summary: Creating an heir is your current and most important duty as viscount and viscountess... if only you could get some alone time.
Or, the 4 times you were interrupted and the 1 time you weren't.
word count: 21.6k+
pairing: anthony bridgerton x fem!reader
notes: first time posting an anthony fic🥺kinda nervous. i love this man so much goddddddd
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, married!anthony, fluff, implied to be trying for a baby, kissing, the bridgerton siblings are menaces, takes place during season 3, some allusions to plot of season 3 but not exact, soft smut, oral (f!receiving), fingering, unprotected piv, creampie
Bridgerton House had a way of waking before the sun had fully decided what sort of day it wanted to be, because the servants were already moving with quiet purpose and the downstairs hall always carried the faintest echo of footsteps and polished manners. You find Anthony in the morning room with a ledger open, correspondence stacked in neat piles, and a cup of tea he has forgotten to drink, because his attention is fixed on a list he’s written in his unmistakably sharp hand.
He doesn’t look up when you come in, not at first, but you can see the exact second he registers you anyway, because his shoulders ease as if the room has finally become habitable. He drags his gaze up from the page and the stern look he wears for the rest of the world breaks at the edges.
“Good morning,” he says, and it sounds as though he means it.
You cross to him, leaning in to kiss his temple before you take the chair opposite. He turns his head just enough that your mouth brushes his cheek instead, and he acts as if that small change of angle was a brilliant idea he’s been waiting for all morning. “Good morning,” you reply, then glance pointedly at the untouched tea. “Do you intend to drink that, or is it only here to make you look less terrifying?”
“I am not terrifying.” You lift your brows and he sighs, a long-suffering sound that would be convincing if he weren’t already reaching for the cup as though you’ve ordered him to take medicine. “I am… occupied.”
“With what?” You tilt your head toward the papers. “The family accounts? A new scheme to frighten away your sisters’ suitors? A list of men you’d like to challenge to a duel for looking in your direction?”
“That last one is not a list,” he says, insulted on principle. “It is merely a natural consequence of existing in society.”
You give him a look that says you are not fooled by the distinction, then reach across the table and slide the top sheet closer. It’s covered in tidy blocks of time, names, and appointments, the sort of thing a man writes when he cannot bear the idea of being surprised by his own life.
You read aloud, because of course you do. “‘Ten o’clock: call on Lady Danbury. Eleven: return call from the Smythes. Noon: speak with the steward. One:—’” You pause, eyes narrowing. “‘One-thirty: private time.’”
Anthony’s hand flattens over the page as if he can physically prevent you from seeing it. It’s too late, of course. You keep your face composed for a full second longer than necessary, then the laugh breaks out of you, warm and helpless. “It is perfectly reasonable,” he says, and the tips of his ears turn the faintest shade darker. “I do not see what is amusing.”
“You’ve scheduled it,” you say, still laughing, and you tap the line with one finger. “Anthony, you have made it an appointment.”
“It is not an appointment,” he insists, but it’s weaker than his earlier protest, because his mouth is starting to twitch. “It is… a consideration.”
“A consideration between the Smythes and your steward,” you say, delighted. “How romantic.”
He sits back, eyes narrowing as if he’s deciding whether to be offended or to drag you into his lap and end the conversation by other means. The second option clearly appeals to him, because his gaze slides to your mouth and lingers there for a heartbeat. “Do not mock me,” he says, but there’s no bite in it.
“I’m not mocking,” you reply, and you soften your voice just a little, because you like him like this, caught between duty and desire. “I’m only trying to understand how you reached the conclusion that this needed ink.”
His expression shifts into that familiar Viscount look, the one he puts on when he thinks the universe is a misbehaving estate that can be managed with firmness and exact timing. “We have been… interrupted, as of late.”
You fold your hands and pretend to consider. “Have we?”
Anthony’s stare turns flat with disbelief, because the audacity of your innocence is apparently too much. “Yes.”
“By whom?” you ask, and when he keeps staring, you add sweetly, “because if you mean your siblings, I am shocked. Truly shocked.”
“Do not be insufferable.”
“I’m not insufferable,” you counter, and you glance down the list again. “I’m practical. If you want privacy, perhaps you should schedule your brothers and sisters instead.”
He huffs. “I cannot schedule my family.”
“You try,” you say, and now you’re smiling too wide to be anything but honest mischief. “You’ve tried since the moment I met you.”
Anthony’s mouth opens, then closes again, because he knows you’re right and he hates that you’re right. He reaches for the teacup, takes a drink as if it will restore his authority, and sets it down with a careful clink that suggests he’d rather set something else down far less gently.
“I am simply ensuring we are not disturbed,” he says, as if this is a problem any reasonable man would solve with a timetable. “There are calls to return. There is Francesca’s presentation to consider. There is Colin—” He stops himself mid-sentence, as though he’s remembered Colin is perfectly capable of wreaking havoc without being invoked. “There are expectations.”
You lean back in your chair, watching him, letting him talk himself into righteousness. “Expectations,” you repeat, and you make it sound like what it is: a nuisance dressed up as propriety.
Anthony’s eyes flicker to you, then away, then back again. “You know what I mean.”
“I do,” you say. “And I also know you’re the only man in England who would try to conquer the question of children with a ledger.”
He bristles at that, but not too hard, because the truth of it is wrapped in your fondness, and he knows it. “I am not attempting to conquer anything.”
“You are,” you say, and you tap the page again, gentler this time. “You’re trying to arrange the world so it behaves.”
He leans forward, elbows on the table now, his gaze steady and demanding in a way that would make most of the ton sit up straighter. It doesn’t work on you, not anymore, because you’ve seen him laugh into your shoulder and you’ve heard him say your name like it’s a prayer he doesn’t mind repeating. “I am trying to give you what you want,” he says.
You blink, and your teasing falters into something quieter, because there’s no performance in his tone. It’s plain, like a truth he’d rather say once and be done with, but it sits between you anyway. “I already have what I want,” you reply, then let the smile return, because you refuse to let him turn this into solemn duty. “A husband who is handsome and occasionally ridiculous.”
His eyes narrow again, but this time it’s pure affection. “Occasionally?”
“Frequently,” you correct. “But I don’t mind, it’s one of your charms.”
He pushes his chair back and stands, moving around the table with the kind of purpose that suggests he’s decided talking is a losing game. When he stops behind you, his hands settle on your shoulders, warm through the fabric of your morning dress, and the touch is both gentle and possessive, as though he can’t help reminding himself you’re real. “You are enjoying this far too much,” he murmurs.
“I enjoy many things,” you say, tipping your head slightly so his fingers slide up to the line of your neck. “Including watching you pretend you’re not flustered.”
He leans down, mouth near your ear, and you feel the quiet shift in the air, the way the room seems to narrow into only the two of you and the steady rhythm of his breath. “I am not flustered,” he says.
You turn your head just enough to meet his eyes over your shoulder. “Then you won’t mind if I add something to your schedule.”
His brows lift, suspicious. “What?”
You reach up, catch one of his hands, and tug him forward until he has to bend closer, until his body is near enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back. “Cross out ‘private time,’” you tell him softly. “If we’re going to try, let it be because we want each other, not because the Smythes have been neatly contained.”
Anthony’s throat works, like he’s swallowed a protest and found it turning into something else entirely. “You are suggesting—”
“I’m suggesting,” you say, cutting him off with a smile that you know will undo him, “that you stop treating our bed like a committee meeting.”
His mouth twitches, then he exhales, half laugh and half surrender. “Very well.”
“Good,” you say, and you rise from the chair, turning fully now so you’re facing him. “Now, Viscount Bridgerton, what is next on your list?”
His gaze drops to your mouth again, and the way his hands settle at your waist makes it very clear he’s done pretending the page matters. “I believe,” he says, voice low, “that I am about to revise it.”
You hum thoughtfully, as if you’re weighing the merits of his proposal, then let your fingers curl into the front of his coat and pull him closer by an inch. “Revisions are welcome,” you tell him, “but if someone knocks on the door, I’m leaving you to explain why you were defeated by your own household.”
Anthony’s smile turns sharp and dangerous in the most enjoyable way. “No one will knock.”
“Anthony,” you say, and you let the warning sit in your tone like a dare. “Don’t tempt fate.”
Anthony doesn’t let you get more than two steps away from the table before he’s there, close enough that the edge of his coat brushes your skirts. His hand settles at your waist with a familiarity that still makes something warm spark behind your ribs, and his mouth finds yours again like he’s determined to prove that he can, in fact, revise the day into obedience. The kiss is not gentle in the way the ton would approve of; it’s the sort he saves for when the door is shut and there is no one watching, his thumb pressing lightly at your side as he angles you back toward the corridor.
“You look far too pleased with yourself,” you murmur when he finally lets you breathe.
“I am pleased with you,” he replies, and the emphasis he puts on the words makes your face warm. He dips his head again, kissing along your jaw in a way that suggests he’s decided the morning room is no longer fit for respectable conversation, then pulls back just long enough to add, “and I am correct. No one will knock.”
“You say that as though you’ve bribed the entire household,” you tell him, letting your hands slide up the front of his coat, smoothing it even though it’s already perfectly arranged.
“I have not bribed anyone,” Anthony says. He looks offended by the very idea, which is comical considering he is currently steering you toward the stairs with all the subtlety of a man guiding a carriage through a narrow lane. “They will simply do their duties elsewhere.”
“Because you will glare at them until they flee,” you say, laughing a little when he shoots you a look. “It’s a gift.”
“It is authority,” he corrects.
“It’s terrifying,” you correct back, and you don’t fight him at all when he leads you up the stairs, because you are not made of stone and neither is he. Bridgerton House is bustling below—voices, the soft clatter of breakfast trays, a distant instruction called from one servant to another—but the upper floor is quieter, the air cooler, the carpets muffling your steps.
At the top landing, Anthony pauses, as if listening for some sign of impending chaos, then continues with renewed purpose. His hand doesn’t leave you, not for a moment, and you catch him glancing toward the family wing as though half-expecting Benedict or Colin to leap out with a question about nothing at all.
“You’re scanning the corridor like a soldier,” you remark.
“I am being vigilant,” he says, then opens the door to your bedchamber with a firmness that suggests he would like it understood by the world that this room is not to be invaded. He shuts it behind you, and for a moment the quiet is immediate and complete, broken only by the soft sound of the latch settling.
You turn to face him properly. The morning light is pale through the curtains, catching on the dark fall of his hair, the clean line of his jaw. He looks like he’s been wrestling responsibility since dawn and is about to surrender to something he likes far more. “Now,” you say, drawing the word out just enough to see his gaze sharpen.
“Now,” he agrees, and his hands come to your shoulders, turning you slightly as if he wants to take you in from every angle. He leans down, kissing you again, slower this time, as though he’s decided he has all the time in the world. His fingers slide to the ties at the back of your dress, not hurried, but sure, and you let your hands drift to his collar, tugging him closer.
“You’re very confident for a man who has been defeated by a single knock,” you tease against his mouth.
His breath hitches in a sound that might have been a laugh if it weren’t clearly something else. “Do not remind me.”
“You’re the one who said no one would knock,” you point out, and you pull back just enough to watch him. “If we’re disturbed, I will hold you personally responsible.”
Anthony’s eyes narrow, but it’s the look he gives you when you’ve challenged him and he’s already decided he likes it. “Then we shall not be disturbed.”
He guides you backward until the backs of your knees brush the edge of the bed. The sheets are crisp, the coverlet neatly smoothed, the pillows stacked in a way that suggests a maid has only just made everything perfect. Anthony does not look like he appreciates the perfection; he looks like he wants to ruin it in the most satisfying way possible.
You sit, letting him stand over you for a moment, and tilt your head. “Anthony, are you attempting to seduce your own wife as if she might refuse you?”
“I am not attempting,” he says, voice low, and his hand slides along your cheek with a tenderness that turns the words into something warm rather than arrogant. “I am succeeding.”
“Oh?” You smile, fingers catching at the front of his coat. “Then take it off.”
His brows lift at the bluntness. He hesitates for the briefest second, as if you’ve spoken too plainly for morning, then he huffs out a breath like he’s decided he doesn’t care about morning’s opinions. He shrugs out of the coat and tosses it over a chair, then undoes his cravat with brisk efficiency.
“You’re in a hurry now,” you observe, watching him.
“I am not,” he says, though he absolutely is. “I am merely… prepared.”
“Prepared,” you repeat, and you lean forward, catching his hand before he can return to unfastening your dress. You bring his knuckles to your mouth and press a kiss there, slow enough to make his focus flicker. “For a man who puts everything on paper, you are very easy to distract.”
His eyes darken, and his voice drops. “Do not do that if you intend for me to remain calm.”
“I don’t,” you reply honestly.
Anthony’s hand slides to the back of your neck, and he leans in again, kissing you with a little more hunger, his other hand working at the ties and buttons with practiced familiarity. You feel the loosen of fabric at your shoulders, the gradual ease of your dress giving way under his careful hands, and you smile into his mouth because this is exactly what you wanted: not an appointment, not a task, just the two of you deciding that the world can wait.
A knock lands on the door.
It’s not loud, it’s not urgent. It’s polite, measured, and perfectly timed like a weapon.
Anthony freezes so completely you can feel it through his hands. You stay very still, not because you’re startled, but because you are suddenly struck by the pure comedy of it and the fact that his expression looks one heartbeat away from murder. Another knock follows, gentle again, then a familiar voice through the wood. “Anthony?” Violet calls. “Are you in there, dear?”
You press your lips together, eyes widening as you look up at him. Anthony’s gaze flicks to the door as though he’s considering setting it on fire. “Do not answer,” you whisper, unable to keep the amusement out of your voice.
His jaw clenches. “I must.”
“No, you don’t,” you insist, keeping your voice low. “You’re a grown man. You’re the Viscount. You can ignore your mother.”
Anthony stares at you as if you’ve suggested he rob a bank. “I cannot ignore my mother.”
“Anthony,” Violet calls again, still perfectly polite. “It will only take a moment.”
You bite your lip, shoulders shaking with silent laughter, because of course she’s said that. Of course she has. Anthony inhales slowly, visibly attempting to summon composure. He leans down, mouth near your ear, and mutters, “if I open this door and she is holding a list, I shall throw myself out the window.”
You whisper back, “I’ll help you.”
His hand leaves your shoulder and drifts to your waist again, as if grounding himself. He looks as though he might refuse, as though he might finally decide that he is allowed one private moment in his own house, then Violet says, very gently but with unmistakable authority, “Anthony, I know you are in there. I saw you walk up the stairs.”
You choke on a laugh, pressing your fist to your mouth. Anthony closes his eyes for a beat, opens them again, and straightens his cravat with brisk, furious motions, as though tying it tightly enough will keep his patience from spilling out.
He points at you in a silent command—stay. The fact that you are his wife and not a misbehaving sibling makes the gesture ridiculous, but you nod solemnly anyway, because you want to see how this unfolds.
Anthony crosses the room, opens the door, and plants himself in the doorway like a barricade. “Mother,” he says, voice controlled to within an inch of his life. “Good morning.”
Violet stands there with a small smile and a folded paper in her hand, dressed as though she has been awake for hours, which she certainly has. Her gaze flicks past his shoulder, not in a scandalized way, but in the way a woman who raised eight children assesses a room in half a second and understands everything she needs to understand. “Good morning,” Violet replies, and her smile widens by a fraction. “Am I interrupting something?”
“No,” Anthony says immediately, which would be convincing if his ears weren’t turning red.
You can’t help it. You call out from the bed, sweet as honey, “yes.”
Anthony’s head snaps around. His glare is devastating and entirely affectionate at once.
Violet’s eyes find you, and her expression softens into something warm and genuinely pleased, which is the worst possible reaction because it makes it impossible to be properly indignant. “Ah,” she says. “There you are, dear.”
Anthony speaks through his teeth without looking away from you. “You are not helping.”
You adjust the loosened fabric at your shoulders with exaggerated innocence. “I’m only being honest.”
Violet clears her throat, still smiling, and shifts the paper in her hand. “I truly will not take long. I only wished to speak to you both, if I may. It’s about the season, and… certain expectations.”
Anthony’s shoulders go rigid. “Mother.”
Violet lifts her brows. “What? I am your mother. I am allowed to have expectations. Also, I am allowed to knock.”
“You knocked,” Anthony says flatly. “Yes.”
“And you did not answer,” she replies, calm as ever.
“Because I was—” Anthony stops himself, breathes, then tries again with all the dignity he can gather. “Because we were occupied.”
Violet’s smile becomes almost unbearably serene. “Naturally.”
You shift closer to the edge of the bed, unable to resist leaning into the moment. “Lady Bridgerton, if you are here to give instructions, I must warn you that he already attempted to schedule me.”
Violet’s eyes widen with delighted surprise, and then she laughs, a soft, quick sound. “He did not.”
Anthony looks as though he might dissolve into the floorboards. “I did not,” he lies, then turns sharply to you. “I did.”
Violet’s gaze goes fond as she looks at him. “Oh, Anthony.”
“It seemed sensible,” he says, defensive and miserable at once.
“It is very like you,” Violet agrees, stepping half a pace forward as though she might come in, then stopping when Anthony subtly blocks her again with his entire body. She glances at the doorframe, then back at him, amused. “You need not guard the room as if I am the Queen.”
“I am not guarding,” Anthony says.
You snort. Violet’s eyes flicker to you again. “My dear, are you comfortable?”
“Very,” you say brightly. “For the moment.”
Anthony shuts his eyes for a beat, then opens them and looks at Violet with a desperate sort of politeness. “Mother. Please.”
Violet’s smile softens into something more practical, the expression of a woman who has managed a household longer than Anthony has been alive. “Fine. I will be brief, since you are clearly… occupied.”
Anthony’s jaw tightens at the word, and you can see him fighting not to glance back at you.
Violet holds up the folded paper. “There is a dinner this evening at Lady Danbury’s. She has asked that you both attend, and she was quite clear that it is not a request that can be declined. Also, Francesca’s modiste is arriving at noon, and she insists on your opinion, Anthony.”
Anthony’s stare turns hollow. “My opinion.”
“Yes,” Violet says, perfectly serious. “She says you have a ‘severe eye’ and that it will keep her from being overwhelmed.”
“I have never offered an opinion on a gown in my life,” Anthony says.
Violet’s mouth twitches. “Then today is a fine day to begin. She wants you in the blue room at noon.”
Anthony looks down the corridor as though he might flee. “I have meetings at noon.”
“You will move them,” Violet says, as calm as a judge.
He exhales. “Very well.”
Violet’s gaze dips toward the bed again, and she adds, still gentle, “And as for other expectations… you needn’t let the ton make you feel watched. You will do things in your own time.”
You blink at that, because it’s the closest Violet Bridgerton ever comes to saying anything blunt. Anthony’s posture eases by a fraction, not enough to be obvious, but enough that you notice it. “Thank you,” you say, voice softer now, because you can take teasing only so far before it becomes cruel, and you have no interest in making him feel cornered.
Violet nods, satisfied, then reaches out and pats Anthony’s sleeve as if he’s twelve again. “Now, I will leave you to your… revision of the schedule.”
Anthony’s head tilts back in silent agony. “Mother.”
Violet steps away, still smiling. “Do remember the dinner,” she calls lightly as she retreats down the hall, and then, as if she cannot resist delivering the final blow, she adds, “and do lock the door next time, dear. It saves everyone a great deal of embarrassment!”
Anthony shuts the door with careful restraint; the latch clicks and the quiet returns. For a moment, he simply stands there, hands at his sides, staring at the door as though it has personally betrayed him. You wait until he turns, because you want to see his face when he looks at you again. When he does, he has the expression of a man who has survived a war and lost anyway.
You can’t keep it in. You laugh, not a delicate giggle but a full laugh that bends you forward, your hands pressed to your stomach. “I told you,” you manage between breaths. “I told you not to tempt fate.”
Anthony crosses the room in three long strides, stopping at the side of the bed. “Do not laugh.”
