was straightening his cravat, Benedict was pinning his boutineer onto his lapel, Violet was smiling fondly, and Eloise was fussing with her gown.  “Are you quite certain about this, brother?” Benedict teased.  “You could always say you changed your mind.”  Anthony rolled his eyes, swatting his hand away.  “Do not jest so,” he said.  “I am quite sure of my decision.  Y/N shall make a wonderful Viscountess.”

“And a wonderful wife?” Daphne asked, furrowing her brow.  Anthony smiled, his heart softening at the thought of you.  “Yes, a most wonderful wife.”  “I am so very happy for you, dearest,” Violet said, taking her eldest’s hand and squeezing it.  “It is clear how deeply you love her.”  “I do,” he said, smiling.  “I love her so much.”  Violet nodded, kissing Anthony’s cheek.  “I look forward to counting her among my children.”  Anthony could only nod, too overcome with emotion.

***

In the vestibule of the church, Anna arranged your train and veil behind you, handing you your bouquet.  “I have never been the lady’s maid to a Viscountess,” she said, and you laughed.  “I have never been a Viscountess before,” you replied.  “We shall learn together.”  Your father was at your side, a proud smile on his face.  When he offered his arm, you took it happily, hearing the opening notes of your bridal procession.  The doors to the church opened, and your father led you forward.

The guests stood, watching as you walked down the aisle toward Anthony.  As soon as he set eyes on you, he was enraptured, consumed by your beauty and the love he felt for you.  He felt tears welling in his eyes, but he pushed them down, though the beaming smile remained.  When you reached the altar, your father reached out and shook his hand.  He pressed a kiss to your forehead before taking his seat, and you stepped to stand before Anthony.

“My love, you are so beautiful,” he said, and you felt your cheeks warm.  “Thank you, Anthony.”  The priest smiled as he stood before the two of you.   “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony…”  Anthony hardly heard his words, he was fixated on you: the way your gown fell against your body, the intricate braids of your hair, your eyes on his, your lips turned up in a smile.  You were radiant, perfectly beautiful, and soon to be his.

“Lord Anthony Bridgerton,” the priest said.  “Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”  “I will,” Anthony responded, his eyes on yours.  “Lady Y/N L/N, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

You nodded.  “I will.”  The priest took your right hand and Anthony’s right hand, bringing them together.  Your vows were exchanged, and Anthony gently removed your left glove.  “With this ring, I thee wed, with my body, I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods, I thee endow.”  He slid the ring onto your finger, a gold band with a glimmering sapphire, his touch lingering just a bit longer than was strictly proper.  “Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder,” the priest said, and your heart skipped a beat.  

Anthony pressed a gentle, fleeting kiss to your lips before taking your arm.  Your guests clapped as your husband led you from the church.  Outside, members of the ton were cheering, throwing flowers and rice in your path.  Anthony pulled you close, kissing you deeply, which made the crowd cheer louder.  He helped you into the waiting carriage, the same one that brought you to the church, rapping the roof when you both were inside.

It was the first time you’d ever been alone with Anthony, and you felt your face grow warm once more.  “I love you,” your husband said, taking your hand.  “I love you so much, Y/N Bridgerton.”  You looked at him, leaning in to kiss him.  “‘Y/N Bridgerton’, I like the sound of that.”  Anthony wrapped his arms around you, pulling you closer.  “Mmm.  What about ‘Viscountess Bridgerton’?”  “Even better.”

[galadrielette]

i could be your heron blue sky (wrap me in celadon and gold) a kanthony au based on this prompt

chapter: 1/3 rating: M word count: 21,636

"If I could marry to save my family, I would."

Shortly after Maahesh Sharma dies, Kathyani Sharma makes a most advantageous match with James Harris, the second Earl of Malmesbury - a lifelong bachelor nearly two decades older than her. In exchange for the financial security of her mother and her sister, all the Earl requires is an heir.

Unfortunately, when the promised heir is six, tragedy strikes. With the death of the head of her household, yet again, Kate is left with a choice in order to save her family. A choice that happens to appear in the form of the ninth Viscount Bridgerton, Anthony Bridgerton - capital R rake & the most eligible bachelor of the 1814 season.

Anthony Bridgerton knows what duty means. It has been his bread and water since his father, Edmund Bridgerton (the best man Anthony has ever or will ever know), passed ten years ago. It is duty that leads him to the marriage mart in search of the perfect Viscountess. Imagine his surprise when the beautiful, impertinent woman he met during a foggy morning horse ride is revealed to be the most eligible lady of the season, save the Queen's Diamond herself.

read it on ao3 listen to the playlist

[thekatebridgerton]

Do you have headcanons on Violet relationship with each of the Bridgerton spouses? Because even though she loves them all, she must be closer to some of them. She was amazing to Sophie in the whole Araminta situation, she seemed pretty charmed by Simon and Michael, she’s known Penelope for a very long time and was possibly the first polin shipper. And she probably needed to be mentor to Kate about her role as a viscountess.

I think she definitely loves them all the same. But she coddles the orphans more. Simon, Sophie, Phillip, Gareth and Lucy definitely get preferential treatment over everyone in Violet's life including her own children. But just because she's nice she shares custody with Mary Sharma and Lady Danbury over them.

"oh you have no parents and a tragic backstory? Well Now you have two moms and a grandma, let me just call Mary and Agatha, they are going to love you" is absolutely the reaction that Violet probably had when she met Sophie, Phillip and Lucy. Simon was roped into the convo after Anthony married Kate so he counts too. And Gareth was probably warned by his grandmother

Of course Kate and Penelope are special for Violet in their own way.

Penelope has been practically considered Violet's ninth child since she met her and she's secretly proud that Penelope takes after her over Portia. Because even the lady Whistledown thing.. Portia wishes that was her influence talking.

She's close with Kate but more as a beloved friend. Sort of In the way Violet is friends with her sisters in laws. Billie and Geogie. And I think Kate is possibly the only daughter in law Violet is able to see as an equal in the family. Because Kate already has a mom, she doesn't need Violet's advice or comfort or her motherliness. Kate just needs a friend and an ally. And Violet does give her that, not just because she's the Viscountess, bur because it's really nice to have Kate as a beloved friend and sometimes confidante.

