Where fiction feels personal. One soul. Many worlds. Writing from the cracks between fandoms—where love is messy, magic is real, and the plot always thickens.
A tiny note before you begin:
I tried something with this chapter. It serves as a quiet and direct transition into the Lucien x reader spin-off, so you may notice a moment here that feels...familiar later. 😉
For the first time in recent memory, the Bridgerton breakfast table was…calm.
Anthony noticed it immediately.
No one was yelling.
No one was threatening arson.
No one was questioning the structure of society before tea.
Hyacinth was not climbing furniture—she was buttering toast with deeply suspicious focus.
Gregory was not plotting—he was reading.
Colin was not hungover—merely…recovering.
Benedict was not sketching anything inappropriate—his hands were, for once, idle.
Francesca Bridgerton sat among them again—newly returned, freshly unpacked, and already displaying the advanced survival skill of treating the household like bad weather—endured, not engaged.
Vivienne poured honey into her tea, humming softly.
And—most importantly—
Lucien was not here.
He had left the previous evening to inspect the increasingly alarming state of his London estate, declaring that he would not return until later that evening, before the first ball of the season.
Anthony inhaled deeply.
“Peace,” he said, almost reverent. “Actual, uninterrupted peace.”
Eloise looked up. “You say that like it’s sustainable.”
Benedict tilted his head. “Or desirable.”
Colin stretched slightly. “Or real.”
Hyacinth didn’t even look up. “It isn’t.”
Vivienne set her cup down. “Darling, why would you say that aloud and tempt fate?”
Anthony waved a hand. “Nonsense, it’s just a statement. Not much could ruin today.”
The entire room froze.
Even the footman paused mid-pour.
Something in the air shifted.
And then—
The door opened.
Lucien stepped inside, immaculate, unbothered, holding a pastry box like he had personally escorted chaos back into the room.
“Good morning, Bridgertons,” he said warmly.
Anthony flinched hard enough to jolt the table. “GOD DAMN IT.”
Vivienne choked on her tea.
Anthony pointed at him. “No.”
Lucien paused. “No?”
“No.”
Colin folded over, laughing. “You did that.”
Gregory whispered, “The summoning prophecy is real.”
Francesca, entirely composed, took a sip of tea. “...Is he permanent?”
Lucien took the seat beside her without hesitation. “Increasingly so.”
Anthony dragged a hand down his face, and breakfast resumed.
Which was to say—it collapsed immediately.
Lucien explained—far too casually—that his estate was in worse condition than expected.
“There was…falling rubble,” he said.
“Your house tried to kill you?” Eloise asked.
Lucien nodded. “Actively.”
Anthony rubbed his temples. “Why are you back so early?”
Lucien opened the pastry box. “Because the architect fainted.”
Vivienne blinked. “Why?”
“He saw the crack in the ceiling move.”
Anthony looked incredulously. “MOVE? HOW—"
Lucien shrugged elegantly. “I’m choosing not to question it.”
Benedict snorted. “Reasonable.”
Hyacinth leaned forward. “Can I see it?”
Lucien smiled. “Of course.”
Anthony slammed his hands on the table. “Absolutely not. No one is going.”
No one acknowledged him.
The room filled again—overlapping voices, sharp turns, no one waiting for permission to speak.
And just as seamlessly—
Violet entered.
“Girls,” she said, perfectly timed, “we should start preparing for this evening’s ball.”
Vivienne looked up immediately.
Eloise visibly recoiled.
Francesca’s expression shifted into the quiet resignation of someone preparing for battle.
Violet gestured lightly. “Vivienne, Eloise, Francesca—finish your tea.”
Hyacinth groaned. “Why can’t I attend?”
Violet kissed her forehead. “Because you set a hat on fire the last time.”
Hyacinth lifted her chin. “It improved the design.”
Anthony muttered, “How that child is permitted into society at all—”
Benedict leaned back in his chair, watching Lucien with quiet interest.
“So,” he said, almost idly, “shall we expect you to behave outrageously this evening, or has last season cured you of the habit?”
Lucien didn’t look up from the pastry box.
“I had not realized it was considered a habit.”
“It was observed,” Benedict said.
“Extensively,” Colin added.
Eloise waved a hand. “Reluctantly.”
Lucien selected a pastry. “How unfortunate for you all.”
Benedict’s gaze didn’t move.
“What I mean is—” he gestured vaguely, “the season begins tonight. Eligible ladies. Ambitious mamas. The usual theatre. You intend to take part in it?”
Lucien shrugged lightly. “I shall attend.”
“That was not the question,” Francesca pointed out quietly.
Lucien glanced at her, faintly amused.
“I find most questions answer themselves if one waits long enough.”
Vivienne looked at Lucien closely, trying to read him.
“And will this one?”
A pause.
Small.
Lucien’s hand stilled for half a breath.