“You’re blushing,” you accuse, delighted.
“I am not blushing.”
“You are,” you insist, and you reach out, tugging gently at his sleeve. “Come here.”
He resists for half a second out of sheer stubborn pride, then gives in, sitting on the edge of the bed beside you. His shoulders are tense, his mouth set, but his hand finds your thigh automatically, thumb stroking through fabric as if he cannot help needing to touch you. “She told me to lock the door,” he says, voice flat.
You turn toward him, still smiling. “She’s not wrong.”
“She should not have said it,” he replies, scandalized.
You tilt your head. “Anthony, she raised eight children. She has said far worse things than that in her life.”
He looks at you, as if he wants to argue, then seems to realize he has no ground. “This house is impossible,” he declares.
“It is,” you agree, and you lean in to kiss the corner of his mouth. “But you love it.”
“I love you,” he corrects, and the intensity of it lands right against your ribs. “And I would like to spend a single moment with you without my mother announcing herself like a herald.”
You slide your hand up his chest, fingers resting over his heart. “Then we’ll try again.”
Anthony’s eyes narrow. “Try again.”
“Try again,” you repeat, and you let your smile turn wicked. “But perhaps not in the morning room, and perhaps not with the confidence of a man who thinks the universe can be bullied into silence.”
He leans closer, his voice dropping. “I can bully the household.”
“You cannot bully your mother,” you say, and you kiss him again, slower now, coaxing the tension out of his jaw. “Though watching you attempt it might be entertaining.”
His hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you close. “You enjoy my suffering.”
“I enjoy you,” you correct, and you keep kissing him until his breath evens out and his grip softens into something warm instead of tight. When you finally pull back, you brush your thumb along his cheek. “No more schedules,” you tell him, gentle but firm. “If you want me, come and take me. If you want a baby, we’ll find our moments. We’re not racing anyone.”
Anthony watches you for a long beat, then exhales like he’s letting go of a battle he didn’t realize he was fighting. “Very well,” he says, and he leans in to kiss you again as if he’s sealing an agreement.
Somewhere downstairs, a door shuts, a voice calls, life continues as it always does in a house full of Bridgertons. Up here, for the moment, it’s just the two of you again, and Anthony’s hands are back at the ties of your dress with renewed determination, like he plans to win this war even if it takes all season.
Two days later, the house is no quieter, but the chaos has shifted shape, as it always does. The morning callers have been managed, Francesca has been whisked out with Violet and a modiste who speaks as if lace is a matter of national importance, and Benedict has vanished somewhere between breakfast and whatever it is he does all day that produces paint stains and smugness. The servants move with practiced ease, and yet you can feel Bridgerton House waiting for something to happen, the way it always seems to hover on the edge of commotion.
You’re in your sitting room with the windows cracked just enough to let in a cool breeze. A small vase of fresh flowers sits on the table, and you’re halfway through a letter when you hear Anthony’s footsteps in the corridor. They’re unmistakable: purposeful, steady, as though the floorboards belong to him by right.
He enters without knocking because it’s your sitting room and you’re his wife, and he looks like a man who has been holding himself together with nothing but habit and stubbornness. His coat is immaculate, his hair is tidy, his expression is controlled, but his eyes go straight to you with something sharper than duty. “Are you alone?” he asks.
You glance past him toward the hall as if you’re considering whether a Bridgerton might be dangling from the chandelier. “At present? Yes.”
Anthony closes the door behind him with a very particular care, the kind that says he’s learned at least one lesson from recent experience. He remains there for a moment with his hand still on the knob, as if he doesn’t trust the door to stay shut unless he threatens it.
“You look as though you mean to interrogate the furniture,” you say, folding your letter.
“I am ensuring we are not about to be interrupted,” he replies, then immediately looks toward the wall as if the house itself might be listening.
You smile. “Oh, you’re cautious now.”
“I am practical,” he corrects, and he takes another step, then another, scanning the room as though Eloise might burst from behind a curtain with a pamphlet and a lecture.
You set the letter aside and lean back. “What is it you want, Anthony?”
His gaze flickers down your face, your mouth, the line of your throat, and he clears his throat like he’s trying to shove that thought back into the box he keeps it in for public hours. “I have been thinking.”
“That’s never a comforting start,” you say, amused.
He ignores the jab, which is how you know he’s serious about whatever he’s decided. “We require a new strategy.”
You tilt your head. “We do?”
“Yes,” he says, and this time there’s no hesitation. “Because the current method of attempting to find privacy in this house is… ridiculous.”
You laugh, but you keep it gentle. “It’s your house.”
“It is my mother,” he returns flatly, and then, as if he’s realized he’s spoken too plainly, he adds, “and my siblings.”
“And the entire ton,” you say, gesturing vaguely, as if Mayfair itself is waiting in the corridor.
Anthony’s mouth tightens. “Exactly.” He crosses to the settee and sits beside you, not close enough to be improper if a servant were to glance in, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him through your sleeve. His hand lands on the cushion behind you, a casual possession he doesn’t even seem to notice he’s doing.
“All right,” you say. “What is your brilliant plan?”
He glances at the door again before answering, which makes you grin even wider. “We leave.”
You blink. “Leave?”
“Yes,” he says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “For a few hours, perhaps an entire day. Somewhere with fewer… doors.”
You look at him. “Somewhere with fewer doors?”
Anthony gives you a look that says you’re being deliberately difficult. “Somewhere without my family. Somewhere without callers. Somewhere without my mother’s impeccable timing.”
You shift closer, just enough to let your knee brush his. “You’re proposing we abandon Bridgerton House like fugitives.”
“I am proposing,” he says, voice dropping, “that I would like to kiss my wife without the threat of my mother appearing like a benevolent specter.”
You hum thoughtfully. “A very noble desire.”
His eyes narrow. “Do not tease.”
“You make it impossible not to,” you reply, and you reach out to straighten his cravat, slow and unhurried, enjoying the way his attention drops to your hands. “Where are we going to go? Aubrey Hall is not exactly a short walk.”
“I am not taking you to Aubrey Hall,” he says, and then pauses like he’s reconsidering whether he should. “Not unless you wish it.”
You lift your brows. “Do I sound as though I’m objecting?”
Anthony’s jaw flexes as if he’s deciding whether to smile. He fails; the corner of his mouth betrays him. “We could go to the town house on Half Moon Street.”
You blink again. “We have a town house on Half Moon Street?”
“We have a town house on several streets,” he says, and there’s the Viscount pride again, as if he’s offended you didn’t memorize the family properties for pleasure. “Half Moon Street is simply… quieter. It is used less often.”
“So it’s empty,” you translate.
“It is managed,” he corrects. “But yes, it is not full of Bridgertons.”
You tap his chest lightly with one finger. “You do realize how strange it is that we must flee your own family in order to have a moment alone.”
Anthony catches your wrist, not hard, just enough to stop you, and his thumb slides over your pulse with slow intention. “Do you mind?” His voice is calm, but the question is real, and he watches you the way he does when he wants a straight answer and doesn’t trust the world to give him one.
“I don’t mind,” you say, and you let your smile soften into something warmer. “But I’m not going to let you turn it into a military campaign.”
His brows lift. “A military campaign.”
“You’re making plans,” you say, leaning closer. “You’re scouting doors. You’re selecting locations.”
“I am ensuring success,” he replies, and the way he says it makes it sound like he’s speaking about negotiations with Parliament.
“You’re ensuring you won’t be interrupted,” you correct. “Which is fair, given what happened, but if you start drafting timetables again, I’m taking your pen away.”
Anthony’s grip on your wrist tightens slightly, and his gaze drops to your mouth again. “You will not take my pen away.”
“Oh?” you say, delighted by the spark in him. “And how will you stop me?”
His answer is not verbal—he leans in, and the kiss is quick at first, a sharp press of intention, then it deepens as he decides he has permission to take what he wants. His hand slides from your wrist to your waist, drawing you closer, and you make a soft, satisfied sound against his mouth because this, at least, is not scheduled.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead nearly touches yours, and his voice is quieter. “We leave this afternoon.”
You keep your hands on him, smoothing the front of his coat as if you’re thinking. “This afternoon?”
“Yes,” he repeats, and he looks almost relieved to have a plan that isn’t a page of ink. “We take the carriage, we tell the household we are not receiving, and we go to Half Moon Street.”
“You’re still giving orders like it’s a campaign,” you point out, though you’re smiling.
“I am the Viscount,” he says, as if that settles everything.
“You’re also a husband,” you remind him, and you tilt your head. “Shouldn’t you ask your wife if she’d like to go first?”
Anthony’s eyes narrow in mock annoyance. “Would you like to go?”
“Yes,” you answer immediately. He blinks, like he’d expected at least a moment of negotiation. You continue, sweetly ruthless. “But only if you promise you won’t turn the entire day into ‘attempting.’”
Anthony’s mouth tightens again. “We are trying for a child.”
“We are,” you agree. “And we can try as often as we like, but if you look at me like you’re evaluating an estate investment, I will lose my mind.”
His expression shifts, and he actually laughs, a quiet sound that seems rare when he’s wearing his public face. “An estate investment.”
“You know exactly what I mean,” you say, and you give his collar a final tug as if you’re satisfied with the arrangement. “I want you. I want the idea of it, the fun of it, the closeness of it. I don’t want to feel like I’m being entered into your ledger.”
Anthony’s gaze holds yours, steady and intent. “You will never be a line in my ledger.”
“Good,” you say. “Then we’re agreed.”
He studies you for a beat longer, then nods like a man accepting terms. “We are agreed.”
You stand, smoothing your skirt, feeling his eyes follow the movement. “All right, we’ll flee to Half Moon Street.”
Anthony rises too, and he reaches out, catching your hand before you can step away. “One more thing.”
You lift a brow. “If this is another instruction—”
“It is not,” he says, but his voice drops anyway. “If anyone interrupts us there, I will buy the building and have it emptied.”
You laugh, properly this time, and squeeze his hand. “That’s the spirit.”
He brings your knuckles to his mouth and kisses them, and there’s something almost smug in the way he looks at you afterward, as if he’s finally found a solution that will work. “Go and dress,” he says. “Something comfortable.”
“Comfortable?” you repeat. “How scandalous.”
Anthony’s eyes flick down your body again, and his tone turns dry. “If you are uncomfortable, it will take longer.”
You pause mid-step, turning back to him with an expression of innocent disbelief. “Did you just admit you’re planning for it to take longer?”
His face doesn’t change, but his ears go faintly red again. “Go and dress.”
“Yes, my lord,” you say, far too pleased with yourself, and you leave him standing there in your sitting room looking like a man trying very hard not to chase you down the corridor.
You’re halfway to your chamber when you hear a door open somewhere down the hall and Eloise’s voice carry, sharp and energetic. “Mother, you cannot possibly expect—”
Anthony exhales like a prayer for patience, and you bite back another laugh as you continue on, already imagining the look on his face when the carriage finally rolls away and Bridgerton House is left behind, loud and impossible and not your problem for a few blessed hours.
The townhouse on Half Moon Street remains a very fine idea for exactly six hours, right up until the moment it becomes impossible. Because that night, just as you’re finishing supper and Anthony is wearing the particular expression he gets when he believes he has finally arranged a quiet evening, the front doors downstairs fly open with all the restraint of a man arriving with news too large to carry politely. The entry hall fills with sound—boots on marble, an excited voice, servants startled into motion—and you and Anthony both pause mid-conversation, turning as one toward the commotion.
Anthony’s gaze narrows at the ceiling as if he can see through floors. “No.”
You set your glass down slowly. “That’s Colin.”
“It is,” Anthony agrees grimly, already pushing back his chair. “And he is doing something.”
Colin’s voice carries up the stairs, bright and unabashed. “Mother! Benedict! Anthony! Everyone—where is everyone?”
Anthony straightens his coat, because he can’t help himself, and looks at you with the resigned fury of a man who can feel his evening collapsing. “Stay here,” he says, as if you’re going to miss this.
You stand immediately. “Absolutely not.”
By the time you reach the top of the stairs, Violet is already in the hall, summoned as if by instinct, and Benedict has emerged from wherever he lurks, looking entertained before he even knows why. Eloise appears behind Violet with her usual suspicion, as though joy is something the family might be attempting to sell.
Colin stands in the entry, cheeks flushed from the cold and excitement, eyes shining. Beside him—half a step behind, hands clasped tightly as if she isn’t sure where to put them—Penelope looks like she’s trying not to faint.
Colin doesn’t ease into it. He doesn’t even attempt a preface. “I am engaged,” he announces, like he’s declaring a victory in battle. “To Penelope.”
There’s a beat of stunned silence so complete you can hear the faint clink of a servant’s tray somewhere in the back hall. Violet’s hand flies to her chest, Eloise makes a noise that sounds like she’s swallowed a cough, Benedict’s brows shoot up, and Anthony, beside you, goes perfectly still.
Then Violet moves first, because she always does. “Engaged?” she repeats, voice breathless with surprise and immediate delight. “Colin—Penelope—oh!”
Colin nods hard, grinning. “Yes. Yes, I—I asked her, and she said yes, and—”
Violet crosses the distance like she can’t help herself and takes Penelope’s hands. “My dear,” she says warmly, eyes shining, “how wonderful—how very wonderful.”
Penelope’s face is pink, but her eyes are bright, too. “Thank you, Lady Bridgerton.”
Benedict turns his head toward Anthony with the kind of grin that means he’s about to be insufferable for at least a week. “Well,” Benedict says, “this is a surprise.”
Eloise stares at Colin as if he’s announced he’s joined the clergy. “You cannot be serious.”
Colin blinks at her. “Eloise, I assure you I am—”
Anthony’s voice cuts in, low and sharp. “Colin.”
Colin looks toward him, still smiling, as if Anthony is going to applaud and clap him on the shoulder. “Brother!”
Anthony takes one step forward. His expression is controlled, but you can see the way his jaw flexes. “When,” he says, “did this occur?”
Colin lifts his chin, like a man proud of himself. “This evening.”
“This evening,” Anthony repeats, as though Colin has said he became engaged during a thunderstorm on a ship at sea. “You became engaged this evening, and you decided the appropriate way to share this information was to burst into the house like a highwayman.”
“It is good news,” Colin protests.
“It is sudden,” Anthony corrects.
Benedict laughs under his breath. “Oh, Anthony, do not pretend you do not enjoy a little drama.”
Anthony ignores him completely and looks at Penelope. His tone softens a fraction, as if reminding himself she’s not the one who enjoys bursting into rooms. “Miss Featherington,” he says, then corrects himself with stiff formality that makes you want to pinch him, “Penelope. Congratulations.”
Penelope manages a small smile. “Thank you, my lord.”
Colin beams like he’s personally improved the world. “He is pleased,” Colin announces to the room, as if interpreting Anthony is now his duty.
“I am—” Anthony begins, then stops, because whatever he is, he is not going to say it in front of Violet and Penelope and half the house. “I am… glad you have made your intentions honorable.”
Violet turns, eyes bright with happiness and barely contained plans. “We must inform Portia at once. We must speak with the modiste. There will be a breakfast, and then a dinner—Anthony, there will be announcements to manage!”
Anthony’s face tightens like he’s taken a physical blow. “Mother—”
Eloise takes a sharp step forward, eyes fixed on Penelope. “Since when?”
Penelope’s hands tighten together. “Eloise—”
Colin steps in quickly, protective. “It is not an interrogation.”
“It is absolutely an interrogation,” Eloise snaps.
You slide a hand lightly onto Anthony’s arm, not to restrain him, but to anchor him, because you can feel the storm gathering in his posture. He glances down at your hand, then up at you, and you can almost hear him silently counting the hours of quiet he thought he’d arranged being eaten alive by Bridgerton chaos.
You lean in and murmur, “so much for leaving this afternoon.”
Anthony’s mouth barely moves, but his reply is immediate. “We will still leave.”
You lift your brows. “With an engagement in the house?”
“I will drag my brother into the carriage with us if I must,” he mutters, which is not at all what he means, but it does make you smile.
By the time the congratulations are finished, the questions asked, Violet’s immediate plans declared, and Eloise’s outrage temporarily redirected into pacing, the hour is too late for any sane attempt to flee Mayfair. The townhouse plan is quietly abandoned under a mountain of family discussion and social necessity, and when you finally return upstairs with Anthony, he shuts your bedchamber door with enough care that it looks like restraint rather than desperation. He turns, shoulders slumping the slightest bit in private. “This house is cursed,” he says.
You slip out of your gloves and lay them neatly on the table, pretending you haven’t noticed his mood even though you have. “It’s your house.”
“It is my family,” he says, and the way he says it makes it sound like a battlefield.
You approach him, smoothing the front of his coat, and kiss him once, quick and affectionate. “We’ll find another day.”
Anthony’s hands land at your waist automatically, pulling you close as if he might steal what the evening has taken. “We will find tomorrow.”
“You always say tomorrow,” you tease.
“Then we will find the next day,” he corrects, eyes narrowing. “But we will find a day.”
You smile up at him. “Confident again, are we?”
He looks like he might answer with something grand, but instead he drops his forehead briefly to yours, as if he’s trying to keep himself from swearing. “Do not provoke me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you say, still smiling, and you let him kiss you properly this time, slow and lingering, until his grip steadies and his breath evens.
It is, annoyingly, still not enough to save your plan.
A few days later, the ton has already taken Colin’s engagement like a morsel and begun devouring it in public, and Bridgerton House has become a parade of callers: Violet is radiant, Penelope arrives and departs under the careful watch of chaperones and excited servants, and Eloise vanishes every time she sees a Featherington carriage, only to reappear with a stormy expression and a book held like a shield.
Anthony bears it for as long as he can, which is longer than most men would, and then one late afternoon, when the house has finally quieted and the sun is lowering into a soft amber glow, he finds you again like a man who has reached his limit.
You are in the library this time, because it is one of the few rooms where the door feels like it means something. The fire has been lit even though it isn’t truly cold, and the air smells faintly of paper and polished wood. You’re standing near the shelves, skimming spines, when Anthony comes in and closes the door behind him with a decisive click.
He doesn’t speak immediately. He simply looks at you as if he’s been thinking about you all day and the moment he’s finally alone with you, words stop being useful. “Well,” you say, amused by the intensity, “you look like a man with an intention.”
“I am a man with an intention,” he replies, crossing the room toward you. He reaches you, and his hands settle on your hips as though that is where they belong, thumbs pressing lightly through your gown. “If anyone knocks, I shall not answer.”
You smile. “That’s new.”
“It is not new,” he says, leaning down to kiss you. “It is final.” You let him, because you want him, and because the library door is shut, and because you can hear nothing beyond the quiet crackle of the fire. His mouth is warm, insistent, and he kisses you like he’s reclaiming time that has been stolen. When he finally lifts his head, his gaze stays on yours. “Move,” he murmurs, and he nudges you back a step toward the large armchair by the hearth as if he’s already decided the library is not merely for books.
You laugh softly. “Anthony—”
“Do not,” he warns, but there’s humor in it too, the edge of a smile he can’t quite hide. “Just—come here.”
You let him guide you, and his hands move with familiar surety, tugging you close, his mouth finding the skin just beneath your ear. “You are enjoying this,” you whisper.
“I am enjoying you,” he corrects immediately, voice muffled against you. “And I will not be interrupted.”
As if the house has been waiting for that exact sentence, there is a knock at the library door. It’s brisk and insistent, not a servant’s timid tap, a Bridgerton knock. Anthony freezes with the speed of a man who has been shot.
You press your lips together, shoulders lifting with silent laughter. “Oh no.”
The knock comes again, louder. “Anthony!” Benedict calls through the door, sounding entirely too cheerful. “Are you in there?”
Anthony closes his eyes. His hands stay on you, as if letting go would be admitting defeat, but his face tightens with fury. You whisper, delighted, “you said you wouldn’t answer.”
“I will not,” Anthony whispers back, as if saying it will make it true.