I think It's the same thing that happens with Michael, she adores his charm and his wit. And genuinely enjoys being friends with him. But doesn't coddle him as she does with Simon because he already has a good mom.

Still I genuinely think Violet loves all her children in law equally And that's the tea

[viscountess-sharma]

Lord Bridgerton celebrated his birthday—This Author believes that it was his thirty-ninth—at home with his family.

This Author was not invited.

Nonetheless, details of the fête have reached This Author’s always attentive ears, and it sounds to have been a most amusing party. The day began with a short concert: Lord Bridgerton on the trumpet and Lady Bridgerton on the flute. Mrs. Bagwell (Lady Bridgerton’s sister) apparently offered to mediate on the pianoforte, but her offer was refused.

According to the dowager viscountess, a more discordant concert has never been performed, and we are told that eventually young Miles Bridgerton stood atop his chair and begged his parents to cease.

We are also told that no one scolded the boy for his rudeness, but rather just heaved huge sighs of relief when Lord and Lady Bridgerton laid down their instruments.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 17 SEPTEMBER 1823

- The Viscount who Loved me

[starswornoaths]

This Blessed Day - Ch. 13

@blackestnight's commission forges on ahead!

Eager to explore this new avenue of faith made available to her, Lucia seeks out the guidance of one outside of the Borels- and asks to attend mass. The experience is a revelation she had not been prepared for.

word count: 3,559

Prev

~*~

Neither Ophianne, nor Celestinaux, had ever pressured Lucia into attending mass. Not before she had expressed an interest in the faith. Not even after, either.

Not that it mattered: Lucia still knew how it operated, in coming to know the routine of House Borel, and Ishgard beyond. Service was held once per sennight, every Lightsday, at the ninth hour bell. Lucia’s schedule had almost always been such that she rose with the sun more of then than not, and thus, had typically been present to see the Borels off to service.

Though he was a practitioner of the faith himself, Aymeric did not always attend, citing conflicts within his work schedule. Though, Lucia knew that he had at least stopped in where he could, to offer a quick prayer between patrols, or on his way home. All the same, he would not even dare ask it of her, to join him: whenever she had squired for him on his patrols, he would always escort her back home, and then double back to attend on his own, if he were so inclined on that particular day.

Even after Lucia had expressed an interest in the faith, none of them ever pestered her. Never asked.

As the Viscountess herself had told Lucia: “You are ever welcome, but it is not our place to ask of you, our faith.”

Later, Lucia had talked over the deeper meaning of those words, with Aymeric. Sat cross-legged atop his bed across from one another, she had asked for a clarification—she had feared that there was some hidden test that she could not parse out.

“I mean no offense, but your superior officers were fond of vague, threatening orders, weren’t they?” Aymeric had asked wryly, upon her questions.

She could not catch her laughter in time, before it got away from her. “To put it lightly.” she answered. “In truth, I often had to parse what the risks of my tasks were by what was not said. They only started being upfront with what to expect when my rank was high enough to warrant it. Hells, the man I served under, before I came here? Ouroboros—head spymaster? It is a title, not a name, if you think it queer sounding—he gave me naught but the parting wisdom that I would be tested, in my assignment.”

“This is not exactly a maverick opinion to have, I realize, but I greatly dislike your former superiors.” Aymeric had tutted.

Even to think on it made Lucia snort with laughter.

Still, he had explained the family’s reluctance to broach the topic with her: they wanted her to choose. There was no punishment for realizing that she did not truly resonate with Halonic faith in a spiritual sense, and thus, there was no pressure for her to delve too deeply into it, should she not wish to.

So, Lucia had given it careful thought, as she had poured over a borrowed copy of the Scriptures, as she spoke with each member of the family further when she would hit a snag, and not know what to make of a verse.

Thus, when Lucia joined them at breakfast on an unseasonably warm Lightsday, dressed in the nicest outfit she had, the Borels respected her enough to know that she had come to this conclusion on her own, and did not question her, with regard to it.

She did feel bad, for nearly elbowing Aymeric in the eye, when he attempted to help her into her coat—admittedly, it was a new experience for her. Through good natured laughter, he insisted that all was forgiven, and then, before she knew it, they were out the door.

On the way, they seemed to be doing their best to temper her expectations— “Ordinarily, the Holy See is not so festive, but it is starlight season,” and other such warnings that, due to the proximity to the holidays, attendance to Lightsday mass might be significantly higher than otherwise expected.

If they had thought to dim her interest, she could confidently declare that they had categorically failed: much like the first time she had come to Saint Reymanaud’s with Ophianne, there was a sort of heavy warmth to the air the moment she stepped foot inside, beyond what could be accounted for, with their heating stoked to blazing for their attendees. That other sense of warmth settled gently over Lucia as she took in the morning sunlight, streaming through the windows in such a way as to strike a splash of colors across the deep ruby carpet.

She could not compare its like to even her rememberings of the Imperial Palace. The stained glass patterns reflected upon the floor were as glimmering gemstones, when compared to the honeyed light that filled the Vault itself. Despite how high the ceilings soared here, this place made her feel no smaller than she did when she was a young cadet, scurrying about the bookshelves in the Academy.

In a way, it almost felt like she could hide here, in the same way that she had all those years ago, among the shelves of books and manuals. A forgotten coziness made new again settled in her heart, as she followed the Borels to one of the pews toward the back of the chapel.

“This is my favorite spot.” Ophianne whispered conspiratorially, as she led them all to their seats. “I can see the whole Vault from here.”

She was right. The ceiling stretched impossibly high, and yet, Lucia could still see the ornate lighting hung by gilded chains, and the particles of dust drifting hypnotically through the sunbeams that poured into the room.

This place felt lived in, in a way that Lucia could not describe. It was less that she felt like a trespasser, and more that she had been ushered into an old friend’s house. A new feeling, made familiar.