Benedict knocks again, then adds, “It is important!”
From the other side of the door comes Eloise’s voice, sharper, impatient. “He is in there, Benedict, I saw him go in. Anthony! I need to speak with you!”
Anthony opens his eyes and stares at the door like he’s imagining ways to remove it from its hinges. You murmur, “this is becoming a pattern.”
“It is becoming a tragedy,” Anthony replies.
Benedict’s voice rises, still maddeningly bright. “Anthony, if you do not open the door, I shall open it myself!”
“You will not,” Anthony calls back, voice tight.
“Oh, I absolutely will,” Benedict replies, sounding pleased with himself. “I only need—where is the key?—Eloise, do you know where he keeps the key?”
Eloise makes an exasperated noise. “Why would he keep a key to his own library door?—Anthony, open it!”
Anthony’s arms tighten around you, and he mutters under his breath, “if he touches this door—”
You tip your head up, eyes glittering with amusement. “Are you going to duel Benedict in the library?”
“I will duel him in the street,” Anthony says, dead serious.
Benedict knocks again, and then you hear the unmistakable rattle of a handle being tested. You put a hand on Anthony’s chest, stopping him from launching himself at the door. “Wait,” you whisper.
Anthony’s gaze snaps to you. “Wait?”
You smile, wicked and fond at once. “If you open it, they win.” His jaw tightens.
Outside, Benedict announces, “I am counting to three!”
Eloise barks, “do not count!”
Benedict ignores her. “One—”
Anthony looks at you, and for a moment you can see him wrestling with the impulse to keep control, to keep dignity, to keep peace, and losing all of it at once. His hands flex at your waist.
“Two—”
You lean in and press a quick kiss to his mouth. “Let them knock,” you murmur. “We can be stubborn too.”
Benedict’s voice rings out, delighted. “Three!”
The handle rattles again, harder, and Anthony’s entire body goes rigid. He takes a sharp breath, then—finally—lets out the sort of sound that isn’t quite a growl but is close enough to make you laugh. He turns, still holding you as if you’re the only steady thing in the house, and calls, “what?”
There’s a pause on the other side of the door, as if Benedict hadn’t expected him to answer without opening it. Then Benedict says, brightly, “ah! Excellent. You’re alive.”
Eloise snaps, “Benedict, do not be insufferable. Anthony, I need you. Immediately.”
Anthony’s eyes squeeze shut again. “For what?”
Eloise replies, clipped, “because Colin has decided to be smug in the drawing room and Mother is planning three separate breakfasts, and I cannot endure it alone!”
Benedict adds, as if this is equally urgent, “also, I believe Colin is about to announce something else, and I would hate for you to miss the look on your face.”
Anthony’s stare goes entirely blank with disbelief. “Nothing else can be announced.”
Benedict’s tone is innocently delighted. “You would be surprised what Colin believes he can announce.”
You cover your mouth to muffle a laugh, shoulders shaking against Anthony’s chest. Anthony looks down at you with a mixture of outrage and reluctant amusement. “This is not important,” Anthony calls through the door, voice dangerously calm.
Eloise replies immediately, “it is important to my sanity!”
Benedict says, “and to mine. Eloise is becoming very loud.”
Eloise retorts, “you are the one counting like a child!”
Benedict responds, “I am attempting to be organized, which you should appreciate.”
Anthony’s hands slide up your back, slow, grounding, as though he’s reminding himself that he still has you even if his siblings are trying to break down the door. He leans closer to your ear. “If they do not leave,” he murmurs, “I will move us to the roof.”
You whisper back, laughing, “do we have a roof schedule as well?”
He pinches your waist, not hard, but enough to make you yelp softly. “Do not.”
Outside, Benedict calls, “Anthony, are you opening the door, or do we continue this ridiculous stand-off?”
Anthony opens his mouth to answer, and you can tell he’s about to declare something dramatic and absolute. The door handle rattles again, and this time it’s accompanied by the unmistakable sound of a key being inserted and the both of you go still. On the other side, Benedict says, sounding pleased, “ah, there it is.”
Anthony’s voice drops into something lethal. “Benedict.”
Benedict pauses. “Yes?” Anthony’s hand leaves your waist. He strides to the door in three steps and yanks it open so hard the hinges complain. Benedict stands there holding a key in one hand, grin already prepared, and Eloise is beside him looking vindicated and irritated at the same time. Benedict takes one look at Anthony’s face and lifts both hands. “All right,” he says quickly. “I see you are in one of your moods.”
“One of my moods,” Anthony repeats, and his tone suggests Benedict should start writing his will.
Eloise peers past Anthony into the room, her eyes flicking toward you. “Oh,” she says. “Hello.”
“Eloise,” Anthony says sharply.
Benedict leans in just slightly, as though he’s inspecting a painting. “Is this a bad time?”
You step forward enough to be seen properly, smoothing your skirts, expression sweet. “A dreadful time.”
Benedict’s grin widens. “My apologies.”
Eloise looks between you and Anthony, then pinches the bridge of her nose like she’s the one being punished. “Colin is insufferable,” she announces, as if that explains everything. “He has been smiling for an hour, Mother is floating, and Penelope… I needed an ally.”
Anthony stares at her. “You broke into the library for an ally.”
“It is not breaking in if Benedict has a key,” Eloise says.
Benedict lifts the key. “It was in Father’s old desk.”
Anthony’s face hardens. “Put it back.”
Benedict nods quickly. “Immediately.”
You can’t help it, you laugh, because the scene is so absurd you might choke if you don’t. Benedict looks relieved you’re amused, and Eloise looks irritated that anyone is capable of amusement at all. Anthony steps out into the hall, lowering his voice. “Whatever you think is happening in the drawing room, it can wait.”
Eloise’s eyes flash. “It cannot. Not if I am to survive.”
Benedict adds, as if offering a compromise, “Anthony, come for five minutes. Five minutes, and then we shall all vanish and never speak of this again.”
Anthony glances back at you, his expression tight, then looks at his siblings again like he wants to throw them down the stairs. You step closer and touch his arm lightly. “Go,” you say, soft enough that only he hears. “If you don’t, they’ll only keep doing it, and I’d prefer not to witness Benedict’s next attempt at burglary.”
Anthony’s nostrils flare. “I will have him arrested.”
“You cannot arrest your brother,” you whisper, laughing.
“I can try,” he mutters.
Benedict, sensing he’s survived another second, brightens. “So! Five minutes?”
Anthony holds Benedict’s gaze with a promise of future violence, then says, clipped, “five minutes.”
Eloise’s shoulders drop in relief like she’s been granted mercy. “Thank you.”
Benedict beams. “Wonderful. Come along.”
Anthony turns back to you before he follows them. His hand catches yours briefly, fingers tightening, and his voice drops low. “Do not move from this room.”
You lift your brows. “Now who’s issuing orders?”
His mouth twitches. “I will return.”
“I’m sure you will,” you say, and you tilt your head. “Unless Colin announces he’s become the Prince Regent.”
Anthony lets out a sound that might be a laugh if he weren’t still furious, then leans in, kisses you once—quick, hot, and full of promise—and follows his siblings down the corridor.
The library door remains open behind him, the fire still crackling, your carefully claimed privacy evaporated like mist. You watch the three of them go, Benedict talking animatedly, Eloise already complaining, Anthony walking in the middle like a man being led to execution. You close the door yourself, calmly, and slide the lock with deliberate precision.
A week after Colin’s announcement, the ton has done what it always does: taken the news, polished it until it gleams, and then used it to bludgeon everyone else with questions. You feel it the moment you step into Lady Danbury’s drawing room for an afternoon call, because the room isn’t loud exactly, but it is alive with attention. Fans flick, bracelets glint, and every conversation seems to pause for the smallest fraction of a second when a Bridgerton enters, as if society is collectively deciding which topic to attack first. Lady Danbury, seated like she owns the entire building, lifts her chin toward you in greeting. “Viscountess,” she says, voice rich with amusement. “You have survived a week of congratulations.”
“Barely,” you reply, taking the seat indicated. “I have heard the word ‘engaged’ so many times I may never recover.”
Lady Danbury’s mouth curves. “Nonsense, it could be worse. It could be the word ‘heir.’”
You give a quiet laugh that turns into something more pointed when you feel Anthony’s presence behind you. He’s just finished greeting someone near the door—one of the endless men who insist on clasping his hand and smiling as if they’re friends—and now he crosses toward you with that controlled ease that makes everyone get out of his way without understanding why they’ve done it.
He sits beside you, close enough that his knee brushes yours, and his hand lands on the arm of the chair in a way that looks casual but feels protective. Lady Danbury’s eyes flick from him to you. “How is our viscount today?”
Anthony’s smile is polite. “Enduring.”
“Ah,” she says, pleased. “Honesty, I applaud it. Now, I have a question, and you may glare all you like, Bridgerton, but I will ask it anyway.”
Before Anthony can respond, a woman in pale blue drifts close, fan raised like a shield. She smiles at you first, then at Anthony, and you recognize her as Lady Smythe’s sister-in-law—one of those people who appears at every gathering and always manages to be within earshot of news. “Viscountess,” she says, overly warm. “How delightful to see you. And you as well, Lord Bridgerton. Such a charming week for your family.”
Anthony’s smile stays fixed. “Indeed.”
The woman’s gaze lingers on you with the sort of curiosity that never feels innocent. “Mr. Bridgerton’s engagement is quite the talk. Penelope Featherington! Who would have guessed?” Lady Danbury snorts softly. The woman pretends not to hear it and continues, lowering her voice as if sharing something intimate. “And of course, it does set one thinking.”
Anthony’s jaw tightens. You can feel it without even looking at him. “Does it?” you ask, letting your tone remain pleasant.
“Oh, yes,” the woman says, eyes bright. “Such a large family, and now another wedding approaching. Lady Bridgerton must be in ecstasies. It makes one wonder which happy announcement will come next.”
Lady Danbury’s brows lift as if she’s about to cut in, but you beat her to it with a smooth smile. “Society wonders about all sorts of things,” you say. “It keeps them occupied.”
The woman laughs lightly, not deterred. “Naturally, naturally. Still—one cannot help but consider how important heirs are, particularly when one’s husband holds a title. Forgive me, I only mean it as… interest.”
Anthony’s hand shifts on the chair arm. His voice is controlled, but there’s an edge to it now. “You need not be interested in matters that do not concern you.”
The woman blinks at him, then laughs again like she’s charmed rather than warned. “Oh, Lord Bridgerton, you are as protective as ever. I only meant that the ton is always so eager—”
“To gossip,” Lady Danbury supplies, dry as dust.
The woman’s smile tightens. “To celebrate,” she corrects quickly.
Anthony turns his head slightly toward you, his expression asking, silently, if you want him to end this conversation with a sentence that will become legend. You answer with a small squeeze to his knee under the edge of your skirt, a reminder that you can handle it too. You tilt your head at the woman. “I appreciate your… celebration,” you say sweetly. “But I must insist you find another subject.”
For the first time, the woman looks properly uncertain, as though she’s only just realized she has stepped too far. “Oh,” she says, blinking. “Of course, I did not mean to offend.”
“Then we are perfectly agreed,” you reply.
She retreats with as much dignity as she can salvage, immediately latching onto someone else across the room, likely to repeat the entire exchange as though it happened to her rather than because of her. Lady Danbury watches her go. “I should like to throw her into the street,” she remarks.
Anthony exhales through his nose. “Lady Danbury.”
“You heard her,” Lady Danbury replies, eyes glittering. “She said the word.”
Anthony’s mouth goes flat. “Yes.”
Lady Danbury leans back. “It is not your fault, you know. People see a title and they begin counting cradles.”
You glance at Anthony, amused by his expression. “Counting cradles.”
He looks pained. “Please do not repeat it.”
Lady Danbury waves a hand again. “Very well, we shall call it what it is. Nosiness.”
A second group approaches before the room has even properly settled. This time it’s two matrons and a younger lady who looks as though she’s been dragged along as decoration. They greet Lady Danbury, then angle toward you and Anthony with bright smiles.
“Viscountess!” one of the matrons says. “Lord Bridgerton, what a pleasure. We were just speaking of your family—how fortunate Lady Bridgerton must feel, to have so many children, and now Mr. Colin’s engagement besides.”
“Fortunate,” Anthony repeats, tone politely dead.
The younger lady tucks her chin, eyes flicking up at you with curiosity. The other matron leans in like she’s about to share a recipe. “Tell me,” she says, “how is married life suiting you, my dear? You look positively radiant.”
Anthony’s gaze snaps to her. You smile. “Thank you.”
The matron continues, undeterred. “And Lord Bridgerton has always been so devoted to his family. I imagine he’s devoted to you as well. It must be such comfort, being Viscountess, knowing you will soon have—”
Anthony cuts in sharply, voice still quiet but unmistakably firm. “That is enough.”
The matron blinks as if she’s been slapped by etiquette. “Pardon?”
Anthony doesn’t raise his voice, he simply looks at her, and the air seems to cool around the edges. “You are speaking to my wife,” he says. “Not to a ledger.”
There’s a beat of silence. The younger lady’s eyes widen. Lady Danbury’s mouth curls with clear approval. The matron’s smile becomes strained. “Of course. I meant nothing improper—”
“Then do not say improper things,” Anthony replies, still controlled, but there is no softness in him now.
The second matron clears her throat and attempts to steer the conversation. “Perhaps we might speak of the weather. Such strange winds lately—”
“Strange,” Lady Danbury echoes, a touch too amused.
You place your hand lightly on Anthony’s forearm, not to stop him entirely, but to settle him, because he looks ready to start banning people from the city. You meet the matron’s gaze with a calm smile. “Lady Danbury was just telling us about a new opera,” you say, offering a safe path out. “Perhaps you have heard of it?”
The matrons seize the topic like a lifeline, and within moments they’re talking about music and gowns and who has the best box at the theatre, as if nothing sharp has just happened. That is society: it presses its thumb into a bruise, then pretends it never saw the mark.
When the group finally drifts away, Lady Danbury makes a pleased sound. “That was satisfying.”
Anthony looks at her. “It was necessary.”
“It was both,” Lady Danbury says, then regards you. “And you, Viscountess, do not let them make you feel as if you are on display. These women have nothing to do but sharpen their tongues.”
You nod once. “I won’t.”
Lady Danbury’s gaze shifts to Anthony again. “And you,” she says, “if you frighten away half the ton, I shall call it a personal favor.”
Anthony’s mouth twitches. “I am not trying to frighten anyone.”
“You are succeeding,” you murmur, just loud enough for him.
He turns his head toward you, and his eyes soften in a way that makes your stomach flip. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” you reply. “Annoyed, but fine. It’s them, not me.”
His thumb brushes once over your hand where it rests on his arm, a quiet gesture that says he heard you and believes you. “Good.”
Lady Danbury stands with her cane, signaling that your visit is at its end. “Go on, then. Escape while you can, before someone else decides to count your cradles aloud.”
You rise as well, smoothing your skirt, and Anthony stands immediately at your side, posture already set for departure. He offers Lady Danbury his thanks with perfect politeness, then guides you toward the door with a hand at your back.
In the carriage on the way home, the city rolls by in neat terraces and busy streets, but inside the cab it’s private enough to breathe again. Anthony sits opposite you, gloves in his hands, jaw still tight from holding himself together. You watch him for a moment. “You nearly bit that woman’s head off.”
“I should have,” he replies.
You laugh, then reach across the small space and tap his knee lightly. “You said I’m not a ledger.”
His gaze lifts to yours. “You are not.”
“I know,” you say. “But you can’t duel every person who asks about children.”
“I can try,” he says immediately.
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “Anthony.”
His expression shifts into something like frustration, but it’s directed outward, not at you. “They speak as if it is a matter of public interest,” he mutters. “As if you are… as if we are…”
“As if we’re a story for them,” you finish, voice steady. “We are. That won’t change.”
Anthony’s shoulders ease a fraction, like he’s letting the truth settle instead of fighting it. “Then we must be more careful.”
You lift your brows. “Careful.”
“Yes,” he says, then adds, very pointedly, “we will not be made ridiculous by an entire room of women with fans.”
You grin. “You mean you won’t.”
Anthony looks at you with that familiar, dangerous affection. “Do not pretend you were not tempted to tell them something scandalous just to see them choke.”
“I was tempted,” you admit, pleased. “But I behaved.”
Anthony leans forward slightly, voice dropping even in the carriage. “And I did not?”
“You behaved,” you allow, then smirk. “In your own way.”
He exhales, then reaches across and catches your hand, threading his fingers through yours. His thumb strokes once over your knuckles, slow and grounding.
“When we return,” he says, “we will have dinner quickly.”
You tilt your head. “Quickly?”
He gives you a look that makes the word mean something else entirely. “Quickly,” he repeats, then glances out the window as if daring the city to interrupt him. “And then we will retire early.”
You smile, letting your fingers squeeze his. “And if someone knocks?”
Anthony’s gaze returns to you, unwavering. “Then they will learn to regret it.”
You laugh again, warm and genuine, and the carriage turns onto your street while Anthony holds your hand as if it’s the only part of the day he’s been able to keep for himself.
The night of the Queen’s ball arrives dressed in gold and urgency, the sort of evening that makes even Bridgerton House feel like it’s holding its breath. Servants move with an extra sharpness, carrying trays and ribbons and polished shoes, while somewhere down the corridor Violet’s voice floats with last-minute instructions that sound suspiciously like commands issued to a regiment.
You’re in your room with the fire lit low and your gown laid out like an offering, silk the color of pale moonlight with delicate beading that catches when you turn it in your hands. Your maid has done most of the work already, but now she’s tightened the corset ties and stepped back to fetch a pin from the dressing table, leaving you in that in-between state where your hair is half arranged and your shoulders are bare, a ribbon hanging loose at your back like an invitation. You catch sight of yourself in the mirror and huff softly. “If this contraption gets any tighter, I’ll have to breathe in turns.”
Your maid smiles without looking up, carefully selecting a hairpin. “You look very fine, my lady.”
“Fine is not the same as breathing,” you reply, shifting your shoulders to test the stays. “If I faint at the Queen’s feet, I’ll blame you.”
“You will not faint,” she says confidently, then glances toward the door as footsteps approach. “That will be his lordship.”
Before she can say more, the door opens and Anthony steps in without ceremony, as if he belongs in every room you occupy, which, to be fair, he does. He’s already dressed for the ball, hair neat, coat immaculate, the white of his cravat so crisp it looks sharp enough to cut. He pauses the moment he sees you, and the look in his eyes changes from public composure to something warmer, softer, and unmistakably pleased.
Your maid drops into a quick curtsy. “My lord.”
Anthony doesn’t take his eyes off you. “Leave us,” he says, not unkindly. Your maid hesitates, glancing at the half-finished hair and the loose ribbon. Anthony finally looks at her, expression politely firm. “I am perfectly capable of tying a ribbon.”
Your maid’s mouth twitches as if she’s trying not to smile. “Yes, my lord.” She curtsies again and slips out, shutting the door with a careful click that somehow sounds like a blessing.
You turn slightly, smiling at him through the mirror. “You’re perfectly capable?”
Anthony walks closer, slow and certain, stopping behind you. His hands hover for a moment at your shoulders, as if he’s asking permission even after everything. “I can learn,” he says, and the tone makes it clear he’s not talking about ribbons alone.
“Then learn,” you reply, and you tilt your head to give him access as he leans in. His lips brush your shoulder, gentle at first, then lingering, like he’s trying to steal a moment from the night before it’s demanded from you.
You close your eyes briefly. “If you ruin my hair…”
Anthony’s mouth moves against your skin in a way that makes you forget your own warning. “You will survive.”
“Anthony,” you murmur, but you’re smiling, because you can hear the pride in his refusal, the way he likes putting you above everything else even when he’s pretending he doesn’t.
His hands come to the ribbon at the back of your corset and he draws the ends through his fingers, testing the tension with surprising care. “Is it too tight?”
“A little,” you admit, then add, because you can’t resist, “I should like to be able to inhale at the Queen’s leisure.”
Anthony makes a low sound that could be a laugh if he weren’t concentrating. He eases the ribbon just slightly, then starts to tie it properly, his fingers steady. When he finishes, he smooths the fabric at your back as if he’s calming something wild, then leans down again, kissing the curve where your neck meets your shoulder.
“You look…” he begins, then stops, like the rest of the sentence is too exposed.
“Go on,” you say, opening your eyes to meet his gaze in the mirror. “You never stop halfway through an opinion.”
“I do when it is dangerous,” he replies.
You turn your head just enough that your cheek nearly brushes his. “Dangerous to whom?”
His eyes flick to your mouth. “To me.”
That earns a soft laugh from you, pleased and a little breathless. You turn fully then, facing him, and the closeness immediately changes the air. He’s so handsome in evening dress it’s almost unfair, and there’s something about the way he looks at you—like he’s already impatient with the world for taking up so much of your time. “You’re meant to be downstairs,” you say lightly. “Someone will come searching for you.”
“Let them,” Anthony answers, and he takes your hands, drawing you a step closer until your corset brushes his coat. “I have watched you be pestered for a week. I have listened to women speak about you as if you are a subject for discussion. I am allowed a few minutes with my wife.”
You lift your brows at the sharpness of it. “Are you sulking again?”
“I am not sulking,” he says, but his mouth tightens, which is as close as he comes to admitting anything.
You reach up and straighten his lapel, slow, your fingers smoothing the fabric deliberately. “You’re supposed to charm people tonight.”
“I can charm people,” Anthony replies, voice dropping. “I would much rather charm you.”
“You already have,” you say, and you tug him closer by the lapel. “Clearly, because you’re in my room instead of behaving like the Viscount.”
He catches your wrist, turning his head to press a kiss to the inside of it, a gesture so intimate you feel it in your stomach. “I behave when I must.”
“And when you don’t?” you ask softly.
His gaze stays on yours. “Then I do this.” He kisses you, and it starts gentle, like a courtesy, then becomes something warmer, more insistent, the kind of kiss that makes the mirror and the corset and the ball disappear until there’s only him. His hand slides to your waist, holding you steady, and you let yourself lean into him because it’s been days of interruptions and noise and other people’s expectations, and this is yours. When he lifts his mouth, his breath is warm against your lips. “We will leave early,” he murmurs.
You blink, amused. “Will we?”
“We will,” he says with certainty. “I will invent a headache if I must. I will tell my mother you are tired. I will do anything.”
You smile, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “So dramatic.”
“I am serious,” he says, and then he kisses your shoulder again, as if he can’t help himself.
You shiver, laughing quietly. “If you keep doing that, I’ll forget I’m meant to greet royalty.”
Anthony’s mouth pauses against your skin, and he looks up, eyes dark with the satisfaction of having that effect on you. “Perhaps you should forget.”
“Anthony,” you warn, but there’s no real heat in it, only fondness.
He answers by tugging you closer, his lips at your ear now. “After the ball,” he says, voice low enough that it feels like a secret, “we will go upstairs and we will lock the door, and if anyone knocks—”
A sharp rap sounds at the door and Anthony goes still. You stare at the door with immediate, helpless disbelief. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
The knock comes again, harder, urgent in a way that makes your heart drop, because this isn’t Violet’s polite timing or Benedict’s cheerful menace. This is the sound of a servant afraid to deliver news. Anthony’s jaw tightens. “Ignore it.”
The knocking continues, and then a voice—breathless—filters through the wood. “My lord! Lord Bridgerton, forgive me—my lord!”
Anthony’s eyes close briefly, as though he’s bargaining with God. He pulls back just enough to look at you. “If it is my brother—”
“It’s not your brother,” you whisper, and you can hear it in the servant’s tone too, that edge of panic.
Anthony turns sharply and strides to the door, yanking it open. A footman stands there, flushed and wide-eyed, with a sealed note held out as though it might bite. “My lord,” the footman says quickly, “a messenger has arrived. From the palace.”
Anthony’s entire posture changes. “From the palace?”
“Yes, my lord,” the footman says, swallowing. “He says it is immediate.”
You step closer behind Anthony, peering past him. In the corridor, a man in livery waits—distinct from your household, carrying himself with practiced authority, a sealed note in his hand.
Anthony steps into the hall and takes the note without hesitation. He breaks the seal, eyes scanning the contents, and you can see the exact moment his evening is stolen away. His shoulders tighten, and his mouth goes flat. “What is it?” you ask, already knowing you won’t like the answer.
Anthony looks back at you, and the frustration in his eyes is almost comical if it weren’t so real. “The Queen requests our presence,” he says, and his tone makes it sound like an ambush. “Now.”
“Now?” you repeat, incredulous. “We’re already going to the ball.”
“Apparently,” Anthony replies, turning the note slightly as if to confirm it hasn’t changed its mind, “Her Majesty intends to receive the Bridgertons before the main assembly.”
The palace messenger speaks for the first time, polite but unmoving. “My lord, the carriage should depart within the quarter hour.”
Anthony’s eyes flick to the man, then back to you, and for a moment he looks like he wants to argue with the monarchy itself. Instead, he forces the air into his lungs slowly and says through his teeth, “of course.”
The messenger bows and steps back down the corridor, leaving your footman hovering like he expects Anthony to throw something. Anthony closes the door with careful restraint and turns to you, still holding the note. The room feels suddenly smaller, as if the palace has reached in and taken hold of your evening by the throat.
You cross your arms lightly, gaze narrowing. “She couldn’t have waited until we arrived like everyone else?”
Anthony lets out a short breath that is half laugh, half pure irritation. “Apparently not.”
You step closer, reaching for his hand, and his fingers tighten around yours immediately. “All right,” you say, forcing brightness into your tone. “We go. We smile. We do whatever she wants us to do.”
Anthony’s gaze drops to your mouth again, and the look in his eyes turns sharp with promise. “And then we come home.”
“Anthony—” you begin, because you know that look.
He leans in, close enough that his voice is only for you. “I will make it up to you,” he murmurs, each word slow and deliberate. “Tonight.”
You feel the warmth climb your neck, and you can’t help the small breath you take. “You’re threatening me.”
“I am promising you,” he corrects, and his hand slides to your waist as if he’s already imagining you there later, not dressed in silk and stays, but bare of all that restraint.
You swallow, trying to keep your composure. “We’re about to face the Queen.”
Anthony’s mouth curves, just slightly. “Yes.”
“That is not the time to look like you want to—” You stop yourself, because the word is too much in a room full of ribbons and court summons, but your eyes say the rest.
Anthony’s gaze holds yours without apology. “I always look at you like that.”
You let out a soft, helpless laugh and tug him back by his hand. “Then come on,” you say. “Before Her Majesty decides to send someone to drag you by the ear.”
Anthony moves with you, but before you can reach the bell to summon your maid, he catches you and pulls you in for one last quick kiss, sharp and possessive, the kind of kiss that leaves you a little dazed. When he pulls back, his voice is low, meant only for you. “Do not forget what I said,” he murmurs.
You lift your brows, breath unsteady. “As if I could.”
Anthony’s eyes darken with satisfaction, then he straightens with that practiced public composure, the Viscount sliding back over him like armor. He calls for your maid, orders are given, gloves fetched, and within minutes you’re being fastened into the last of your finery while the house scrambles to meet the palace’s demand.
Even as you’re pinned into place and the night’s obligations close in, Anthony’s hand lingers at your back for a heartbeat longer than necessary when he helps you into your cloak, his touch a quiet reminder. The Queen can summon you, the ton can watch you, Bridgerton House can interrupt you, but the promise in his voice follows you out the door and into the carriage like a private heat you can’t shake.
By the time you return from the palace, the house feels quieter, not because it actually is, but because it’s past the hour when polite people pretend not to yawn. Your cloak is shrugged off in the entry, gloves handed away, and the last of the evening’s sound trails behind you as you climb the stairs, the candlelight throwing warm patches on the walls and stretching your shadows long across the carpet.
Anthony walks at your side, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours every so often, as though he’s reminding himself you’re still here after an entire night of being watched. He said very little in the carriage, but not because he had nothing to say. It’s because he has the sort of restraint that looks like calm until it finally cracks.
You reach your door and he opens it before you can touch the handle, ushering you inside with a hand at your back. The room is dim, the fire low, the air still faintly scented with the perfume you dabbed on before you left. The quiet should feel like relief.
Instead, the moment the door shuts, Anthony exhales sharply and throws his gloves onto the table with enough force that they slide. You pause mid-step. “If you’re about to curse the monarchy, I won’t stop you.”
Anthony turns, and his eyes are bright with frustration, his jaw tight in a way you’ve come to recognize as the line between control and anger. “She summoned us before the ball,” he says, voice low. “Before the ball, as though we are footmen waiting for a bell.”
“You didn’t like being told what to do?” you ask, light on purpose.
“I do not like being treated as though I have no choice,” he replies, then rubs a hand over his mouth as if he’s biting back ten sharper sentences.
You move toward the dressing table, beginning to unpin your earrings. “We never have a choice with queens.”
Anthony laughs once, short and humorless. “Apparently not.”
You set the earrings down carefully, then glance at him. “Are you angry about the Queen, or are you angry about the timing?”
Anthony’s gaze flicks to you, then away, then back. “Yes.”
That answer earns a quiet smile from you, but it fades when he comes closer, stopping only a step away. He lifts a hand toward you like he’s going to touch you, then hesitates, as though he’s afraid of turning this into another thing he ruins by being too rough with it. “You promised,” you remind him, voice soft but teasing, trying to pull him back from the edge. “You said you’d make it up to me.”
Anthony’s mouth tightens. “I know what I said.”
“And?” you prompt.
“And I am tired of promises,” he snaps, and then immediately looks as though he regrets the sharpness, because your expression shifts and he can see it. He drags in a breath. “Not to you. I do not mean to you.”
You set your hands on the edge of the table and face him fully. “Then what do you mean?”
Anthony’s gaze drops to the ribbon at your shoulder, the small fastenings of your gown, the pieces of the evening that still cling to you. “I mean,” he says, quieter now, “that every time we attempt to have a moment, there is someone knocking. Someone needing something. Someone dragging us back into the world. And tonight—tonight I could not even get you to the ball without the palace reaching into our carriage.”
You lift a brow. “You sound like you want to fight the Queen.”
“I want to fight the house,” Anthony replies, then shakes his head as if he’s disgusted with himself for even saying it. “It is ridiculous. I am a grown man.”
“You are,” you agree.
“And yet,” he continues, and his voice tightens again, “my siblings behave as though doors are suggestions. My mother behaves as though privacy is a myth. The ton behaves as though your body is a matter for discussion. The Queen behaves as though she owns our time. And I—” He cuts himself off, jaw working.
You step closer, careful. “And you?”
Anthony’s eyes meet yours, and there’s something raw in the way he looks at you now, not romantic and pretty, just honest and frustrated. “And I cannot even do this properly,” he says, gesturing vaguely between you as though this is everything you’ve been trying for. “I cannot even manage to be alone with my own wife without it becoming a farce.”
You blink once, then let your hands settle on his coat, smoothing the fabric over his chest the way you do when you want to bring him back to you. “It’s not a farce.”
“It feels like one,” he says immediately, and the words are too quick, too sharp. “It feels like we keep—” He stops again, then exhales hard through his nose. “It feels like we keep failing.”
You hold his gaze. “We are not failing.”
Anthony’s eyes narrow, stubborn as ever. “We have been trying.”
“We have been interrupted,” you correct. “That isn’t the same thing.” He looks away, jaw clenched. You can tell he wants to argue, wants to insist that if something isn’t going the way he pictured it, it must be his fault, because that’s what he does. He takes responsibility until it becomes a weapon he uses against himself. You move in front of him, blocking his escape, and tilt your head. “Do you want to be angry,” you ask, “or do you want to take off your coat?”
Anthony stares at you for a beat, as if the simplicity of the question has knocked him off balance. “What?”
You reach for the buttons at his coat and start unfastening them yourself, slow and deliberate. “You’ve been wound tight all evening,” you say. “If you want to be angry, be angry. If you want to kiss me, kiss me. But stop standing there looking like you’re about to explode.”
Anthony’s throat works, and his hands finally come to your waist, fingers flexing as if he doesn’t know where to put all that energy. “I do want you,” he says, voice low.
“Then have me,” you reply, meeting his eyes without flinching. “But don’t turn it into a test.”
His brows draw together. “A test.”
“Yes,” you say. “A test where you’re measuring whether you’re doing it right, whether the world is cooperating, whether people are watching, whether you can control everything long enough for—” You stop, because you don’t need to say the rest aloud to make the point.
Anthony’s grip tightens slightly, not painful, just intense. “I am not making it a test.”
“You are,” you tell him, plain and sure. “You’re turning it into something you have to win.”
His eyes flash. “Because I want it.”
“I know you do,” you say, softer now, because you can feel him trembling with it, the want and the frustration and the pressure the ton has layered on top of your bed as if it belongs there. “And I want it too. But I don’t want to dread it. I don’t want every kiss to come with you bracing for a knock.”
Anthony’s gaze drops to your mouth. “Then what do you want?”
You lift your hands to his face, cradling his jaw so he has to look at you. “I want you to stop thinking about everyone else,” you say. “Stop thinking about Violet, and Benedict, and the Queen, and Lady Smythe’s sister-in-law’s opinions. Right now it’s just us, and if nothing happens tonight, it’s still us.”
Anthony swallows, and the muscle in his jaw twitches under your fingers. “Something will happen,” he says, stubborn even now.
You give him a look. “Anthony.”
He holds your gaze, and the anger in him shifts, draining into something quieter. “I do not like,” he says, choosing his words carefully as if he’s afraid of saying the wrong thing, “that they speak about you as though you are… as though you are only—”
“A womb,” you finish, flat and calm.
Anthony’s eyes flare, and he looks like he wants to tear the word out of the air. “Yes.”
You keep your hands on his face, steady. “That’s their vulgarity, not ours.”
His breathing is slow, controlled. “I know.”
“And if it’s become miserable,” you add, “we can stop trying like it’s a project. We can just be together. We can let it happen when it happens.”
Anthony’s gaze searches yours, then he gives a short exhale. “You are too reasonable.”
“That’s why you married me,” you say, and you let a small smile soften the edge of the room.
For the first time since you came in, Anthony’s mouth twitches with something like relief. He leans forward, pressing his forehead briefly to yours, then murmurs, “I married you because you do not let me behave badly without telling me.”
“You behave badly constantly,” you tease, and you stroke your thumbs along his cheekbones. “You just do it with nice coats and a title.”
Anthony lets out a quiet, reluctant laugh, and it breaks something in him. His hands slide up your back, drawing you close, not frantic now, but firm and warm. “All right,” he says, voice rougher. “All right. I will stop.”
“Good,” you whisper. He kisses you then, and it’s slower than earlier kisses, less about proving something and more about settling. You feel his shoulders loosen under your hands as you tug at his coat, pushing it down his arms until it falls to the floor in an unceremonious heap. When you pull back, your mouth is still close to his, your breath mingling. “Better?” you ask.
Anthony’s eyes are dark, but the tightness is gone. “Better,” he says.
“Then help me out of this,” you murmur, tugging lightly at the fabric of your gown. “If I have to sleep in stays, I will start cursing the monarchy myself.”
Anthony’s hands move to the fastenings with careful attention, fingers brushing your skin as he works. He leans in now and then to kiss your shoulder again, softer than before, not trying to start a fire so much as keep the warmth alive.
You let yourself breathe, let yourself feel it without counting outcomes, and Anthony’s mouth finds your ear. “I meant what I said,” he murmurs, voice low and steady. “I will make it up to you.”
You smile into the quiet. “We’ll see.”
His hand slides around your waist, pulling you closer as the last pin comes loose and the gown begins to slip from your shoulders. “You will,” he replies, and the certainty in it is no longer angry. It’s simply him, finally choosing you over the noise outside the door.
It’s late, well past midnight, and Bridgerton House has finally slipped into the kind of hush that feels earned. The last candlelight in the corridor has been lowered, the servants have retreated to their own corners, and even the distant creaks of the building sound sleepy instead of watchful. In your room, the fire has burned down to a soft glow, and the only real light comes from a single lamp near the bed, its flame turned low.
You’re already out of the gown and the stays, skin warm from the heat of the hearth and the blankets. Anthony is beside you, coat gone, cravat discarded somewhere without ceremony, his shirt half unbuttoned as if he didn’t have the patience for knots tonight. He’s stretched out close enough that your legs tangle together, one arm draped around your waist, hand resting there like it belongs.
You turn your head on the pillow to look at him, and his gaze is on you already. “You’re staring,” you whisper.
“I’m looking,” he corrects, as if that distinction matters.
You smile, fingers tracing along his forearm. “Is there a difference?”
“There is when it’s you,” Anthony murmurs, then leans in to kiss your shoulder, slow and unhurried, the way he does when he isn’t trying to race the world. His lips move up the curve toward your neck, and you let out a quiet breath that makes him pause, pleased.
“You’re enjoying yourself,” you accuse softly.
Anthony’s mouth brushes your skin again. “I always enjoy myself.”
“You didn’t sound like you enjoyed yourself at the Queen’s ball,” you tease.
His hand tightens lightly at your waist. “Do not mention the Queen,” he says, voice low. “Do not mention my siblings. Do not mention society. Do not mention anything but—”
“But what?” you prompt, smiling.
Anthony lifts his head, eyes dark and intent. “But you.”
You laugh quietly, then tug him closer by the front of his shirt. “Then stop talking,” you tell him.
He answers by kissing you properly, mouth warm and sure, the kiss slow enough that it makes your chest loosen and your thoughts scatter. His hand slides up your side, thumb pressing lightly as if he’s mapping you, and when you shift closer, he makes a quiet sound against your mouth that is half approval, half need.
“Anthony,” you whisper when he breaks the kiss just long enough to breathe.
“Yes,” he murmurs, lips at the corner of yours. “Yes.”
You catch his face between your hands, holding him still, and your voice turns playful again because you can’t resist. “No knocking.”
His eyes narrow. “No knocking.”
“No sudden announcements,” you add.
“No announcements,” he agrees, and he kisses along your jaw again.
“No urgent messages,” you finish, and your mouth curves when you feel him pause.
Anthony lifts his head just enough to look at you. “If an urgent message appears, I will burn it.”
“Good,” you say, satisfied, and you pull him back down.
For a few minutes, you get exactly what you wanted: the quiet, the warmth, the feeling that the rest of the house has finally left you alone. Anthony’s touches are careful and possessive at once, and he’s smiling into your skin like he can’t believe he’s been allowed to keep you to himself. You’re laughing softly at something he murmurs, his hand slipping under the edge of the sheet, his mouth moving slowly along your throat.
Then it happens—a knock at the door, sharp and urgent, nothing like Violet’s measured politeness. You and Anthony both freeze. You stare at the ceiling as if it might provide an explanation. “You said you’d burn it.”
Anthony’s voice is so quiet it’s almost a hiss. “I will burn the person.”
The knock comes again, followed by a voice you recognize as your housekeeper’s, careful but strained. “My lord? Forgive me—my lord, it is urgent.”
Anthony closes his eyes. His forehead drops briefly to your shoulder like he’s physically holding himself back from shouting. “No,” he says, to no one in particular.
You push yourself up on one elbow, hair falling over your shoulder, and call out, “what is it?”
There’s a pause, and the housekeeper’s reply is lowered, like she knows exactly what she’s interrupting and will never forgive herself. “A messenger has arrived with a note for you, my lady, and for his lordship. It is from Lady Cowper’s house.”
Anthony’s head lifts immediately, expression going hard. “Lady Cowper.”
You blink. “Why would Lady Cowper be sending anything at this hour?”
The housekeeper hesitates again, then says, “it concerns Mr. Colin’s engagement, my lady.”