As she had been warned, the room was filled to the brim with decorations—Ophianne was kind enough to point out the differences, when Lucia could not parse which was a mainstay bit of decor, and which was of a more seasonal nature.

Lucia did know that mass had started, before the bishop even rose to the pulpit; the moment the ninth bell struck, she knew that was when sermon was meant to start—more than once, it had been the self-imposed curfew the Borels had mentioned not wanting to be late for.

All the same, seeing the bishop ascend the steps to the pulpit and ready his veritable tome of the Scriptures, just as the last of the bells rang, and she was proven right, Lucia felt momentary thrill: information gathering was her specialty, and what better way to absorb that information, than when it was given as a lesson?

“All are Equal, under Her ever-watchful gaze,” spoke the bishop, his voice gentle but clear. “That this Scripture’s verse does not further elaborate, marks it as a complete thought, with no exception. It does not fall to us to make demons of our fellow man. Nor does it fall to us, to determine who among us is outside Her Grace. We need not impress our own meaning upon Her Divine Word, and taint it with the sin of man.”

The service itself was, according to the Borels, largely unremarkable: the Scripture that was referenced today in particular, focused on the virtues of acceptance and love. There had even been a tale of a group of knights, injured and far from home, who stumbled upon farmers tending to their flock.

One of the knights had turned his nose up at the commonfolk’s help, and succumbed to his wounds for his prejudice. His comrades, however, barely standing and desperate to return home, humbled themselves enough to accept their help, and lived to see Ishgard another day with newfound friends.

As it turned out, the poor folk were people, all along. Who would have thought.

Still, Lucia knew better than to presume that everyone understood that concept: her upbringing, and those disenfranchised freezing not fifty paces outside this church’s doors, were proof enough of that.

It was rather fascinating, watching the crowd in attendance; outside of her immediate observations of the service itself, she noticed the faces in the crowd— and in particular, their reactions.

Some of them nodded intently with the message, others even murmuring in agreement as they did. Others still—notably, those adorned in a particularly expensive looking manner—seemed to take this as a revelation. As though the thought had never even occurred to them, to unlearn the idea of viewing those less fortunate as simply “lesser.”

Well. Some of them; the bulk of the exorbitantly wealthy held expressions that ranged from “uncomfortable” to “a hair’s breadth from hostility.”

The crowd was not why Lucia was here, however, and thus, she forced herself to break her habit of reading the room to instead hone her focus on the sermon itself.

As much as the lesson itself was unremarkable, it was the way in which it was taught that thoroughly captivated Lucia. The bishop delivered his sermon with a sort of stern softness—not as some disappointed parent figure, but as someone who took their frustration and honed it with precision.

But then he pressed even further, asking, “If Halone has the capacity to love every man, then should Her people not strive for such an effort, themselves? Should we not try to love our neighbors, and their neighbors—should we not afford love to ourselves? Would the Fury not deign permit that we love, that which She loves? Can we not forgive, in the way that Her Grace gives us the strength to do? In the way that Her Word demands that we do?”

Like a medicus and their scalpel, his words cut to the core of the issue, without seeing to harm the audience it was seeking to heal. In a sense, it felt like cutting away the infected tissue, to heal a wound. Like a carpenter tearing out the rotted wood, to save the house.

By the time the service concluded, Lucia felt as though some of the worst parts of her had been scraped at; not entirely off of her, not so removed as to say she was cleansed, but enough that she felt lighter.

Before she could think better on it, she asked permission to linger and speak with the bishop at the conclusion of the service. Even knowing their encouragement, it startled her how readily the Borels agreed.

Aymeric even volunteered to wait outside, to escort her home—though he lingered, after Celestinaux and Ophianne had already begun their trek home. Thus, he saw how she watched the bishop speaking with others who had congregated, rooted in place.

“Waiting until the crowd thins?” He guessed.

At her nod, he hummed out a laugh from behind his hand. “I can see why. He seems fair swarmed with petitioners. I’ll wait here with you, until you go to him.”

“Why? I’m already keeping you—” Lucia tried to argue.

“Less of a chance someone will say something they should not, if I stay.” Aymeric said with a shrug. “And you are my friend. I am delighted to help.”

His friend. They’d never discussed the nature of their working relationship. Such as it was. Had certainly never given a name to it, no less, even as they had thawed to one another. There were yet things they had not told to one another, about themselves—but then, she had not known everything of even her own twin, before they had separated.

“I am glad,” Lucia said slowly, testing each word’s taste between her teeth, before speaking them, “that you are my friend.”

She waited for the bitterness of defeat, wondering which syllable would hold it. It never came.

When Aymeric had beamed at her and still, it did not invoke in her a sense of wrongness, she at last was confronted with a different sort of defeat: she had not held them at arm’s length. She had not refrained from such attachments as could compromise her.

Not even that felt wrong. It was much to consider, with a lighter chest. Much to take in, with eyes less clouded. Somehow, the prospect was not quite so daunting, thinking on it now.

As she had pondered, Aymeric had returned to observing the crowd in her stead. His expression shifted as he motioned toward them and said, “Ah, t’would seem the congregation has largely dispersed.”

Startled, Lucia spun to look—the crowd had not entirely left, but were gathering their coats and other belongings amongst the pews, intending to leave. The bishop, however, remained near the dais, as if waiting to yet receive of Halone’s faithful, their confessions. Their prayers of need.

As someone who would sincerely hold Ophianne’s prayers to watch over others. A practitioner.

Gently, Aymeric clapped her between the shoulder blades in a friendly show of affection. “Take your time, my friend.” he told her, as he moved toward the exit. With a jab of his thumb in the direction he was headed, he reminded her, “I will be just beyond the door, when you are ready.”

And then before she knew it, it was just her, left with her hammering heart.

Even with the bishop’s sermon, even with the words that had so thoroughly moved her, Lucia was reluctant, in her approach to the bishop. Some part of her feared that despite the things that he espoused in his lesson, he would shun her questions.

So when he caught notice of her approach, and instead he smiled welcomingly at her, she could not help but breathe a sigh of relief, as he beckoned her closer.