Anthony’s arm tightens around you as if you might bolt out of the bed and into the street. “Bring it,” he says, clipped.
The door opens only a fraction. Your housekeeper steps in with her eyes very firmly on the carpet, holding out a folded note sealed with wax. She sets it on the table near the lamp as if it might explode, then backs away.
“I am very sorry,” she says quickly. “Very sorry, my lord. My lady.”
Anthony waves a hand without looking at her. “Go.”
She retreats at once, shutting the door behind her with the softest click she can manage, which still sounds like a gunshot in the quiet.
You stare at the note, then look at Anthony. “Lady Cowper.”
Anthony’s mouth is a thin line. “She is not sending congratulations.”
You swing your legs out of bed and snatch up your robe, shrugging into it. “Open it, then.” Anthony sits up too, already reaching for the paper like he means to strangle it. He breaks the seal and scans the contents, eyes moving fast. The longer he reads, the darker his expression becomes. “What does it say?” you ask.
Anthony holds the note out to you without a word. You take it and read, and it’s exactly as you feared: a carefully worded warning dressed up as courtesy, hinting that “certain gossip” has begun to spread about Penelope’s suitability, her family’s “recent embarrassments,” and whispers that Colin has been “ensnared.” There’s a neat little suggestion that the Bridgertons should act quickly to “protect the family” before the rumor becomes impossible to stamp out.
You lower the paper slowly. “That is vile.”
Anthony’s laugh is sharp. “It is calculated.”
You glance at the clock on the mantel. “At this hour?”
“It means she wanted to be first,” Anthony says. “She wanted to feel powerful.”
You fold the note once and set it down with deliberate care. “So what’s the rumor?”
Anthony looks like he’s about to pace a hole into the carpet. “It does not matter.”
“It matters if everyone is repeating it tomorrow,” you point out.
Anthony drags a hand through his hair. “She is implying that Penelope is—” He cuts himself off, jaw working. “She is implying things that will make the matrons clutch their pearls and the men grin.”
You exhale slowly, because you can already imagine it: the looks, the whispers, the cruel delight of people who want to be entertained. “Violet will lose her mind.”
“She will be furious,” Anthony says. “And Colin will be—” He stops again, because whatever Colin will be is probably not fit to say out loud.
You step closer, hand on his shoulder. “We should wake Violet.”
Anthony’s eyes flash. “It is past midnight.”
“And?” you say. “If this is going to spread, she’d rather know now than be blindsided at breakfast.”
Anthony holds your gaze for a beat, then gives a short nod like he’s conceding to a point he hates. “Fine,” he says. “But I will deal with Cowper.”
You lift a brow. “How?”
He looks at you as if the answer is obvious. “With words.” You stare. Anthony sighs. “With words,” he repeats, slower. “I will not start a fight in her drawing room. I will simply make it clear that if she breathes one more hint of this nonsense in public, she will regret it.”
“You’re going to threaten Lady Cowper,” you say, half amused, half genuinely impressed.
“I am going to remind her,” Anthony replies, already swinging his legs over the side of the bed, “that the Bridgertons do not tolerate cruelty dressed as concern.”
You fold your arms over your robe. “And what are you going to do about the rumor itself?”
Anthony pauses, looking up at you, and the anger in his face shifts into something more focused. “I will speak to Colin,” he says. “Tonight. Now. I will have him ready before morning.”
“You’re going to wake Colin,” you repeat.
Anthony’s mouth tightens. “If I do not, my mother will, and she will do it with far less mercy than I possess.”
You let out a short laugh, because you can picture it perfectly. “All right. We wake Violet, we wake Colin, and then you terrify a Cowper.”
Anthony reaches for his discarded shirt and yanks it on, not bothering with buttons properly. “Yes.”
You step in close and fix one button on his shirt because he’s doing it wrong in his fury. “Then come on,” you say, voice gentle but brisk. “Before the sun rises and everyone decides this is their entertainment.”
Anthony catches your wrist, pulling you closer for one brief second, his touch firm and warm. “We are not finished,” he murmurs, voice low enough that it sends a shiver straight down your spine despite everything.
You lift your brows. “Is that a promise?”
“It is a vow,” Anthony replies, and then he kisses you once—quick, heated, full of frustration and intent—before releasing you and striding toward the door like he’s about to declare war on half of Mayfair. You follow, tying your robe tighter as you go, because the night has been stolen again, but not the two of you. Not really, no matter how many times the world tries.
By the time the afternoon drifts toward evening, you’ve already endured Violet’s excited plans for Colin’s wedding breakfast, a visit from Lady Danbury that somehow turned into three separate instructions delivered like favors, and Eloise sweeping through the corridor with the energy of a storm cloud. Even the servants look tired of announcing names.
You’re in your sitting room with the windows open and a plate of fruit you’ve barely touched, trying to convince yourself you’re not still thinking about that horrible note from Lady Cowper. The scandal did not erupt at breakfast the way it threatened to, which means Anthony must have spent the morning terrifying the right people in the right order, but the tension still lingers in the house like smoke after a candle’s been snuffed.
Anthony comes in without knocking, of course, and closes the door behind him with a firmness that makes you glance up immediately. He doesn’t look furious the way he did the night of the message, but he does look set on something, the kind of set that means he’s decided and anyone standing in his way will simply be moved.
He crosses the room and stops in front of you. For a moment he says nothing at all, just reaches down and takes your hand, drawing it into both of his as if he’s checking you’re really here. “Well?” you ask, lifting a brow. “Did you duel Lady Cowper at dawn? Because I didn’t hear the pistols.”
Anthony huffs a short laugh, and his thumbs begin to move over your knuckles in a slow, absent motion that would look almost calm on another man. On Anthony it reads like restraint. “I did not duel anyone,” he says. “I spoke to Cowper’s husband.”
“Oh,” you reply, immediately interested. “And?”
“He blanched,” Anthony says with unmistakable satisfaction. “Which I found encouraging.”
You smile, letting your fingers curl into his. “Encouraging.”
“He understands,” Anthony continues, still rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand as if it’s the only soothing thing in the room. “If anything is said again, there will be consequences.”
“Consequences,” you repeat, amused. “You’re terrifying when you’re polite.”
“I was not polite,” he says, and there’s a flicker in his eyes that suggests he enjoyed not being polite.
You squeeze his hand. “And Colin?”
Anthony’s jaw tightens again, but less sharply than before. “Colin is determined to be happy,” he says, as if this is a crime. “He has decided the world may do what it likes, he will marry Penelope regardless.”
“That’s the point,” you say, reaching up with your free hand to straighten his lapel. “And Penelope?”
Anthony’s expression shifts into something more measured. “She looked as if she might bolt when I asked her if she was all right,” he admits. “But she did not bolt, she said she is fine.”
“Good,” you say simply.
Anthony’s gaze stays on you, and his thumb keeps moving, a steady stroke over your knuckles that feels oddly intimate in the middle of all this. “You were right,” he says.
You blink. “About what?”
“About waking everyone,” he replies, and you can hear the reluctance in it like a man swallowing vinegar. “About handling it before morning.”
You smile, pleased, and tilt your head. “Careful, Anthony. Compliments are dangerous.”
He gives you a look that suggests he’d like to place you directly on his lap and remind you what he thinks is dangerous. Instead he breathes out slowly, still holding your hand like he’s decided not to let go, and says, “We are leaving.”
You pause. “Leaving?”
“Yes,” Anthony repeats, and this time his thumb stops for a beat, then resumes, slower, as if he’s calming himself with the decision. “Today. Tonight. Now, if you are ready.”
You search his face, then glance toward the door as if you expect Benedict to burst in and announce he’s found another key. “Where are we going?”
“The Half Moon Street house,” he says. “The one no one thinks of because it is not full of Bridgertons. The one that is quiet.”
You lean back slightly, studying him. “You’re serious.”
“I am always serious,” Anthony says, then softens it by adding, “yes. I am serious.”
“And what do we tell your mother?” you ask, because you know that Violet does not accept vague answers as a rule.
Anthony’s mouth twists. “We tell her we are tired.”
“She will know you’re lying.”
Anthony’s eyes narrow. “We tell her you are tired.”
You laugh, and it makes his grip tighten on your hand like he’s pleased he can still make you laugh even when the house is trying to eat you both alive. “She will know you’re lying,” you repeat.
Anthony leans closer, lowering his voice. “Then she may know,” he says. “I do not care. She has had eight children. She can survive the knowledge that her eldest son is attempting to have one.”
You cover your mouth, shoulders shaking. “Anthony.”
“I am not joking,” he insists, though his eyes glint as if he’s enjoying your reaction. “I will not spend another evening listening to my brother being congratulated while my sister argues with a footman about pamphlets and strangers stare at you as if you’re a topic. We are going.”
You glance down at your joined hands, then back up. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?” he asks, immediately suspicious.
“The thing where you declare war on the entire world,” you say, and you nudge his chest lightly. “It’s charming, but you’re doing it.”
Anthony’s thumb strokes your knuckles again, slower now, and he looks at you with that steady, direct expression that makes most people fall into line without understanding why. “Do you want to go?” he asks.
The question is simple, but there’s something careful about it, like he’s making sure you’re choosing it too and not just being carried along by his stubbornness. “Yes,” you answer without hesitation.
Anthony’s shoulders loosen so slightly you might have missed it if you didn’t know him. “Good,” he says, and brings your hand to his mouth, kissing your knuckles once, unhurried. “Then go and dress. I will order the carriage and tell the household we are not receiving anyone.”
“You’re going to tell the household,” you repeat. “Not your mother.”
Anthony’s gaze flicks toward the corridor like he can already hear Violet’s footsteps. “I will tell my mother,” he says, and the grimness in his tone makes you grin. “Briefly.”
You stand, still not letting go of his hand. “If you say ‘we’re tired’ she’ll laugh in your face.”
Anthony looks down at your intertwined fingers, then back up at you. “Then I will accept her laughter,” he says, and his thumb traces your knuckles again, almost tender. “I will accept anything if it means you and I are not interrupted.”
“And if we are interrupted?” you ask, teasing even though you know he’ll take it seriously.
Anthony’s mouth curves, sharp and pleased. “Then I will buy the street.”
You laugh properly at that, then give his hand a final squeeze before letting go. “All right,” you say. “Half Moon Street.”
Anthony watches you as you move toward your chamber, and you can feel his gaze on the back of your neck like a touch. “Do not take long,” he calls after you.
“You’re in a hurry,” you call back.
“I am efficient,” he replies, which is exactly the wrong answer and makes you laugh again as you disappear down the corridor.
When you return a short time later, dressed in something simple enough for travel and warm enough for the evening air, the house is already in motion. A footman hurries past with a cloak. Another servant carries a small case. Somewhere down the hall Violet’s voice rises with curiosity, and then, unmistakably, with delighted disbelief.
You reach the landing just in time to see Anthony in the corridor outside Violet’s sitting room, looking as if he has just survived a conversation he did not enjoy. Violet stands in her doorway, eyes bright, trying very hard not to smile too widely. “You are leaving,” Violet says, as if confirming what she’s already heard from every servant in the house.
“Yes,” Anthony replies, clipped.
Violet’s gaze flicks to you and softens. “How lovely,” she says, and the warmth in it is genuine. “A little privacy will do you both good.”
Anthony’s ears go faintly red. You step closer, smiling sweetly. “Thank you, Lady Bridgerton.”
Violet’s smile turns sly. “Do lock the door,” she adds, as if she cannot help herself.
“Mother,” Anthony says, pained.
Violet only laughs, and waves a hand as if she’s dismissed the entire matter. “Go on,” she says. “Before one of your brothers discovers you are escaping and decides to follow.”
Anthony’s eyes narrow like he’s imagining someone clinging to the back of the carriage. “If they do, I will throw them out.” Violet laughs again, and retreats into her room with a final, satisfied look. Anthony turns toward you, and the moment he’s facing you, his expression changes—still intense, still determined, but softer around the eyes. “You are ready,” he says, as if this is a triumph.
“I’m ready,” you reply. “Are you?”
Anthony steps close and takes your hand again, immediately, like he’s been missing it for the entire ten seconds you weren’t attached. His thumb starts that slow stroke over your knuckles again, and he leans in just enough that his voice is only for you. “I have been ready,” he murmurs, “for days.”
Your breath catches, and you tilt your head, letting your smile turn wicked. “Then we should go before your sister starts another argument about pamphlets.”
Anthony’s mouth curves, and he tugs you forward. “Exactly,” he says, guiding you down the stairs as the house swirls around you with its usual chaos.
Somewhere behind you, a door opens, and Benedict’s voice rings out, cheerful and suspicious. “Anthony? Why are the horses being harnessed—”
Anthony doesn’t even look back. He just tightens his grip on your hand and keeps walking, hauling you toward the front doors like a man who has finally learned the value of leaving before someone can knock.
The Half Moon Street house smells different the moment you step inside, as though it’s been holding its breath for weeks and only just remembered how to be lived in. The entry is quieter, the air cooler, and there’s none of Bridgerton House’s constant undercurrent of footsteps and voices and doors opening for no reason at all. A single footman takes your cloaks with the brisk efficiency of someone who has been instructed not to ask questions, then disappears as if he knows his continued existence depends on it.
Anthony doesn’t wait for you to cross the hall before he’s reaching for the latch, turning it, and shutting the front door with a finality that makes the sound echo. He stands there for a beat with his hand still on the brass, shoulders squared, as if he’s daring the world to knock anyway. You glance around, taking in the dim glow of candlelight, the neat furniture shrouded in linen, the faint scent of beeswax and polished wood. “It’s almost unsettling,” you say.
Anthony turns his head toward you. “What is?”
“The quiet,” you answer, and you can’t help smiling at him. “No one is yelling your name, no one is counting to three outside a door, no one is attempting to hand you a note like it’s a live grenade.”
His mouth tightens like he’s trying not to smile, which never works for long with you. “Do not tempt it.”
“Oh, now you believe in tempting fate?” you tease, stepping closer, letting your voice drop just a little. “That’s new.”
Anthony’s gaze flicks over you in a slow sweep that makes your skin warm under your travel cloak. “It is not new,” he says, voice low. “I have simply learned what happens when I declare myself safe.”
You slip your cloak from your shoulders and hand it to him because you can. He takes it automatically, but his fingers linger at your wrist as he does, thumb stroking once like he’s checking you’re real. The touch is small, but it makes your belly tighten with that familiar anticipation you’ve been denied for days.
“Well,” you say, tilting your head, “are we going to stand in the entry all night? Or have you brought me here for a reason, my lord?”
Anthony’s eyes darken at the title. He shifts your cloak over his arm without looking away from you, then offers his hand as if you’re stepping into a ballroom rather than a quiet townhouse meant for escape. “Come upstairs,” he says.
The stairs creak softly under your steps, old wood complaining in a way that feels almost conspiratorial. There are fewer portraits here, fewer signs of family, fewer reminders that the house belongs to a dynasty rather than two people. Anthony leads you down a corridor to a bedchamber that’s been prepared—fire laid and lit, curtains drawn, candles set low as if someone knew exactly what sort of privacy you were coming here to claim.
He closes that door too, and this time he turns the key in the lock; the click is sharp in the quiet. He pulls the key free and sets it on the mantel, deliberately out of reach of any hypothetical sibling who might have followed you like a stray. You watch him do it, lips quirking. “Dramatic.”
“Prudent,” he corrects, and then he’s crossing the room toward you with the kind of controlled speed that tells you he’s been holding himself back for hours.
You stand near the foot of the bed, hands folded loosely in front of you, pretending you’re calm while your pulse beats too fast. “If you say ‘efficient,’ I’m leaving.”
Anthony’s hand comes up to your chin, tilting your face toward his. “You are not leaving,” he says, and the way he says it is half command, half promise.
You let yourself smile. “Good. Because I didn’t come here to be polite.”
That earns you the smallest flash of teeth, satisfaction sharp in his expression. “Neither did I.” He kisses you, and it’s immediate—no cautious testing, no gentle courtesy, just his mouth on yours like he’s been owed this and refuses to let it slip away again. His hand at your chin slides to the back of your neck, holding you close, and you grip the front of his coat, dragging him nearer because you want him close enough that there’s no room for anything else. When he breaks the kiss, his breath is warm against your lips. “No one will interrupt,” he murmurs.
You tip your head back slightly, letting him see the way you’re smiling. “If they do, I’ll throw them into the street.”
Anthony makes a low sound that might have been a laugh if it weren’t edged with hunger. “I married a woman with sense.”
You reach up and tug his coat open, fingers finding the buttons with unnecessary impatience. “Take it off.”
His eyes hold yours as he obeys, shrugging out of the coat and letting it fall over a chair. He loosens his cravat next, hands practiced, movements brisk, but he never fully looks away from you, as if he thinks the second he does you’ll vanish and he’ll be back in Bridgerton House listening to Eloise complain.
“You’re staring again,” you say, breathless now that he’s undone.
“I am looking,” he repeats, and then he steps behind you.
The shift makes your spine prickle. You feel him there—heat at your back, his chest close enough that if you lean back an inch you’ll touch him. His hands hover at your shoulders, then settle, light but sure, fingertips brushing the top of your arms. His mouth finds the side of your neck, a slow kiss just beneath your ear that makes you inhale sharply.
“Anthony,” you warn softly, even though you don’t mean stop, not really.
“Quiet,” he murmurs against your skin, and his voice is almost a caress. “Let me.”
His fingers move to the fastenings of your gown, working them open from behind with a patience that feels like torture. Each small undoing is accompanied by the faint brush of his knuckles down the line of your spine, as if he can’t resist touching you even while he’s taking you apart layer by layer.
You lift your hands and brace them on the dresser in front of you, partly for balance and partly because it feels wicked to stand there and let him do it. “You’re taking your time,” you say, trying for teasing, failing when his teeth graze your shoulder in a way that makes your knees soften.
“I have waited long enough,” he replies, and then he kisses the spot again, softer, as if to apologize for the bite. “But I am not rushing.”
His hands slide the fabric off your shoulders, easing the gown down your arms. The cool air kisses your skin where it’s newly bared, then his palms follow, warm and possessive, smoothing over you as if he’s claiming every inch that’s been hidden from him in public.
You glance up at your reflection, catching his eyes in the mirror. The look on his face is reverent in the most dangerous way—like he’s worshiping you, but he’s also starving. “Turn,” he says.
You turn slowly, and he’s right there, close enough that your breasts press against his shirtfront and you can feel his heartbeat through the linen. His hands go to your waist, thumbs digging in just slightly as if he needs something to hold onto. “You’re going to crease your shirt,” you whisper.
“I do not care,” he replies, and then he kisses you again, deep and unhurried, while his hands keep working at you. He draws the gown down and away, leaving you in your petticoat and stays and chemise, the layers that are meant to keep the world at a distance.
He breaks the kiss and lets his mouth trail down your throat to your collarbone, and you tilt your head to give him room. His hands slip behind you, finding the laces of your stays. He loosens them slowly, not because he’s reluctant, but because he’s enjoying the way your breath changes, the way you squirm when the pressure eases.
“You’re making that face,” you manage, voice a little unsteady.
“What face?” he asks, mouth brushing your skin.
“The one you make when you think you’re being clever,” you say.
Anthony’s hands pause for half a heartbeat, then continue. “I am clever.”
“You’re smug,” you correct.
He hums against you, amused, and then his fingers pull the stays looser, looser, until he can slide his hands beneath the fabric and feel you properly. His palms cup you through the thin chemise, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they harden, and you gasp, head falling back. “There,” he murmurs, pleased with the sound he pulls from you. “That is what I wanted.”
You grab his shoulders for balance, nails pressing through fabric. “If you keep doing that, I won’t make it to the bed.”
Anthony’s breath warms your ear. “We are not required to.”