“Well now, this is a most unexpected pleasure.” he greeted, when she was close enough to speak with. “You are the ward of House Borel, yes?”

At her hesitant nod, his smile only widened. Nodding emphatically, he said, “Yes, I had thought as much, when I saw you sat beside Lady Ophianne. I am so, so blessed to make your acquaintance! I am Bishop Egrant. Might I know your name, my dear?”

“Lucia goe Junius.” she said, working through the rust of her unused rank and surname.

“Mistress Junius.” Bishop Egrant greeted her, and clasped his hands warmly around hers momentarily, when she offered it in a handshake. “I cannot tell you how glad I am that you are here. How may this humble servant bring you aid, this blessed day?”

She felt the fool, for how the questions that swam in her mind all blurred, into incomprehensible, smudged ink, when she tried to articulate them. She could only begin to fathom how wildly unprepared she must look. How ridiculous he must surely think her.

“I have—I rather liked your sermon.” Lucia began, hands fidgeting in time with her fumbling words, as she tried to force her mind to cooperate with her. “And, and it answered some questions I had, with regard to Halonic faith, but I feel as though I have a thousand more, and, and I scarce know where to begin—”

“Be at ease, my child.” soothed the bishop, hands moving in a placating manner. “Come, let us take a seat among the pews, and we will speak more of this.”

Somehow, the jitters that raced along Lucia’s veins quieted, as he led her over to the frontmost row of seats and ushered her into one. Taking a seat beside her, angled toward her, he looked as patient as a father, gently guiding a child as they learned how to swing a sword. By the time he spoke next, her hands had stopped fidgeting altogether.

That nervousness bled out of her, as she asked her questions; the more he listened intently, the more she understood that she was well and truly being heard, by someone more than the Borels. By someone who had no obligation at all, to hear her.

It felt less like they were lying to her, when they said that her words and her thoughts mattered, knowing that someone else wanted to know them, too. Someone less biased—and, in truth, who should have outright hated her.

It felt less like she did not belong.

When at last she felt emptied of every question that she could think of, Bishop Egrant reassured her, almost immediately, “These questions you have, are perfectly normal. In fact, often the practice of even attending sermon, or reading the Scripture, or even praying, is an action meant to reaffirm the answers to those questions—or to challenge the way in which those answers are understood.”

“Will I ever find answers that satisfy that...that feeling, like even being here is wrong?” she asked hesitantly.

That garnered an alarmed reaction from the bishop. The shock that stunned him momentarily into silence instantly morphed into action, inspiring him into reaching for her hands and holding them in a careful vice.

Anchoring her.

“Why do you think that, my child?” he asked her.

A question she had not been prepared for. So accustomed to receiving comfort and platitudes in response, she almost did not know what to say.

Her past should have been obvious; he couldn’t not know what she had done, even if only in an esoteric sense. How could he wonder, how could he doubt, being as goodly as he was?

“I have done...horrible things. Things I justified, at the time, because I thought I was helping people, in the long term. I thought—”

Lucia’s throat tightened, strangling her words with the threat of tears.

Swallowing, she persisted, in a weak croak, “I thought I understood what unity meant. That we would all only ever be equal, if we were all under the same banner. I thought...I thought no one would have to go hungry, or get sick and waste away like my family did, if everyone had the same opportunity to toil in the Empire, but—”

“Lucia.” Bishop Egrant said, in the firmest tone he had all day, in a whisper soft voice.

She did not flinch into silence, but it still startled her into looking up from her lap.

“All men commit sin. Often, the greatest sins are committed in the name of the greatest virtues. Garlemald is not unique, in this cruelty. It is only unique in the limited ways in which one can repent.”

“Where do I even start?” Lucia asked.

Another question that seemed to surprise Bishop Egrant. “You are here, are you not?” he asked her.

“I—yes, but—”

“Did you seek me out under orders, or are you here by your own compulsion?” he asked plainly.

“I...I asked if I could attend today.” she said, unable to keep the rising anxiety out of her voice. “And again, if I might try to speak with you.”

“Then are you not already on your journey?” he asked, and at her stunned silence, continued, with a squeeze of her hands, “Lucia, my dear girl, no one forced you to try and do better—you did that. You hold the strength to look at yourself, and begin that process. All the proof you need of that, is that I am holding your hands, now.”

Lucia looked down at their joined hands, though only because the imploring look on his face was almost too much for her.

“But this is only a journey, if you keep taking the next step.” Bishop Egrant continued, still so gentle, still so careful and guiding. “You have begun to learn your faith—now, you keep seeking answers.”

“Here?” she asked.

“If your search leads you thus, aye. If you search within the Scriptures, or within your own prayers, however, the Fury does not consider your faith lesser. Nor would I, in my experience.”

“I don’t even know how to pray.” Lucia admitted. “Did it come naturally, for you?”

“Oh, heavens no!” The bishop wheezed a jolly laugh. “I was a rambunctious and easily distracted youth. I shudder to think of what Halone must have thought of my fledgling, meandering prayers, in those days! One only gets better by trying, again and again.”

“Practicing.” She could not keep her smile at bay.

“Goodness, but the Borels do recall my lessons! I’ve been giving sermons since before even Viscount Borel was a twinkle in his parent’s eye, don’t you know. Good to know something stuck!”

They shared a laugh, and it startled her, how freeing it felt.

“Now, I do not wish to keep you—you, or the young Lord, who I imagine is eager to rest his heels on a rare day off.” Bishop Egrant said, smiling again. “So hurry home—but do keep visiting me, if only for your questions. I will not ask you to return to mass; ‘tis your right, as one newly come to the flock, to find how your faith moves you. But please: do come, whensoever you need guidance.”

Even after Aymeric fell into step with her, and all throughout the day, she held that ember of warmth in her chest, and clung to it as though it were her only refuge in a snowstorm. That ember was stoked to a roaring fire, a hearth in her ribcage, a heart almost beating again. In some ways, a kiln, wherein she could begin to rebuild her heart, if she chose to learn how.

And she did.

However much it terrified her, she did.

Next

[yetanotheremptypage]

a fluffy pregnancy/newborn drabble please <3 such a fan of your stories!

This...might not be fluffy enough. It's not angst, certainly, but...yeah. However, baby fluff is one of my favorite things to write, so if you want more pure fluffiness, I will most certainly oblige!

no escaping your love #13: father (Read 1-12 here.)

#66. "Stay over."

Anthony has never been more in awe of his wife, and isn’t sure he ever will be again.

After nearly a full day’s worth of laboring, she’d brought their tiny, amazing, absolutely perfect son into the world. Ten fingers, ten toes, blue eyes that Anthony hopes will darken to his wife’s deep brown, and skin the color of caramel. Everything he’d ever allowed himself to dream his son would be, even now, at that newborn stage where only the parents are truly able to see a beautiful baby. At least that was what Hyacinth had proclaimed when she met him this afternoon. Kate had let her climb onto the bed next to her to hold him and the sight had melted Anthony’s heart, his eyes alarmingly misty. His wife, son, and the sister he’d raised like his own, together.

The family had been rather surprised when they arrived at Aubrey Hall for Christmas to the noise of Kate screaming and cursing him. Edmund had been expected to arrive nearly a week earlier, and so by the time everyone came to celebrate he and Kate would have had time to recuperate and properly introduce him to everyone. It had been important to Kate that they have a proper family Christmas, though, so even as it inched ever closer and their child had yet to arrive, she’d stubbornly refused to cancel.

He supposed it worked out in the end. It meant Kate had both Mary and his mother at her disposal, and he had his family to distract him from the agony she was in upstairs. And by the time Edmund had finally come screeching into the world, it meant their whole family was there to meet him, even if Kate really should’ve been resting and not displaying their son for all to see.

But the last of the Bridgertons had gone back downstairs for supper about two hours ago. A tray had been left for him and Kate, though they’d both picked at it, much more content to sit and watch their son sleep, counting each rise and fall of his chest.

“He needs a name,” Kate murmured, running her finger down his chubby little cheek.

“What new ‘A’ name do you have for me today?”

“I was actually thinking Edmund.”

Anthony froze and shifted away from her on the bed so that he could turn to fully face her. She smiled at him, then looked back down at their son.

“You don’t have—”

“I can’t think of a better way to thank the man who gave me you,” she finished with a bit of a wobble to her voice. Everyone had warned them that the calm, collected Kate would not return just yet, but he didn’t care. He adored every version of her. And the gift she was giving him here was immeasurable, another reason to add to the millions of others that made him thank God every day for her.

“Well what if I want to thank the man who gave me you?” he replied.

“No, no. Edmund Bridgerton, Ninth Viscount Bridgerton, has a much better ring to it. Miles can be the next one.”

“The next one?”

“We have to keep up with Simon—” she yawned— “and Daphne.”

“There’s plenty of time for that,” he said, reaching to scoop Edmund into his arms. “You need to rest. I’ll take Edmund to the nursery and see you in the morning.”

She frowned.

“The morning?”

“I thought you might want your own chambers, tonight.”

She shook her head and reached for his hand, “Stay over. The viscountess’s rooms can’t be that bad, can they?”

“Not as long as you’re in them,” he agreed. He leaned down to kiss her head, mindful of Edmund, and pulled the blankets up over her. “Sleep, my darling.”

Whatever she murmured in response was lost to him as she succumbed to the sleep she’d been fighting for so long.

Edmund started to fuss as they made their way down the hall, the faint strains of the pianoforte and his family’s laughter filtering up the stairs. It was so different from the Christmases before Kate, where the laughter seemed forced and there was a general sense of malaise over all the Bridgertons as they sat at the grand dining table, Anthony too small in their father’s seat.

Or maybe he was different.

“Yes, I know,” he said to Edmund, adjusting his blanket, “Your mother is the best person in the whole world to be held by. But I think you and I can make it to the nursery, yeah?” The baby quieted, his head pressed against Anthony’s chest, against his heart, and he smiled. “Good.”

Even after he set Edmund down in his cradle, Anthony stood there and watched him sleep. He’d seen his own father do it when Francesca had been born and he hadn’t understood it, then, but now he did. He knew the exact feeling of love that swelled in a father’s chest as he beheld his chest and, even though Edmund the First would never meet his grandson, it almost felt like he was in the room with them, smiling down at Edmund the Second over Anthony’s shoulder.

[dutybcund]

lord bridgerton celebrated his birthday -- this author believes that it was his thirty-ninth -- at home with his family. 

this author was not invited.

nonetheless, details of the fete have reached this author’s always attentive ears, and it sounds to have been a most amusing party. the day began with a short concert: lord bridgerton on the trumpet and lady bridgerton on the flute. mrs. bagwell (lady bridgerton’s sister) apparently offered to mediate on the pianoforte, but her offer was refused. 

according to the dowager viscountess, a more discordant concert has never been performed, and we are told that eventually young miles bridgerton stood atop his chair and begged his parents to cease. 

we are also told that no one scolded the boy for his rudeness, but rather just heaved huge sighs of relief when lord and lady bridgerton laid down their instruments. 

- lady whistledown’s society papers, 17 september 1823

we stan a ridiculous fucking family

[fitrahgolden]

Aubrey Hall weekend, maybe? Or maybe watching as Francesca promenades with a suitor?

[edwardslovelyelizabeth]

historicwomendaily celebration week: Favourite Sisters

Elizabeth of York (11 February 1466 – 11 February 1503) was the eldest daughter of king Edward IV and his wife queen Elizabeth Woodville. Elizabeth was the Queen Consort of England from 1486 until 1503 as the wife of Henry VII and the first Tudor queen. She married Henry VII in 1486 following the latter's victory at the Battle of Bosworth Field, which started the last phase of the Wars of the Roses. Uniquely, Elizabeth of York was a daughter, sister, niece, wife and mother of English monarchs - Edward IV, Edward V, Richard III, Henry VII and Henry VIII, respectively.