You move slightly, and he shifts with you, one hand still on you, the other tugging the stays down and away. The chemise is all that’s left between his hands and your skin now, and he doesn’t waste the advantage. He pushes it down far enough to bare your breasts and immediately bows his head to them, mouth closing around one nipple, tongue slow and insistent. You make a sound you don’t bother swallowing, fingers tangling in his hair. “Anthony—”
He pulls back just enough to look up at you, lips wet, eyes dark. “Do you want me to stop?” he asks, and the question is quiet but real, because he always asks in the moments that matter.
Your laugh comes out shaky. “Don’t you dare.”
That earns you a sharp, satisfied smile. He releases you and straightens, hands moving to the ties of your petticoat. He draws it down over your hips slowly, knuckles grazing your skin, and then drops to his knees in front of you like it’s nothing, like kneeling is simply another natural order.
Your breath catches hard at the sight. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” he cuts in, looking up at you with something almost fierce. “I have wanted to.”
His hands slide up your thighs, thumbs pressing lightly as he spreads you just enough for him to fit between. The chemise is bunched at your hips, the last flimsy barrier, and he hooks his fingers under it and lifts it without taking his eyes off yours.
You’re already slick, and he sees it. His expression shifts—satisfaction, hunger, something possessive that makes your stomach clench. “God,” he mutters, voice rough.
“Don’t start praying now,” you manage, trying to keep your tone light even as your body betrays you.
Anthony’s mouth curves. “I’m not praying.”
He leans in and drags his tongue through you slowly, tasting you with a deliberate patience that makes you jolt. You grip the edge of the dresser behind you, knuckles whitening as he does it again, deeper this time, tongue flattening and pressing right where you need it.
Your legs tremble, and he steadies you with his hands, thumbs digging into your thighs. “Hold still,” he murmurs, and the command lands like a spark.
You try, you really do, but when he sucks gently on your clit you can’t help it—you let out a sharp, helpless sound and your hips jerk forward. Anthony’s hands tighten, pinning you in place with careful strength, and he looks up again, watching your face as if it’s the only entertainment he needs.
“That’s it,” he says, almost smug. “Let me.”
He works you with his mouth until you’re shaking, until your breaths come in broken little pulls, until you’re whining his name like you’re not even trying to be dignified. When he slides two fingers inside you, curling them just right while his tongue keeps circling your clit, your vision goes hazy at the edges.
“Anthony—please,” you gasp, and it isn’t even a proper sentence, just need spilling out of you.
He pulls back, lips shining, and his voice is low and steady. “On the bed,” he says. “Now.”
You don’t argue, you stumble backward, dragging him up with you by his shirt, and he follows with the kind of hungry purpose that makes you feel hunted in the best way. You sit on the edge of the bed, chemise still bunched, and Anthony stands in front of you, hands moving quickly now as he undoes his trousers.
“You’re suddenly very efficient,” you manage, breath still unsteady.
Anthony gives you a look that’s almost a snarl. “Say it again and I will slow down out of spite.”
You reach for him, fingers hooking at his waistband, helping because you can’t not. When he finally frees himself, he’s hard and thick, the sight making your mouth go dry. He steps closer, and you lean forward and kiss him again—tasting yourself on his mouth when he meets you, the intimacy of it turning your stomach hot.
He breaks the kiss and nudges you backward onto the bed. “Open your legs,” he says, voice rough. You do, and he settles between your thighs, one hand stroking along you, gathering slickness as if to make it easier. He positions himself at your entrance and pauses just a beat, eyes locked on yours. “Tell me,” he says.
“Yes,” you breathe, already arching toward him. “Yes, Anthony.”
That’s all he needs, he pushes into you slowly, stretching you, filling you inch by inch until you’re gasping and gripping the sheets. He’s big enough that it’s almost too much for a moment, the pressure sharp and hot, but he holds still, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he breathes through it with you. “Look at me,” he murmurs.
You do, blinking up at him, and his expression softens just slightly when he sees you’re with him, not afraid, not hurt—just full. “All right?” he asks, quieter.
“Don’t you dare stop,” you whisper.
Anthony’s mouth curves, and then he starts to move, slow at first, pulling out and pressing back in with a steady rhythm that makes the bed creak softly beneath you. He kisses your throat, your jaw, your mouth, as if he can’t decide where he wants to be and chooses all of it. You wrap your legs around him, dragging him closer, and he makes a low sound that turns into a half laugh when you squeeze him. “Greedy,” he mutters against your lips.
“You started it,” you shoot back, and your voice breaks when he thrusts deeper, hitting a spot that makes your whole body jolt.
Anthony’s hands slide under you, lifting your hips slightly to angle you better. “There?” he asks, and the satisfaction in his tone is unmistakable.
“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes—like that.”
He obeys like it’s his religion, driving into you with more force now, the pace building, each thrust wet and hard, the sound of skin and breath filling the room. Your nails dig into his shoulders as you cling to him, and he groans your name like it’s the only word he knows.
“No ton,” he mutters, breath ragged. “No family. No knocking.”
You laugh, half delirious, half desperate. “Keep going.”
Anthony’s mouth finds your nipple again, sucking hard enough to make you cry out, and the combination sends heat spiraling through you. Your thighs tighten around him, your body clenching, chasing the edge.
“Anthony—” you gasp, and you can’t even finish.
He lifts his head, eyes blazing. “Come for me,” he orders, and the command snaps something loose in you.
You do, shattering around him with a sharp, breathless cry, your whole body trembling as you clamp down. Anthony swears under his breath, thrusting through it, chasing his own release with quick, brutal strokes that make the bed judder.
“Fuck,” he groans, voice wrecked, and then he comes hard, spilling inside you with a strained sound that’s half pleasure, half relief, like he’s been holding back the entire season and finally let go.
He stays there for a moment, pressed deep, forehead against yours, both of you breathing like you’ve run a race. His arms are braced on either side of you, caging you in without trapping you, the perfect balance of strength and care. When he finally pulls back slightly, he looks down at you with a slow, satisfied smile. “No interruption,” he says, as if he can’t quite believe it.
You reach up and brush your thumb along his cheek. “Imagine that,” you murmur. “All it took was fleeing your own house.”
Anthony huffs a laugh, then kisses you softly, a completely different kiss than the ones before—gentle, lingering, almost domestic. “We should do it more often.”
“Run away?” you ask, amused.
His hand slides down your side, possessive and warm. “Both,” he says, and the way he says it makes it clear he means it.
Outside the locked door, the house remains silent, obedient at last, and Anthony stays close enough that you can feel his heartbeat slow against your palm while the fire crackles and the night finally gives you what it’s been refusing: a room with no one else in it but the two of you.
notes: obviously, it's not exact to season 3 (since i didn't rewatch it or look anything up) but i'm like... 90% sure that lady cowper helped cressida write lady whistledown after cressida "revealed" herself to be whistledown... at least i think i'm right. oh well, it wasn't meant to be completely exact
Although I have to admit that I feel lucky—it’s like I found a hidden treasure, and every time I read it, I’m laughing and stomping my feet with excitement
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 (MINORS DNI) CLARK KENT is a needy head pusher!
he’s a gentle man, sure… but after three years of dating the kryptonian, you knew that when he knew you could take anything he gave you… he began to push it.
and in this face? pushing your pretty head down on his cock!
clark’s glasses fell on the bridge of his nose as your mouth continued to work on his cock over and over again; bopping your head up and down, swirling your tongue on his tip as your tongue licked the underside of him, both hands on his thighs.
everything about you was melting the poor reporter from the inside out, his eyes rolled back as he runs a hand through his black hair in need.
“god— god, fuck baby.” he moans, bringing his other hand down to the back of your head, fingers going through your hair.
you moan around clark’s cock, spit decorating his seven inches as you squeeze his balls in your right hand, your left remaining on his thick thigh. “you like that, huh?” you question him as you retract your head for a moment, spitting on his tip and licking it before sealing around him again and sucking harder. “like me sucking you off? like your big dick in my mouth?”
he nods his head faster, whimpering as you suck down on him, knees digging into the mattress. gritting his teeth as pleasure seeps into his veins, he presses on the back of your head and without thinking, he shoves your head down.
your nose gets pressed against his v-line as you get a good smell of his happy trail; not bad.
“gosh— baby, oh gosh— so’so good, fuck… so good.” he can only repeat the same words as your mouth brings him closer and closer to his impending orgasm— you can also tell by the way he twitches in your mouth.
his hand keeps you down there, making you gag ‘round him as he twists his fingers in your hair, pulling you back and just as quickly, he pushes your head back down, making the tip of his cock hit the back of your throat.
“suck- sucking me so good, jesus, baby…” he whispers with praise, sweat beading down his face and the glasses falling to the mattress as his messy black hair falls on his face when he looks down at you, his cheeks flushed. your eyes meet his, oh he’s gorgeous like this. “ngh! ah! g-gonna cum… oh fuckkkkkk.”
masterlist is here! click here for more!
ⓘ KENTLUV3R’S WORK. all my fanfics (not the characters) is my very own, coming from my own efforts and my time. do not copy my work, rewrite it, shove it through an ai machine and shit out slop, and don’t repost to wattpad/ao3/c.ai!
The morning mist clung to the Rhine like a veil reluctant to lift.
You stood at the edge of the courtyard of your family’s estate in Bavaria, gloves clasped tightly in your hands, watching as trunks were fastened and secured to the carriage that would take you to the coast, and then to England.
Your father, a notable viscount in his own right, cleared his throat.
“You understand what this season means,” he said gently in German. “London is…different.”
“I am aware, Papa,” you replied, though your voice wavered despite your efforts. “I have read extensively on English custom.”
Your mother smiled softly, stepping forward. “Reading of English custom and surviving it are two entirely different sciences, liebchen.”
You laughed faintly. “Then I shall consider it my greatest experiment to date.”
Your father chuckled. “Just remember, mathematics will not calculate a good husband.”
“No,” you said thoughtfully. “But perhaps it may eliminate the unsuitable ones.”
Your mother hid a smile.
When the time came to board, your mother embraced you tightly. “Lady Danbury is formidable. You must listen to her. She will guide you.”
“I shall make you proud,” you whispered.
“You already have,” your father said.
And then the carriage rolled away.
—
London was louder, grander, and infinitely more chaotic than anything you had imagined.
Lady Danbury received you at her townhouse with keen, assessing eyes and an approving nod.
“Ah,” she declared, circling you once like a general inspecting a promising recruit. “Germany has not disappointed.”
You curtsied. “Lady Danbury, I am most grateful for your hospitality.”
She waved a hand. “Gratitude is unnecessary. Your mother is a wonderful friend of mine. Besides here competence is preferred.”
Her ladies-in-waiting hovered nearby, whispering excitedly as they escorted you inside.
Over tea, Lady Danbury wasted no time.
“You must understand the battlefield,” she began. “This season is precisely that.”
“Battlefield?” you echoed.
“Yes. The Queen presides as sovereign commander. Every eligible young lady seeks distinction. One will be named the lustrous diamond of the season.”
“And what determines such a distinction?” you asked.
“Beauty, wit, breeding…and above all else novelty.”
One of the ladies leaned closer. “You are a strong contender, my lady.”
You blinked. “On what grounds?”
“Well,” she said breathlessly, “I hear you speak three languages, fence, ride astride, discuss Newton and astronomy without blinking-”
“And I am told you corrected a decorated professor once,” another added.
You flushed. “He miscalculated a theorem is all.”
Lady Danbury’s lips twitched. “Yes. That sort of thing.”
“And that…is desirable?” you asked cautiously.
“In a sea of identical lilies,” Lady Danbury said dryly, “a rose with thorns is infinitely more interesting.”
—
The debut ball glittered like a constellation come to earth.
Your first sight of London society was a whirl of silk and jewels beneath chandeliers.
You were observing quietly when a murmur rippled through the room.
“Lady Whistledown,” someone whispered, while a a folded pamphlet was handed to the queen.
In front of the door, a young woman dressed in similar clothes as you, clearly shaken, was being escorted away.
You recognized her from earlier introductions. Miss Eloise Bridgerton.
Later, near the edge of the ballroom, you found her standing stiffly by a column.
“That was a dreadful ambush,” you said gently.
She looked at you, startled. “Do you speak as though you were not entertained by it.”
“I find public humiliation a poor form of amusement.”
Eloise’s eyes flickered down, “You do not seem like you are from around here. Your accents different.”
“I should hope not.”
She studied you. “You are the German viscount’s daughter.”
“Yes.”
“I am Eloise Bridgerton.”
“A pleasure.”
She sighed dramatically. “My presentation was halted by scandal. I am quite certain my mother will insist I attend every ball henceforth as penance.”
“Then I hope we meet again,” you said warmly. “Any man fortunate enough to capture your interest will be exceedingly well done.” You hold her hand tight and squeeze it before letting go.
Eloise stared, and then burst into laughter. “That might be the most delightful thing I have been told all day.”
Before you could respond, Lady Danbury appeared.
“We are leaving,” she announced briskly, “Come along.”
As she steered you toward the exit, you collided solidly with someone.
Strong hands caught your waist.
You looked up.
And met the gaze of Anthony Bridgerton, Viscount Bridgerton.
Dark eyes, and Intense.
Your breath stilled.
“My apologies,” he said, voice low.
“No harm done,” you replied.
For one suspended moment, neither of you moved.
Then Lady Danbury cleared her throat sharply.
You stepped back.
Anthony watched you leave.
—
That evening, the Bridgerton drawing room was lively.
“Who,” Anthony asked casually, though not quite casually enough, “was the young lady speaking to Eloise?”
Eloise’s head snapped up. “Why?”
“Idle curiosity is all.”
Benedict smirked. “Idle? From you?”
Colin leaned forward eagerly. “Is she beautiful?”
“Yes,” Anthony said before he could stop himself.
Eloise grinned triumphantly. “She is also brilliant.”
Anthony frowned. “Brilliant?”
“She reads mathematics for pleasure,” Eloise declared. “And speaks of science as though she discovered it herself. Or so I’ve heard.”
“That sounds utterly terrifying. Do you like your women terrifying brother?” Colin said.
“I liked her immensely,” Eloise continued. “She is perhaps the only true scholar among this year’s crop.”
Anthony leaned back slowly.
Interesting.
Violet Bridgerton observed him keenly.
“And her name?” Anthony pried.
Eloise smiled sweetly. “Oh, I shall not make it so easy for you, brother.”
Groans and laughter filled the room.
Anthony, however, was no longer amused.
He was intrigued.
—
The following evening was Lady Danbury’s own affair, lavish, and daring to match the women.
You stood before the mirror as Lady Danbury inspected the gown sent from Germany.
It shimmered in a unique shade, somewhere between deep sapphire and a light blue silver frost. Intricate embroidery traced constellations along the bodice.
“My word,” one lady breathed. “You shall completely eclipse the room my lady.”
Lady Danbury nodded once. “Good.”
“Is subtlety not preferable?” you asked, staring at yourself in the mirror.”
“Subtlety is for women who wish to fade my dear,” she replied. “Tonight, you shall not fade.”
—
The ballroom fell quiet when you entered.
Whispers followed like ripples in water.
Anthony saw you instantly.
And forgot the conversation he had been pretending to endure.
She is a remarkable sight.
Before the line of suitors could properly form, he cut through them.
“Miss—” He bowed, extending his hand. “Might I claim the first dance?”
“You are certain you wish to begin your evening so decisively, my lord?” you teased.
“I am not a man who hesitates.”
You smiled, placing your gloved hand in his. “Very well.”
As you took the floor, conversation buzzed.
“You dance well,” he observed.
“I calculate patterns quickly.”
He blinked. “You calculate dancing?”
“All movement contains mathematics.”
Anthony chuckled. “Then I must hope I do not misstep.”
“You have not yet.”
Their steps grew bolder, and if you squinted closer.
“You are not intimidated,” he noted.
“Should I be?”
“Many are.”
“I was raised among fencing masters and scholars. I assure you, my lord, you are far less frightening.”
His lips curved. “I should like to be offended.”
“You should like to be challenged.”
He looked at you sharply.
Perhaps she truly is different.
—
Earlier that evening, you had conversed with Queen Charlotte herself.
You spoke not of gowns, but of astronomy. You found that the queen had an unexpected likeness towards the heavenly bodies.
“Stars are predictable,” you’d said thoughtfully. “Society on the other hand is not.”
The Queen had laughed. “How very true young lady.”
Now, as the dance concluded, a hush fell over the room.
The Queen rose.
“This season,” she declared, “shall not be dull.”
Lady Danbury watched from the sidelines, triumphant.
“I name this young lady-” The Queen gestured toward you. “-my diamond of the season.”
The words of others were quick to spread.
Anthony’s pulse thundered.
Of course. Of course it is her.
—
The air outside was cool. You escaped to the gardens, heart racing.
Diamond?
You inhaled deeply.
“I wondered where you had gone.”
Anthony stepped from the shadows.
“Escaping the spectacle,” you admitted.
“Well, you handled the commotion with grace.”
“Inside, I feel rather less composed.”
He studied you carefully. “You were not seeking this? Being the diamond?”
“No.”
“But you have accepted it.”
“I accept challenges.” You corrected.
He smiled slowly.
“You intrigue me my lady.” he said plainly.
“And you intrigue me, my lord.”
Silence lingered.
“You are unlike anyone I have met,” he continued. “You possess much more substance than any young lady I have conversed with tonight.”
You met his gaze evenly. “I would hope so.”
He stepped closer.
“I intend to marry this season.”
You stilled.
“And I was ready to settle, but it seems I do not intend to anymore.”
Your breath caught.
He held your gaze.
“Forgive me for my crudeness but I believe,” Anthony Bridgerton said quietly, “that I have found precisely what I require.”
—
Anthony entered the drawing room where his mother, Violet Bridgerton awaited.
“Well? Any lovely ladies catch your eye tonight?” she asked softly.
He did not hesitate.
“Mother I intend to marry the diamond of the season.”
Violet smiled knowingly. “And is that your head speaking Anthony?”
Anthony thought of your laughter, your wit.
“No,” he admitted.
“It is not.”
And for the first time since declaring his intention to wed, Anthony Bridgerton felt not obligation, but certainty.
Haii just wanted to know if you're requests are open if so I would love to see Anthony x reader who's a known muse no pressure !
anthony bridgerton x reader, platonic!benedict bridgerton x reader ☆ 5836 words
Summary: Suitors, who thought they knew what they wanted was not new to you, but being sought after and trying to avoid Anthony Bridgerton certainly was a challenge. Are you truly that against courtship with him, or the idea of letting someone in again?
cw: fem!reader, use of y/n, idiotic bridgerton men, overconfident anthony bridgerton, mentions of alcohol, pressuring family dynamics, sexism, period-typical marital & gender norms, slight enemies-to-lovers, secrecy, unrequited love (?), angst, pining, probably numerous historical inaccuracies
Author’s Notes: thank you for your request & apologies for this taking so long! i hope you enjoy it & that my interpretation of a muse somewhat matched your vision 🫶 side note- why must tumblr make you redo italicized text when copy and pasting? it’ll be the death of me 😭
“She’s the one.”
“Said with such conviction for someone who hasn’t met her,” Benedict quipped, rolling his eyes in disbelief at his elder brother.
“She’s perfectly suitable from what I’ve heard. Has had a proper education, eloquent, from a nice family, from what Mother says, and well-liked,” The viscount continued, ignoring his brother’s comment, “Even seems to be in the Queen’s good graces.”
“Love at first sight takes its course once more!” Benedict said with a sing-songy voice that briefly caught the attention of a few passersby at the ball.
Anthony scoffed and adjusted his cufflinks, “That will play no part in the equation, I’m certain. Stability is what interests me.”
Benedict had a hearty laugh. “Not with her,” He murmured under his breath.
Misinterpreting what he said, his brother gave him an assessing look.
“Are you–?”
“Lord, no,” He answered far too quickly, “That came out wrong . . . I think of her like a friend– like another sister.”
Anthony eyed his brother skeptically before returning a weary nod as they settled in one of the more secluded areas to the side. Sipping from his flute glass, he scoured the dance floor hoping to catch merely a glimpse of you. Newly arrived debutants clung to those they knew in circled quiet conversations of frivolous and chirping talk as always.