Mary of York (11 August 1467 – 23 May 1482) was the second daughter of Edward IV of England and his queen consort Elizabeth Woodville. In May 1480, Mary was named a Lady of the Garter along with her younger sister Cecily. There were reportedly plans to marry her to John, King of Denmark, bit nothing came of it as Mary died aged 14 at Palace of Placentia in Greenwich on 23 May 1482.

Cecily of York, Viscountess Welles (20 March 1469 – 24 August 1507) was an English princess and the third, but eventual second surviving, daughter of Edward IV, King of England and his queen consort Elizabeth Woodville. In 1474, Cecily was betrothed to the son of James III of Scotland and In 1482 - to the Duke of Albany, who had recently allied himself to Cecily's father, who he died before a marriage to Cecily could take place. Cecily lived at court with her family through the autumn and winter of 1485-1486. She served as her sister’s chief lady-in-waiting once Henry and Elizabeth married that January, and she attended upon her sister throughout the spring and summer while she was pregnant with her first child. When Prince Arthur was born in September 1486, Cecily carried the infant during his christening. At some point in December 1487, when Cecily was 18, she married John, Viscount Welles, Margaret Beaufort’s younger half-brother. After his passing some years later, Cecily married without royal permission a commoner Sir Thomas Kyme, for which her estates were confiscated by Henry. One hopes that this final marriage enabled Cecily to find happiness away from court, but the record of her fades before her death at age 38 in 1507

Anne of York (2 November 1475 – 23 November 1511) was born in the Palace of Westminster, London, as the fifth daughter of King Edward IV of England and his wife, Elizabeth Woodville. On 5 August 1480, King Edward IV signed a treaty agreement with Maximilian I, Archduke of Austria for Anne to marry his son Philip, duke of Burgundy, but the treaty was repudiated after Edward’s death and never took place. In 1484 Anne had been betrothed to Thomas Howard by Richard III. This was one decision that Henry seemed to agree with, and the two were married in 1495 when Anne was nineteen years old. She spent some time at court serving her sister as lady-in-waiting, but little else is known of Anne of York. She found favour under Henry VIII, as evinced by gifts of estates made to her, but she died shortly after his ascendancy, leaving no surviving children.

Catherine or Katherine of York (14 August 1479 – 15 November 1527) was the ninth child and sixth daughter of King Edward IV by his wife Elizabeth Woodville. Catherine was one of many English princesses considered for a Scottish match before she was married to William Courtenay. He spent significant amounts of time in the Tower for his traitorous words regarding Henry VII’s reign before his death in 1511, shortly following his reinstatement as Earl of Devon by Henry VIII. Catherine and her husband were present at court on various important occasions, including the wedding of Arthur Tudor and Katherine of Aragon.  Catherine seems to be a favourite aunt of Henry VIII and was enjoying great favour and gifts from him occasionally visiting court. The Courtenay family held great power in the west of England. Catherine, who had taken a vow of chastity after William’s death outlived the remainder of the children of Edward IV dying in 1527.

Bridget of York (10 November 1480 – 1517) was an English princess, the tenth child and seventh daughter of Edward IV of England and Queen Elizabeth Woodville, born less than three years before her father’s death. Bridget entered the Dartford Priory in 1490 at the age of 10, though it is unknown if this was to honour a plan of her father’s, her own wishes, or due to other reasons. Evidence of Bridget’s study of Catholic saints exists, and she spent the remainder of her life as a nun. She died in 1517, never foreseeing the dissolution of the priory that would occur under her nephew, Henry VIII.

pictured: Elizabeth Woodville and her five daughters (left to right): Elizabeth, Cecily, Anne, Catherine, and Mary. Royal Window (c.1482), Northwest Transept, Canterbury Cathedral.

[argentvive]

Lyndy Abraham’s Introduction to Literary Alchemy

For those of you asking for an introduction to the basic concepts and history of alchemy, here is the beginning of Abraham’s Introduction in the Dictionary of Alchemical Imagery.  (Boldface is mine.)

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The origins of alchemy in Western culture can be traced back to the world of  Alexandria and Hellenistic Egypt around 300 BC, when Greek science was flourishing. In Alexandria at this time, the art of alchemy developed in both Graeco-Egyptian and Hebraic cultures. The Arabs became interested in alchemy when they took Alexandria from the Byzantine Empire, and Islamic alchemical practice became well established by AD 750.

 It was not until the twelfth century that the art of alchemy began to influence European culture, spreading there from the Arabs in Spain and Southern Italy. Pope John XXII’s papal bull of 1317 condemned the practice of alchemy, forcing it to retreat underground. By the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, however, it had become an intellectually respectable, if controversial, discipline, and the great passion of the age. At this time alchemy was considered to be a significant scientific and philosophical thought system which provided a mode of perceiving substances, processes, relationships, and the cosmos itself.  In its various manifestations – as the inquiry into chemical substances, the search for the new ‘chymicall’ medicines, the scientific observation of  the processes of nature, as an esoteric philosophy and cosmology, and as an exploration of the act of  creation itself– alchemy flourished in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Europe. Alchemical theory was a dynamic force in the various influences which came together to form an intelligent explanation of the world. Some of the most famous names of the day in England pursued the art of alchemy – Sir Philip Sidney and Sir Edward Dyer, Sidney’s sister Mary Herbert,Countess of Pembroke, Sir Walter Raleigh and his half-brother Adrian Gilbert, Henry Percy, ninth Earl of Northumberland, the mathematician Thomas Harriot,  Edward Kelly and Dr John Dee, George Villiers, second Duke of  Buckingham, Anne, Viscountess Conway, Samuel Hartlib, Isaac Newton, and King Charles II. The rising physicians of the day were the Paracelsian alchemists, and the revolutionary new chemical medicines, which began to replace traditional Galenic herbal practice, were introduced into the pharmacopoeia in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries in England by these pioneering ‘chymists’.