He spotted one of his sisters talking animatedly with a rather handsome Lord. While Anthony had half a mind to intervene, Benedict carried on without a hint of his brother’s inattention, leaving the elder distracted as the young couple fled from his sight.
“. . . rather intrigued. I, on the other hand, have always found us like-minded in that way. It was really only a matter of time before we were introduced, simply becoming close friends.”
Grabbing his notice was the lady he and his brother spoke of, a flurry of fine mint green fabric, unabashedly calling after a friend and taking great strides in following across the side of the floor.
He was mesmerized, like a moth to a flame. The viscount’s mouth was partially open in curiosity, waiting for words to form from his lips to ask something, anything, everything.
Sure, Anthony had seen you before, but it was always under the watchful eye of your mother, keeping you close and reserved. Now that you were older and out in society for longer than your younger sisters, it appeared that her restraints on you were loosening.
Anthony could see this from a carefree smile that wasn’t always there before and a flush on the cheeks from excited movement about the festivity. The crystal, raindrop-shaped hairpieces amongst your once neatly done hair, that was now slowly unraveling, cast you a part as a reminder of daylight in the coolness of the ball’s night that not even the candle’s glow could make up for.
He decided then that his brother was a complete fool. If his relationship with you was truly as close as Anthony surmised, then how was Benedict not showing any recognition of having the fortunate presence in this magnificent gem’s circle? It was a great shock to him that you weren’t married already.
His mother detested the idea of ‘interviews’ as the determining factor in who her son wished to marry, always hoping for her children to have a love match rather than mere companionship, but once she realized that his mind was made up she didn’t have much hesitation to suggest eligible young ladies.
In her mind, he needed to talk with you, whom she had spoken of occasionally to him with remarks of a potential courtship. Perhaps twice, or thrice . . . knowing the viscountess’ nature it was far more.
You held a sweet spot in her heart over the years from the interactions she had with you, whether it be at a ball or a quick cordial conversation in the park. Her fondest memory was watching you as a girl softly smile and play with her daughters when they were young.
It seemed to go unnoticed to everyone but her, who found it endearing in which the children greatly looked up to you, like ducklings waddling behind your every move.
Though your mother would cast you a look if a toe was out of line from the expectations of being a respectable lady (which even had to make Violet internally wince), you never seemed to dim your friendliness towards others which Lady Bridgerton found admirable.
As life went on you became more mannered and poised, but not defenseless. Whilst knowledgeable of time and place being key, age brought about not just restraint, but a precision in words that met the sharpness of a fresh quill. The tact and tone that could put any presumptuous comment from an improper gentleman on a moral chopping block.
The other young ladies your age adored you for it; the confidence to come to anyone’s aid, yet still maintaining no superiority or judgment towards others.
Lady Bridgerton could recount several instances where once she got you talking past the everyday pleasantries, you would be taken over with passionate speech and a glowing face.
She would smile, entertained as a bashful expression would settle in halfway through when it dawned on you that perhaps you were showing more enthusiasm than what was socially acceptable.
It never bothered her as well as many other people, who found themselves looking forward to your opinions that captivated many to gather around to listen during the mild soirees.
Only taking you out of your charismatic and entranced state with their hushed laughter and appraise of “Oh, do go on!”
Safe to say, you were well thought of by Lady Bridgerton, who might have even surmised that something more could come from her stubborn son who had loyalty to their family with her witty, younger, and dynamic acquaintance of yourself.
Your mother was fixated on the idea of this pairing ever since Lady Bridgerton had mentioned in passing that Anthony Bridgerton was looking for a wife, and how they should arrange a meeting for the two of you. After all, who wouldn’t want to marry a Bridgerton?
It was enough to make you nauseous.
It really didn’t help with your mother’s urgency that you settle down with the next man to show you any interest, as it most certainly wasn’t your first season.
Your avoidance of the ordeal was unmatched in skill, much to your mother’s dismay. Any arrangement to meet was dealt with an unexpected illness or a hasty spill of punch on your dress that you were set on wearing which left you too distressed to participate in any socializing whatsoever.
It wasn’t as if you were actively trying to stop your mother from being happy, or that you disliked Lady Bridgerton and her family, but you didn’t simply let things be decided for you. Some things could simply not be compromised on, and with a thing as big as marriage it was a nonnegotiable.
Call it idealistic, but you were holding off for true love, and that which you considered in even greater need of protecting; your independence.
Anthony had to hand it to you. You were a good actress. If it wasn’t meant to be, then it wasn’t meant to be, but he at least had to give it a shot. What intrigued him the most was why you were so dead set against him, and he was determined to figure it out.
Propelled by a feeling he didn’t recognize, he stepped forward in an attempt to make his way towards you without a plan or clue as to what he was going to do or say. He just knew something truly awful would happen to him if he spent the night without attempting to be a part of that circle that he was envious of his brother for having a position in.
He had been intoxicated numerous times during his Oxford days with Simon, but he still hadn’t experienced something as intense and moving as now.
His thoughts were whirling and devastating to his peace, yet it wasn’t long before Benedict’s arm slapped in front of Anthony in protest of his approaching you.
“Move,” Anthony huffed, trying to ignore the slight pain that his side faced in the block against him.
He briefly took in the perplexed look on his brother’s face. Benedict sighed, looking at you as he spoke, “Did you not hear a word of what I said? You’re quite daft you know.”
Anthony smiled apologetically at the younger, whose face carried exhaustion that mirrored his whenever his siblings were up to no good.
“It’s been brought to my attention.”
“Look, all I’m trying to express is that I know her. She cannot be persuaded solely by a sonnet comparing her to a ‘summer’s day’ nor a carefully crafted list of what you can provide.”
Slyly Anthony questioned, “Tried and failed from personal experience hmm?”
“No,” Benedict corrected with an annoyed point of his finger, “but others have and I daresay she’s grown tired of it.”
“Didn’t realize you’d been an obstacle too,” Anthony murmured bitterly, drawing another swig from his glass.
Benedict gave him a sympathetic nod, and though he was conflicted on whether to aid his brother, he stuck to his guns on what he thought best for his friend.
Though he met you under the dubious circumstances of him swinging at a gentleman who was clearly unwanted, after the initial surplus of gratitude for his intervention and shock, the two of you became acquainted quickly. Faster friends there ever was once you both discovered the other’s like-minded ‘tortured soul’ that longed for more than what society afforded your roles.
He with his art, and you with your music were a most cynical pair, gossiping in corners whilst sipping on punch that could have been made far stronger in Benedict’s opinion. It seemed with him you were unafraid to be truthful– he wouldn’t spout out your secret thoughts or be offended at how you felt. You consoled the ridiculous and sulking man, countering that if it was made any stronger that the two of you would get caught at no longer being able to contain the bubbling hysteria. At least you both found yourselves funny . . .
Benedict knew that you desired love though you feigned disinterest at the whole idea. He could see a sort of pain in your eyes when you would laugh off an assumption from your prodding mother that you and he were courting. You liked Benedict and wished it were only that simple. Just as he had scoffed off pestering questions from relatives, so did you, when really there was an underlying fear of being disappointed yet again.
So, he couldn’t help his brother– not if Anthony could not provide love.
Then there was the great deal of keeping your underground life a secret . . .
But, he wouldn’t neglect himself the privilege of free entertainment. Something flipped the switch that brought about pure mischief and genius, and Benedict grew such a wide smile that it was alarming for someone who was only on his first cup of the evening.
He practically looked electrocuted as his face shifted towards his brother with a more unsettling expression in Anthony’s mind. Benedict charged Anthony across the room until a very bewildered Viscount had your attention now.
“Prove it,” Benedict snickered into his brother’s ear, ushering him as if to go on when there was no way in anyone’s right mind that this could be imagined as what the elder intended to happen.
If there weren’t so many people and now a crowd of ladies, especially you, staring at him he would have listed out a wide array of profanities at his brother and the mess he had gotten himself into. Anthony put on a smile that looked more like a grimace, tilted his glass towards you as if you were any more in on what was going on than he was, and took a sip.
Perplexed was an understatement. Your eyebrows were raised as high as what you could still manage to have been perceived as polite, and you flushed as your friends laughed at the spectacle before them that somehow had you in mind as its main audience.
You raised your glass in mutual challenge, taking a hefty sip. Anthony noticed as you turned towards your friend to the left and whispered something in her ear in a hushed sort of murmur.
Understandingly, she nodded and took your now-empty glass that occupied your hands. Adjusting your gloves, you spun back around to address the two men who seemed to be wanting your attention.
The viscount was enamored by the fact that even your faux smile was charming. You seemed to ease once you noticed Benedict decided to stay put. Whatever he was up to, you didn’t want to know, but there was surely no way of stopping it now.
The ladies behind you seemed to understand the hint and declustered with polite smiles to the two lords as you stepped forward.
While listening to Benedict make the most formal introductions, you had to resist your eyes narrowing too much at him, trying to decipher what he was planning and how much trouble you would be in for wiping off that wicked grin.
You knew this moment was bound to come at some point in time, but you were hoping to have been spared at least this much of the awkwardness. It was noted in your head to kill your schmuck of a friend for this later.
You had to say that the Viscount was handling this rather well, and before hadn’t been able to picture him dealing with Benedict’s shenanigans.
His posture was stiff and the blush on his cheeks had to be that of embarrassment, but within his slight smile and the way he eyed his brother as the other spoke contained something jovial. Something you had never seen from across a ballroom floor, or when his mother insisted he dance.
No, it was his family that brought out another side of him that was a rare form and then neatly tucked away. Found from playing with his youngest siblings at the park, or joking around with his brother’s in the corner of a crowded event.
It caught your attention that night, but was glad to be seen.
Following the lead of your friend, the three of you made your way to the side to talk with some sense of privacy.
Since you had already addressed the present company, you instantly resumed the conversation about what was on your mind.
“Benedict—,” You sighed, exasperatedly with urgency on your tongue before you realized what you had just said.
Anthony was a bit taken aback as he hadn’t imagined you and his brother were that close, but Benedict merely looked amused at your momentary expression of horror.
“Please do go on,” Benedict laughed, before you slapped him on his side with your fan, glancing around quickly to make sure no one noticed.
That caused the man to erupt into a fit of incoherent noises, and you were relieved that the Viscount didn’t seem to think ill of you for the way you spoke with his brother. In fact, he looked rather pleased just taking it all in. Not that his opinion of you mattered to you at all anyway.
And the way he was looking at you . . . well, it would have left any woman turning their head to see if they were certain that his gaze was landing on them. The hor’ deavours you had snuck on earlier now felt like a brick in your stomach that wouldn’t stay still. You swore you couldn’t have had that much!
“Lord Bridgerton,” You corrected, shaking your head.
“Always,” Benedict said with a wink that made his brother roll his eyes, and you laugh in response at the dynamics.
“Would you be so kind as to explain why you interrupted my conversation?” Anthony murmured something in response.
“Pardon?”
“Saved you, you mean,” He said more clearly this time, leaning in ever so slightly with a confident look that caught your breath.
Collecting yourself, you huffed, “I am far from that I assure you.”
“Really? Part of me thinks you’d like it,” He said with such smugness that it made you gag in your mouth. And just when it seemed like he wasn’t as revolting as the idea of him sounded to you.
“You would think so, wouldn’t you Lord Bridgerton,” You grumbled into a fresh drink you had picked up from the nearby table. Looks like you would need it to get through the rest of this hopefully short conversation.
“I only meant to say– that is I was only trying to appear as–”
“As what?” You cut off the stunned gentleman before you, “Impressive? Charming? Daringly reckless? Or perhaps just pretentious? Trust me, I’ve seen it all before and I try to avoid it the best I can. Now if you’ll excuse me–”
Your friend and his elder brother followed your way out to the terrace. Benedict hoped that at least here the bickering would attract less attention.
“Lady L/n!” Benedict whisper shouted against the whipping wind, “Let the dense man of my brother explain himself.”
The viscount refrained from elbowing Benedict in the gut, too focused on gaining a moment more of your time.
“I assure you, Lord Bridgerton, that I am far from the Lady you would want.”
“I tried to tell him that.” That caused you to send Benedict your most menacing glare.
“But how would you know that? It cannot be said for certain unless you give me a chance–”
“Well,” You stated, slightly flustered now, “For starters, you do not know me–”
“Then let me.”
“You want what is on a page, isn’t that correct? A nice list of qualifications? Don’t act so surprised– you’re a viscount. It’s only to be expected of you and practically every other man here.”
To that Anthony Bridgerton had nothing to say, but you did not resist in what you thought.
“I do not need you or want you, and I most certainly do not need saving!” With that, you nodded at Benedict, whose face looked personally offended at what it had just witnessed, and hurried off from the balcony and the two wounded men that were left on it, with your arms tightly curled around you.
“That couldn’t have gone any worse,” Benedict mumbled, rubbing his hand down his face.
But something in Anthony felt different. Something hopeful for maybe even more than he initially thought he wanted. “I’ve got to see her again.”
Benedict groaned knowing that his brother was done for. So that’s how he found himself dragging Anthony along to one of the parties he often frequented, which he was sure his brother would judge him intensely for going to.
One night, as they descended a creaking wooden staircase, they entered a dimly lit room where people leisurely passed them by without a care in the world. The layout of the more secretive of the evenings Anthony had been to, had lush patterns and rich colors that matched its illusiveness. The halls were crowded with people engaging in activities with enough scandal that Lady Whistledown could not even wrap her mind around.
Models were being sketched in the open, benches couldn’t be seen without kissing, and tables had card games or powders that were not dealt with in small spoonfuls into tea. Anthony felt his eyes growing wider with each passing moment. Why would his brother take him here?
As if on cue Benedict let out a languid exhale, “A society away from society. Hidden of course, but it's a place for individuals no matter their stature to do as they please, and let loose of any worldly expectations.”
Anthony looked at his brother curiously, but did not say anything. Instead, he simply took in his surroundings and trailed Benedict as he continued to talk.
“Local shop owners and lords simply become men– not divided by class. Ladies attend too, but less often. Just like-minded people having fun, doing something illegal, or too, sketching, painting, maybe discussing politics,” Benedict finishes with a gesture around.
“Do people ever get in trouble for being here?”
To that Benedict shrugs. “Haven’t so far, as I’m sure you know how these places go. The world’s worst and widest kept secret! And besides, if anyone happens to recognize another person, well then why say anything about it if you’d be going down with them?”
Anthony supposed that made sense and made a gruff sound of agreement to his brother’s point. He felt wary of the loose pact not to disclose what others were doing, but refrained from arguing it further if Benedict wasn’t getting up to too much trouble.
Carrying onwards to a boisterous parlor, they joined a lively group situated on a well-worn couch surrounded by a few matching chairs. He watched curiously as Benedict seemed to blend right in, sitting on the arm of one that was already being occupied by an older woman who was having a smoke.
She didn’t seem to mind, patting his back in familiarity and handing him one as well. Anthony, feeling out of place, chose to stand a few feet away, taking everything in as if it were to vanish soon.
Everyone seemed to greet Benedict warmly and oddly enough Anthony found himself jealous of him. Here was his brother, with friends of different classes and backgrounds, who did not care about whether he had a grand part in the world, but who cared about his opinions and thoughts.
Something the viscount could not say he had. He didn’t let it linger for too long– finding himself out of his duties was not something he wanted to face or even think about in the moment.
He observed a young woman in a fine silk dress called Clara, arguing passionately with her friends on the couch; the men became lost in their initial points about policies.
Another man named Laurence sat in front of Benedict’s and the elder woman’s chair, using the powder from their ashtray as a medium for his sketchbook.
Benedict sat in comfortable silence amongst the company, letting soft laughter fall from his lips from pride in his friends. Anthony was ushered over by his brother’s hand to join, away from his stance of quiet observation.
“Brother!” He exclaimed, “Come and hear what Clara has to say.”
Clara, rolling up her soot-covered gloves, seemed to find great pleasure in delaying her answer.
“Well if he must know,” She said slyly, “the music is the finest in the library.” Lord Bridgerton’s eyebrows furrowed even greater in perplexity.
“Be kind now,” the older woman scolded with a chuckle.
Laurence rolled his eyes, finally taking his focus off his paper. It contained the scene of the other gentleman’s dramatized faces at Clara talking, a halo surrounding her head, which made Anthony smile knowingly.
“What my daft companions mean to say is that Benedict will take you to the library.”
Benedict’s amused smile faded with an exasperated huff that was likely for show. “If I must,” He said, lazily waving his arm forward, “This way!”
Accepting the brief explanation he bid the group a good night, and walked with Benedict to the left.
They drifted to the sound of the alluring music into the curtained room. Its tall ceilings and lantern-lit lighting created a feeling of intimacy, despite the many seated around the tables that were brought in. People talked in hushed whispers that created a reverent atmosphere that the brothers tried their best to avoid disrupting.
They slid to the back of the room amongst the shadowed figures, leaning against the wall. The music became clearer and sweeter with each note. As Anthony’s eyes focused on the setting of the library, his eyes led him to the slightly platformed area containing the performance.
He was astonished as he settled upon you. A vision amongst the secret society of sorts. There you were playing the harp, so taken away from this world by what you were performing. He recognized the lady beside you on the harp-lute, as your friend who had taken your drink and been your close confidant at the ball.
The dress you were wearing was far from that night, but was instead something of a working woman. The dark green fabric was torn at the ends, but was transformed into something more than that of everyday by the way it fit you perfectly, and was elevated by your glowing face doing what you loved. You brought more light than all of the lanterns and candles in the entire party could provide.
Sweat clung to the sides of your face and the hairstyle that was neatly tied up before sneaking out of the manor was loosening slightly. You smiled with such hope and vigor that it was unfair for the rest of the world not to have. Anthony Bridgerton had never seen such a beautiful sight. Just like your hair he found himself undone.
He stifled a gulp as his eyes drank you in, knowing that his brother was unsubtly looking at him. Then his mind came to more of the realities of the evening.
You were here alone and unchaperoned. A number of bad outcomes could come from being hurt, caught, or blackmailed. Men with unconventional dreams were treated of course with larger acceptance than women— shocker.
Anthony knew for a fact that you were well-liked in the ton and that if someone hadn’t noticed you already that it was only a matter of time. Prime example being Benedict.
Even though everyone in the room was listening, most were working on pieces of their own. Those closest to you, he could vaguely see, were sketching you. Hands falling in a graceful rhythm over the strings and truly something out of a painting.
Some were writing sonnets of your beauty, or how your voice enchanted them like that of a siren, blah, blah, blah— Unoriginal and repeated.
Lord Bridgerton’s sister had found herself in a situation where a man was so fixated on her that she almost became trapped and endangered? What if the same happened to you?
He cleared his throat giving more time for contemplation on what to feel.
“Talented,” He murmured with a tight nod.
Like the declared shit he is, Benedict grinned, looking back and forth between the two.
“And stunning, no?” Benedict mused, causing the other Bridgerton to stutter.
Anthony Bridgerton— caught red-handed. His brother only laughed, relishing in the unusual power in the conversation he had.
“Well get in line; that’s the thoughts of you and almost every other person here.”
Unease swelled in the man’s stomach as you finished your song. He vaguely catched you thanking your audience and stating the song piece.
“—now who would like to hear what we played last week?” Your friend said, encouraging the crowd to applause.
That was when a man interrupted to say that you both should repeat what had just been performed. Despite your confusion, you tried to make sense of it. It caught you off guard, but you still hoped to understand.
“Oh, is that your favorite?” You suggested.
“No, I just need the pose of you performing it back for my drawing,” He said gruffly, causing others to chuckle.
It didn't go past Anthony how your mouth was laced straight and how much to your chagrin, your friend answered for you with a polite, “Certainly, sir.”
But it wasn’t the same. The song sounded exactly as before, but its enthusiasm dulled as soon as that wretched man made it seem less worthy of attention.
“Happens all of the time,” Benedict gestured towards the man, “Someone not seeing her for who she fully is. They admire her beauty or skill, or the fact that she has both, but want it for themselves. To have or to inspire. Like some great muse for the masses,” He was now growing frustrated as he spoke, “I first met her here, at one of these parties, erm . . . pushing some unwanted gentleman away from her. We’ve been friends ever since. She thanked me and once we got talking we realized that we had more in common than either of us would have thought— this certain understanding.”
“What of?” Anthony asked with genuineness.
“That we want more than what society promises us. We both live polished lives, sure, but it is restricting. Especially in her case, especially with her mother.”
The viscount could understand that— his role as the new patriarch in the family contained him in so many ways. He couldn't imagine having found something that truly was his calling that teased his brain into hoping for something more. Beyond that of just simply wishing for fewer obligations and stress.
When the entertainment wrapped up, and you gathered your supplies together to take home, you nearly hit face-first into a broad chest. That of the undeniably handsome Viscount Bridgerton, who was looking at you in such an assessing way that you felt as if you were again a debutant making a debut.
Those eyes were much more scrutinizing however. His eyes were magnetic and fixating in a way that made you feel as if by looking at them that you were already betraying yourself.
In your peripheral you noticed Benedict watching you both curiously. Something in his eyes switched to realization. What of, you’d rather not address.
He stepped back with a smile that didn't quite have the same reach as usual, but felt a thousand times warmer and significant. Benedict found someone to suddenly recognize and gave you both some space, which you found yourself appreciating.
“You were—” “How did you—”
“Sorry, go ahead,” Both of you corrected, blushing furiously.
“You were brilliant— you are brilliant and—“ He started first.
“Thank you, Lord Bridgerton,” You offered with a small smile.
“I am sure you’ve heard this all before,” The man cringed.
“Yes,” You chuckled, “but it’s always nice to hear!”
In response he let out a belly of a laugh, which startled the quiet creatives. To that you both looked around and laughed instantly again, not caring about the sneers sent your way, and settled down into two nearby seats.
It was quiet for a moment with enough tension to cut with a knife.
“If this is a proposal for marriage—“
“It isn’t,” He reassured, “And I’m sorry that I didn’t properly know you first.”
You nodded in acceptance to his apology.
“Look,” You stated clearly, “I desire independence for my music, something that being a wife of anyone would never allow—“
“That is because it isn’t safe.”
“We were doing well there for a moment,” You sighed, “Just let me share my perspective.” And he did.
“There is no other way, but to sneak. I’ve been threatened to be exposed, but Benedict has always helped me. Told them to quit the pursuit. In the ton I have to play this part, but then I found here where I thought I wouldn’t have to. Although now it seems that no matter where I am, people won’t value who I fully am because I am a woman.”
Anthony agreed and sighed with regret, “And that I will never be fully able to understand, but I could help you if you would allow it. I do not have this dreams to chase like you and my brother, but what I find to be my goal is to help those I care about.”
“I do not want to be in your debt, nor need it.”
“That I know, but it would make me feel better if I knew—“
“I am tired of having to serve a role for someone else— my acceptance of your help to benefit how you feel about yourself.”
“You’re quite stubborn, did you know?”
“I’ve been told,” You murmured.
Benedict could see the fire growing and lingered closer once more.
“You could wear a mask,” Anthony startled you with his proposal, “It would allow you to perform for a wide audience of society, who appreciate music, but allows for you to keep safety of your identity and position.”
“That would—” You started to interrupt before realizing that it could be pulled off.
Anthony smiled smugly while Benedict chimed in with a thought, “I do like the idea of a masked enchantress!”
“The next Whistledown!” The other man pointed in agreement.
“But why? Why help me, besides it being what you do? I thought we both were repelled by marriage. You are not hoping for love, me hoping so much that I’ve grown disappointed that it conflicts too much with another love.”
Anthony took a pause, as though he were finally thinking of it himself and had it dawned upon him.
“I too feel tied down to what I must do, who I must serve, but you— you’ve allowed yourself to see past what’s permitted. I suppose that inspires me. I admit, I never dreamed of love, but what I do know is that you surprise and amaze me in ways I also never dreamed of. I have been disappointed before too in allowing myself much like you to get caught up in what people expect. What I’ve realized is that these large expectations of disappointment and even going into this hoping for contentment were flawed. Because you cannot live life with these set structures of how it will all end up. I do not ask of you a destination, but a willingness to see if I surprise you any bit as much as you do to me.”
With that your mouth was opened, speechless. Standing before you was this shocking proclamation of feeling, and your body had never felt so numb and exhilarated in its life.
You could feel eyes on you both staring in anticipation, and even you were waiting for what you would say.
You wrapped your hands upon his that were outstretched in energy from his speech, and before you could choke out any words of reciprocation, the bystanders took the small gesture of joyful agreement as the means for applause.
This time their eyes were on the both of you for a better reason than bickering or obnoxious laughing. This you were proud of, and wanted to be shared only between the two of you.
With a brief passing look and gleam in both of your eyes, he carried your stuff and the two of you raced out of the event with infectious laughter that had Benedict shaking his head. Your friend did the same, laughing softly albeit slightly annoyed that she would have to find a way to transport your harp for you!
In your future of performing in secrecy for the ton alongside your good friend and in hosting parties and balls for years to come as Viscountess, Anthony and you had to agree that it was the most memorable and important crowd ever that you both had unintentionally performed for that night.
I’m so glad your requests are open😫😫 could I request an Anthony bridgerton x wife reader angst where he’s really stressed so he becomes distant and hardly speaks to her while she’s being all nice to him so he ends up yelling at her. With a happy ending😭 sorry if it didn’t make sense English isn’t my first language
Enough | A.B.
Summary: When stress pushes Anthony Bridgerton into silence, his gentle wife tries to hold them together with kindness. But one outburst changes everything—until love brings them back to each other.
Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x wife!reader
Includes: use of Y/N, smoking, arguing, angst, fluff at the end
a/n: I can’t believe we have to wait one year until the next season of Bridgerton drops 💔
It had been days since you last spoke to Anthony. He was always cooped up in his office, worried about so many different things that you didn’t even know what exactly was worrying him. He would be up before the sun in the morning, then get back right at midnight.
He never took a break.
Whenever you tried to pull him away from the letters consuming his every move, he would click his tongue and wave you away, telling you he would be there in a minute. You couldn’t remember the last time he actually had dinner with you or his family.
Even his siblings began to question his sudden disappearance.
“Where’s your poor excuse of a husband?” Eloise looped an arm around yours, finding you strolling in the garden with a blank look on your face. “Isn’t he always attached to you in some way?”
“Your brother,” You jump out of your stupor and correct her with a weary smile. “Is busy tending to all his duties as head of the household.”
“Yes yes, but he’s gone more so than usual now.” She plucked a hyacinth from the garden and carefully placed it into your basket, not noticing your far off look.
You thumb the small petals of the flower, blinking away the worry for your husband. “I’ll talk to him today. I’ve been meaning to anyway.”
“Get him to join us for dinner.” Eloise stopped walking and fiddled with the bow on her waist, taking your hands in hers and squeezing softly. “I don’t miss him, but I do miss bugging him whenever he’s around.”
“I’ll bring it up.” Your smile softens into a genuine one as she walked back toward the house, your lips instantly turning down into a frown when her figure disappears.
When Anthony had his mind set on something, he would make sure it would get done. No matter what force tried to pull him away, he would ensure that everything was done the same way he planned it in his mind. He was calculated with his actions.
And maybe that was the reason you couldn’t get through to him. In the center of a hurricane filled with chaos and uncertainty, it was silent. Perhaps Anthony couldn’t hear you, only the pressure of worry and stress echoed through him.
You stepped up to his office door and knocked. You waited a beat before slipping your hand on the knob and turning it ever so slightly, pushing inside to see him slumped over piles of letters and parchment.
“Anthony?” You call for him quietly, taking slow steps further into his office and closer to him.
He didn’t budge nor look up at you, he simply continued to scribble away in his oh-so familiar cursive. His eyes were locked onto the ink, words tumbling from his lips with each sentence he finished. He tapped the end of his quill on the desk, his leg bouncing in anxiety before breathing out and going back to writing again.
“My love, I think that’s enough for today.” You move to stand beside him, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. When he didn’t move again, you squeezed, “Anthony—“
“Y/N, can’t you see I’m busy?” He whipped around to face you, tone laced with tiredness and irritation. His voice grew in volume as he accidentally spilled ink across his letter, making him huff and stand. “Great. It’s ruined now.”
“I’m sorry, I just—“
He snapped his head in your direction, his eyes seemingly red from all the pent up frustration he kept quiet about. “You’ve done enough.”
Your hands curled together as you felt the glass ball drop and shatter, mind and heart pounding at how clear and sharp his tone was. You bit your tongue and bowed your head down, removing yourself from his office.
Even after you shut the door, you could hear him cursing about his ruined work.
It was like his job as a Lord and head of the Bridgerton household was much more important than the relationships in his life. You couldn’t bear staying in the same room—same house—as him when he was locked in a state of distress and distraction.
So you left.
You only wanted to take a breather away from the suffocating air Anthony left. Yet somehow, you ended up at the park. Your feet had dragged you far from home and in front of the bench you first encountered Anthony all those years ago as a child.
“Of course.” You muttered as you took a seat on the bench, popping open your bag for a cigarette and lighter.
It was so rare for you to ever smoke. You only had it in your bag because Eloise kept sneaking away with several packs, so you took them from her. But you knew Benedict would give her the damn cancer stick anyway.
The sun had already set when you lit the end of the cigarette, the orange light glowing underneath the night sky. You inhaled deeply before releasing a breath, the smoke blowing softly through the air.
You were so tired.
Tired of always wearing a smile whenever someone asked where your husband was; Tired of watching Anthony drown in all the work; Tired of pretending to be okay. The world weighed on your shoulders and the outcome you got for carrying it was a scolding from your husband.
You tilt your head and let out a shaky breath, squeezing your eyes shut for a moment before you heard someone clear their throat beside you. Your eyes snap open and move to stomp out your cigarette when you met familiar brown eyes staring back at you.
“What are you doing here?” You ask softly, watching him as he moved to sit. You were upset with him, and he knew you were, but you still loved him. “Did you finish all your work? It seemed pretty important.”
He sighed and spun his wedding band, looking at his ink-stained hands. “No, it’s not finished. It won’t be for a while.”
“Really? Because you’ve been working all day and all night recently.” You reply coolly, taking another drag and blowing the smoke to the side.
The feeling, taste, and smell made you want to gag, but it was the only thing that kept you sane with how close Anthony was to you. He hurt you, telling you that what you had done was enough when all you were trying to do was help. It always was his least favorite thing. He never asked for or accepted help even when offered freely.
Anthony Bridgerton did not want to be viewed as unfit.
He looked over at you and frowned when he saw your glazed eyes, watching the gears in your mind tick with every passing second. He wanted to get down on his knees and plead—beg you for your forgiveness. But given the circumstances that you were out in the public eye, a man would never be caught doing such absurd things.
So he did the next best thing.
Gently, he took your free hand in his and began to trace patterns on your palm, feeling your tense figure relax under the familiar sensation.
“I’m a terrible husband, aren’t I?” He said softly as you met his eyes, the small smile forming on your lips making him chuckle quietly. “Yes, I figured. I was completely out of line today… And the past few days.”
You nodded, still watching his fidgeting. The cigarette burned faster, but you didn’t dare take another breath nor did you put it out. It just stayed burning under the darkness of the black night.
“You were just trying to keep me sane.” Anthony closed his hands around yours and squeezed softly. “I hurt you today and I will never forget it, nor will I forgive myself for ever raising my voice at you.” He met your eyes and watched your gaze soften at the sight of his tired and longing eyes, the dark circles more prominent than ever. “All I’m asking is for your forgiveness, my love. I’m sorry, Y/N.”
For several seconds, you simply stared at Anthony, trying to collect your own thoughts on his gesture. It wasn’t every day Anthony Bridgerton asked for forgiveness, and in the most intimate, loving way.
You squeezed his hand back as you threw the cigarette to the ground and put it out with your heel, watching the burning glow fade away into the dirt. He watched you in curiosity as you stood up, following suit after you dust your hands off and fixed your dress.
“You’re smart, Anthony.” You begin to say, looking over the lake as the moon shined across the small ripples the different living creatures were making. “I’ve seen what you can do and what you have done, but you push yourself far too hard. Your siblings miss you, your mother misses you… I miss you.”
He looked away in shame. He didn’t think anyone would ever miss him while he was working. Occasionally, he would make appearances to dinner or a small event. But, now, he knew five minutes were never enough to catch up with everything he’s missed, staying cooped up in his office all day.
You turn back around and face him, moving to stand directly in front of him. Tilting your head up, you met his eyes and sent a small smile, cupping his cheeks and softly thumbing the areas as he melted into your touch.
“I forgive you, Anthony, but promise me one thing.” You say barely above a whisper, the quiet wind almost blowing too loud for him to hear.
“Anything.” He said softly and in the same tone, bringing his hands up to cover yours, kissing your palms.
“Spend more time with your family. Work will always be there, but your family won’t be.” You look between his eyes and watch him nod ever so slightly.
Anthony pressed a kiss to your lips, not bothered by your cigarette taste at all. He dropped his hands to your waist and pulled you closer before resting his forehead on yours, breathing you in for the first time in so long.
“I promise.” He murmured, pressing another soft kiss to your lips. “And don’t you dare let me get mad at you again. Hit me on the head if I ever do it again.”
“Well, if you insist.” You tease before laughing as he gently tickled your sides. “Hey!”
“Hey, you.” Anthony laughed along with you before pulling you in for a hug, burying his head in your neck. “I’m forever going to be sorry, my love. I’ll keep my promise for as long as I live.”
If anyone could reflect admiration and adoration to the world, it would be Anthony Bridgerton. For his wife was the bane of his existence and the object of all his desires.
Anthony hummed satisfied, wrapping his arms tighter around you. He came laying his head down on your chest. Making you stare up to the ceiling with a giddy sigh. – “Anthony I must get up.” – you told him, running your fingers through his hair.
“Just a moment.” – he responded in a mutter. Listening to your heart beat. Inhaling deep as his hand brushed against your skin. – “Anthony I am hungry.” – you told him.
Anthony lifted his head up, hand remaining by your waist. – “Hungry for me?” – he asked with a teasing smile. You stared in shock back at him. – “For food.” – you responded giving him a playful slap.
“Shame for I could devour you.” – he let out, pressing his hand deeper onto your waist. – “Anthony!” – you called out to shush him. To dim his idea’s full of lust. Curling up a smile to his adoring wife. You smiled cheeky back at him.
He came leaning forwards. Opening his mouth to deepen a kiss onto you. Taking his time to fully explore your lips. Explore them as if he hadn’t explored them a thousand times before. Hearing you laugh against his lips made him curl up a smile as well.
Kissing you over and over again as your laugh filled his heart with excitement. It was a sound he could never get enough off. You tapped him against his shoulder to break the kiss off. Needing a little breather. Anthony stared lovingly down at you.
Eyebrows quirking curiously up at the growling of your stomach. – “I informed you that I am hungry.” – you reminded him. Anthony chuckled. Lowering his head to leave a kiss on your stomach. – “Then I must feed my beautiful wife.”
Slapping him playfully against his arm for speaking so fondly of you. Another growl left a silence between the two of. This time you looked down at your husband with intriguing eyes. He glanced down at his own chest. Chuckling cheekily at the growling of his own stomach.
Both of you rolled out of bed. Getting dressed. Anthony couldn’t stop staring at you. Barely getting a move on with himself in utter awe of you. With his shirt still unbuttoned, he walked over to you. – “Allow me.” – he whispered out. Leaving a tender kiss in the nook of your neck before tying your corset up.
Smiling over your shoulder, you turned around to him. Pressing your hands against his cheeks. Your smile was enough to make him melt. Your gaze lowered as his remained lingering on your face. Watching your focused expression. Brows furrowed whilst you buttoned up his shirt.
“What would I do without you.” – he muttered out. You batted your gaze up to him, head slightly tilted with a faint smile on your lips. You let your arms go around his neck. Taking in a deep breath, pulling your shoulders a bit up. You kissed him tenderly. Patting him against his cheek afterwards to get a move on.
Both of you went downstairs. Anthony walking as closely as possible to you. Needing his body to be in contact with yours. He felt empty without it. After breakfast, you remained in the drawing room. Sitting in the sofa with Hyacinth beside you. Anthony stood behind you, keeping his hands on your shoulders.
“Have you read the latest Whistledown yet?” – Hyacinth asked. You turned to her with a mischievous smile. – “You, young lady should not be reading Whistledown yet.” – you told her, spotting the edition underneath her bottom. Having tried to hide it. You plucked it from underneath her. – “Hey!” – Hyacinth called out.
You moved your hand up, allowing your husband to take the edition. – “Y/n is right, Hyacinth. You are far too young to be reading such gossip.” – he reminded her with a soft glare. Hyacinth crossed her arms grumpily back at her brother. You poked your fingers against her cheek to make her laugh. The door to the drawing room opened. Colin entering with loud pants.
“Y/n!” – he called out upon seeing you. He walked over to you, holding one of his trousers. – “You must help me. Can you mend my trousers?” – he asked. Showing you a little hole in it as he stuck his finger through it. – “Colin, ask one of the maids.” – Anthony insisted upon. – “But Y/n is the best with a needle.” – Colin responded, arguing with his brother.
“Oh hush.” – you said to Anthony taking the trousers from Colin. – “It will only take about two minutes.” – you informed him, getting up. You walked towards the closet, feeling a presence behind you. Glancing over your shoulder, you noticed your husband had followed you. – “The needles and thread are not in here.” – he spoke. You opened the closet as they indeed were not there.
“I have some in my room.” – you told Colin. – “Our room!” – Anthony corrected, looking down at you. You gave him a slight annoyed expression. – “It won’t take long.” – you spoke to Colin. Colin moved his hand to his heart, bowing his head to you.
You took a few steps towards the door, noticing Anthony was following you. – “Anthony darling, I would only be a minute.” – you told him, holding the door in your hand. He only hummed loud. When you moved to head further, he remained close.
Rolling your eyes playfully at him, you let him be. He followed you through the hallway, up the stairs back to your quarters. You opened the drawers in search of needles and thread. Anthony came sitting on the bed, watching you. Staring.
“If you might stare any harder, I would turn to rock.” – you called out teasingly. – “Ahh…” – Anthony responded in a long breath, adverting his gaze away. He hadn’t noticed he was staring so intensely at you. He simply couldn’t help it.
Always wanting to gaze upon his beautiful wife. For you were the bane of his existence and the object of all his desires. You sat down by the vanity, mending Colin’s trousers. Anthony drummed his fingers impatiently on his knees. Looking up at the ceiling. – “Almost done.” – you let out, keeping your focus on the trousers.
Anthony kept drumming his fingers for you to hurry up. – “Done.” – you said holding the trousers up. Anthony jumped up from his position. Walking up to you. Sneaking in a kiss, leaving your gaze wide for a second. It had felt like eternity since he had kissed you.
Both of you returned to the drawing room where you returned Colin’s trousers. He thanked you with a hug and a kiss against your cheek. – “Alright, alright.” – Anthony called out, shooing his brother away from you. It made you laugh loud at his jealousy towards his brother.
“You must know I only have eyes for you.” – you declared turning his chin to you. Seeing how his expression softened around you. His eyebrow lightly raised with a curled up smile. Anthony slid his arm around you when you came leaning against his shoulder with your head. He kissed the top of your head.
“Shall we go for a walk, Lady Bridgerton?” – he suggested. – “We shall, lord Bridgerton.” – you responded. Hyacinth got up with a loud gasp. – “Can I come too!” – she exclaimed. You nodded as she came hurrying over. Following the two of you for a stroll.
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