 It is becoming increasingly clear that Hermetic and alchemical thought deeply influenced Elizabethan and Jacobean culture, and that writers of the stature of Shakespeare, Jonson, Donne, Marvell, Cleveland, Milton and Dryden drew on the rich source of alchemical imagery for their writing. The satiric reference to alchemy in the work of such writers as Thomas Nashe, Ben Jonson and John Donne is well known. But alchemical metaphor was used to express deep philosophical and spiritual truths as frequently as it was used as a subject for satire and comedy. When, in ‘Resurrection Imperfect’, Donne wrote of the crucified Christ as ‘all gold when he lay down’ but ‘All tincture’ when he rose, capable of transmuting ‘leaden and iron wills to good’, he was using alchemical terms to express a deep spiritual vision of the transforming power of Christ’s love. And when, in Paradise Lost, Milton wrote of the ‘arch-chemic sun’ whose fields and rivers ‘Breathe forth elixir pure’ and run ‘potable gold’(3.606–9),it is a living, working, spiritual alchemy that is referred to, a spiritual alchemy in contrast to the material alchemy which ‘here below / Philosophers in vain so long have sought’(3.595–612). Alchemy provided a vibrant model for denoting physical, psychological, spiritual and cosmological concepts, and the writers of this era naturally drew on its rich symbolism for their art. 

The impact of alchemical concepts and imagery on culture has not been confined to late Renaissance Europe. From King Lear’s ‘Ripeness is all’ to the young golfer in P.G.Wodehouse, seeking the secret of the game ‘like an alchemist on the track of the Philosopher’s Stone’,alchemy has provided abundant material for the creative imagination. As alchemy separated itself into a materialist chemistry and an esoteric spiritual discipline in the eighteenth century, what had been a more or less unified ‘art’ divided into two strands. The materialist chemical project continued, and alchemy’s heritage is still present in terms like ‘alcohol’ and ‘bain-Marie’, as well as in the discovery of such substances as nitric acid, hydrochloric acid, ammonia, sugar of lead and some compounds of antimony. 

Nevertheless, the esoteric, spiritual component of alchemy kept on, and has continued to provide a major source of material for research in the field of psychology by such thinkers as Herbert Silberer, Carl Jung and Marie-Louise von Franz in the twentieth century, and for writers and visual artists from Dryden, Pope, Goethe, Joseph Wright of Derby and Browning, through to the nineteenth-century Symbolists, Victor Hugo, Marcus Clarke, W.B.Yeats, August Strindberg, Antonin Artaud ,Max Ernst, Paul Klee, Laurence Durrell,Ted Hughes, Vladimir Nabokov, Marguerite Yourcenar and Jackson Pollock. 

[NB Abraham does not include any fantasy writers in her list, but I’d add Eddison, Tolkien, Goudge, C S Lewis, Rowling, and GRR Martin, among others.]

In alchemical treatises from the Middle Ages until the end of the seventeenth century, including tracts by Isaac Newton, alchemical ideas were expressed in coded language, in emblem,symbol and enigma.... One reason for this practice was the desire of the adept to hide alchemical truth from the ‘ungodly, foolish, slouthful and unthankefull hypocrites’ (R. Bostocke, in ep,62).Thus the expression of ideas was made deliberately obscure. The alchemists openly stated that they were using an enigmatic mode of discourse.

Source: Cambridge University Press 978-0-521-00000-0 - A Dictionary of Alchemical Imagery Lyndy Abraham 

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You can find a simpler version of these basic ideas in my post on varieties of alchemy.  

https://argentvive.tumblr.com/post/180576502445/alchemy-physical-spiritual-literary

[lifegardenheaven]

Strictly Come Dancing reveals THREE more contestants

Strictly Come Dancing reveals THREE more contestants

[ad_1]

Strictly Come Dancing has announced the next three candidates in this year's lineup.

The BBC Dance Show went on Instagram to confirm the seventh, eighth, and ninth participant's participation in this year's show.

After uploading the three new entrants, CBBC presenter Karim Zeroual, Viscountess Emma Weymouth and American show juror Michelle Visage from RuPaul participated in this year's…

[thebadgerclan]

The Ninth Viscountess: Chapter 3

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x reader

Chapter Summary: The wedding night...

Smut!

Yes, Anthony.  I want this, I want you.  Your husband moaned softly, kissing you deeply, his tongue parting your lips and exploring your mouth.  You grasped Anthony’s shoulders, knowing if you didn’t, you’d surely topple over.  “Do you know how long I’ve wanted this?  Wanted you?” he asked, kissing down your neck, sucking soft marks against your skin.  “Oh, my love, I want you so badly.”  All you said in response was a whisper of your husband’s name, feeling wetness growing between your thighs.

Anthony pulled on the lacings of your gown, loosening the bodice enough to push it to your waist.  “My beautiful bride,” he moaned, pushing your skirts from your waist, leaving you in your chemise and stays.  “You are perfect.”  Anthony unlaced and removed your stays, holding the hem of your chemise between his fingers.  “May I?” he asked, and you nodded.  Your husband peeled the thin fabric from your body, leaving you naked before him.

“I never imagined you to be so gorgeous,” Anthony praised, falling to his knees before you.  He kissed a path down your chest and abdomen, pausing to lick and suck at your breasts, drawing soft, breathy moans from you, his hands on your hips.  Anthony gently removed your stockings, looking up at you through his lashes.  “Anthony,” you whispered, and after pressing a delicate kiss to your hip, he rose, taking you in his arms.  He was still fully dressed, the fabric of his breeches and waistcoat rough against your skin.

“Anthony,” you repeated, and he pulled back to look at you.  “Yes, my love?”  “I feel…odd.”  It was the best word to describe the hot, wet sensation between your legs, the tingling of your skin, the throbbing of your most intimate place.  “You are aroused, my darling,” Anthony explained.  “And I shall show you how to remedy that.”  Your husband took you by the hand and led you to the bed, which had already been turned down.

You climbed onto the bed, lying down at Anthony’s insistence.  You then watched with rapt attention as your husband undressed.  He removed his boots, shrugged off his coat, untied his cravat, unbuttoned his waistcoat, tugged his shirt over his head, and removed his breeches.  His cock stood erect, and you gasped, coming to an understanding as to what was to occur.  “You needn’t worry, Y/N,” he said.  “I will make you feel good.”

Anthony joined you on the bed, but he didn’t lie next to you as you’d anticipated.  Instead, he kissed his way down your body, settling on his stomach between your legs.  He inhaled deeply, moaning at the smell of your arousal.  “Have you ever touched yourself here before?”  “N-no,” you said, voice shaking.  “Hmm.  Then I shall show you what you can feel.”  Kisses were pressed to the insides of your thighs, then–oh Lord–his lips were on your sex.

Your husband licked your wetness, moaning at the taste.  “You taste divine, my love,” Anthony praised, kneading the flesh of your thighs as he licked at your cunt.  “I’ve dreamt of this for months.”  You let out a shuddering breath which turned into a moan when he wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked gently.  “Anthony!” you cried, your back bowing off the bed.  “Oh my–yes!”  You’d heard stories of women engaging in such acts, even read a few scenes in a few racy novels, but you’d always thought them rather wanton.  But now, with your husband’s face between your legs, making you feel things you never imagined to be possible, you were forced to reconsider .

“Anthony, I don’t..please, do not stop!”  Your husband did as you asked, licking at your entrance, flicking the tip of his tongue over your clit, making you moan and roll your hips.  Anthony knew you were close, and he reluctantly pulled his head back.  Blame it on his masculine pride, but he wanted your first orgasm to be on his cock.  “Why did you stop?” you asked, chest heaving with your breaths.  “I need to get you ready for me,” Anthony answered, dragging a finger through your slit.  “Try to relax for me, my sweet.”

You nodded, and he pressed his finger forward, slowly stretching you for the first time.  It was an odd sensation, but the  Anthony twisted his finger, seeking a spot within you that–”Oh, fuck!”  You had never used such language, but the pleasure you felt could be described in no other words.  Anthony smiled smugly, massaging that place within you for a few moments.  He pressed a second finger into you, gently stretching you enough to take his cock.   When he withdrew his fingers, Anthony wiped them on the sheets and knelt between your thighs.

“Are you ready?” your husband asked, and you nodded.  You were nervous and a little afraid, but you trusted Anthony with your life, and you knew that whatever happened, he would take care of you.  “Yes, Anthony, please.”  Your husband bent and kissed you, aligning his cock with your entrance.  “This may hurt,” he warned.  “But only for a moment, and then, I promise you that I will make you feel more pleasure than you could ever imagine.”

“Alright,” you said, and your husband slowly began to push forward.  Your brows pinched together as he entered you, a burning, stinging sensation, and Anthony kissed your forehead.  “Shh, I know, I know,” he soothed as you whimpered.  “It will never hurt again, I promise you.”  You nodded, breathing deeply, gripping his hands as he bottomed out within you.  Anthony remained perfectly still, not matter how much he wanted to fuck you into the mattress, allowing you to adjust.

After a few moments, you opened your eyes, the stinging fading, the discomfort giving way to fullness, and you shifted your hips, gasping at the sparks of pleasure that went up your spine.  “I’m alright,” you said, and Anthony smiled softly, kissing you gently.  “I’m going to make love to you now,” he said, and you nodded, feeling desire pooling in your belly.  Your husband slowly withdrew before pushing back in, relishing in the soft moan that left your mouth.

His thrusts were slow and gentle, his body pressed to yours.  One hand held him above you, the other cupped your cheek tenderly, looking into our eyes.  “Y/N,” he said, brushing his lips over yours.  “Y/N, I love you.  I love you so much.”  “Anthony, yes!” you moaned softly, “Yes, you…I love you too.”  It suddenly made sense why so many young ladies were caught in compromising positions with their intendeds; if this was what a man and a woman did that was so very scandalous.  Thank heavens you were unaware of such actions while courting Anthony, as you surely would have been caught in the gardens months ago.

It felt like fire was covering your body; white hot flames licking over your skin, like everything in the known universe was right and well.  Anthony knew exactly where and how to touch you, how to brush his lips across your skin to make you sigh, how to angle his hips to make you moan, where to touch you to make you cry out his name.  As you became accustomed to his cock within you, Anthony fucked you a bit faster, making you gasp and clutch his shoulders.

“Yes, oh yes!” you moaned, pleasure growing in your belly.  “Anthony, I…I feel, something’s happening!”  Your husband moaned low in his throat, kissing you hungrily.  “Let it go, darling, don’t fight it,” he encouraged.  Of course you were clueless as to what an orgasm would feel like, and it stoked his pride to know he would be the only one to give you them.  Perhaps he would show you how to make yourself come, how to satisfy yourself for the times when he was away for extended periods of time.  Lord, the thought alone nearly made him come.

“Anthony, I…oh yes!”  Your husband felt you clench around him, watched your face contort in pleasure.  Mere seconds later, he let himself come, goraning into your neck as he released into you.  You whimpered softly as you came down from your high, and you knew in that moment that you would crave Anthony’s touch for the rest of your life.  Slowly, he pulled out, kissing your forehead as you sighed.  

Your husband laid down at your side, pulling you to lie in his arms, kissing you sweetly.  “Anthony,” you sighed, nuzzling into his chest, smiling when he wrapped his arms around you.  “That was…Lord, I don’t have the words.  Is it always that pleasurable?”  “I shall always make it that pleasurable for you, my dear.  I love you so much, Y/N.”  “I love you too, Anthony.  I love you so much.”

Anthony drew the covers over the two of you, and you snuggled closer, sighing contentedly.  “This has been the happiest day of my life,” you said, feeling sleep descending on you.  It had been well over fifteen hours since you’d awakened, and you were a completely different woman.  You’d started the day as Lady Y/N L/N, daughter of the Marquess of Berkeley, one who knew nothing of the marital act.  But as you fell asleep, you were the Viscountess Y/N Bridgerton, a woman who knew how wonderful the marriage bed was, and who looked forward to what more her husband could teach her.