Then resumed.
“I expect it will,” he said.
Colin frowned. “That sounds like avoidance.”
Eloise rolled her eyes. “Tragic. A season without Lucien Blackbourne attempting to ruin it for everyone by being insufferably charming.”
“I would never ruin anything,” Lucien said mildly. “At worst, I improve it unpredictably. Don’t I, angel?”
Vivienne’s mouth twitched.
“And the real answer?”
Lucien took his time.
Then he smiled.
Light. Easy.
“I am in no particular hurry.”
He reached for his tea.
And that was all.
Later in the day…
The house quietened gradually.
Not entirely.
That would be unnatural.
But enough that movement replaced noise—doors closing, footsteps overhead, the faint orchestration of getting ready to be out in public.
Lucien found himself in the study without much thought, drawn more by the absence of conversation than any real intention of work.
Anthony was already there, of course, at his desk. As though the morning had personally offended him and he intended to correct it.
Lucien paused at the door.
“You look productive,” he observed.
Anthony didn’t look up. “I’m trying to be.”
Lucien stepped inside anyway.
A brief silence settled—not awkward, just…there.
Anthony finished what he was writing before setting it aside, finally glancing up.
“You’re attending tonight.”
Lucien nodded once. “It appears to be unavoidable.”
Anthony leaned back slightly.
“And you intend to behave.”
Lucien’s expression didn’t change.
“I always behave.”
Anthony gave him a look.
Lucien amended, mildly, “Within reason.”
“That is precisely the issue,” Anthony said.
Lucien considered that. “Your definition of reason tends to be quite restrictive.”
“And yours tends to be nonexistent.”
“That feels uncharitable.”
“It is accurate.”
A beat.
Lucien glanced toward the window, then back again.
“I assume this is the part where you ask me not to embarrass your family.”
Anthony’s mouth twitched, just barely. “I was hoping to phrase it more diplomatically.”
“You won’t.”
“No.”
Lucien inclined his head slightly. “Then by all means.”
Anthony exhaled, less irritated than resigned.
“You are aware,” he said, “that you will be…noticed.”
Lucien looked faintly puzzled. “Am I not always?”
“That is not the point.”
“It usually is.”
Anthony ignored that.
“You are not simply attending as yourself.”
Lucien tilted his head. “I’m rarely afforded that luxury.”
Anthony gave him a flat look.
Lucien relented, just slightly.
“I understand.”
Anthony watched him for a second longer, then said:
“I would prefer not to spend the evening answering questions about you.”
Lucien’s mouth curved faintly.
“You won’t have to.”
Anthony raised a brow.
Lucien added, pleasantly, “I intend to answer them myself.”
“That is exactly what concerns me.”
A pause.
Lighter now.
Familiar.
Lucien shifted his weight slightly. “You give the impression you regret inviting me here.”
“I didn’t invite you,” Anthony said.
Lucien nodded. “And yet, here I remain.”
Anthony almost smiled.
Almost.
“Just—” he stopped, recalibrating. “Try not to encourage them.”
Lucien blinked. “Encourage who?”
Anthony stared at him.
Lucien let the silence sit just long enough.
Then:
“Ah,” he said. “Your siblings.”
“Yes. Them. You know they barely obey my request to be less disruptive in public.”
Lucien considered this seriously.
“I make no promises. They are, after all, the only ones who make these events tolerable.”
Anthony sighed. “Of course you don’t.”
Another pause.
Lucien turned toward the door.
“Anthony.”
Anthony looked up again.
Lucien’s tone was light again, easy as ever.
“I will behave.”
Anthony didn’t even bother to look convinced.
“I’m sure you believe that.”
Lucien smiled.
And left.
At the ball…
Lady Danbury’s ballroom glittered with the kind of careful excess that demanded to be admired. Candlelight caught on polished floors and silk sleeves, music threaded easily through conversation, and every glance carried just enough intention to make the air feel occupied.
Lucien had not taken more than a few steps inside before he heard his name.
“Lord Blackbourne—”
He turned easily, the smile already there as though it had simply been waiting for the right moment to be used.
“Miss—?”
“Turner.”
“Miss Turner,” he said smoothly, as though the evening had improved upon seeing her. “You’ve found me remarkably quickly.”
“I was hoping I might.”
“I admire efficiency.”
She laughed—pleased, a little breathless.
Leaning forward a little, she tilted her head at Lucien. “Have you danced yet?”
“Not nearly enough to satisfy expectation.”
“Then you must allow me to assist.”
“I find myself increasingly persuaded.”
He offered his hand. She took it at once.
The dance flowed as these things always did—graceful, measured, entirely forgettable to anyone but the person experiencing it. She spoke, he listened; he answered with just enough attention to feel specific, just enough distance to remain untouchable. When it ended, he bowed, released her, and turned—
—directly into another introduction.
“Lord Blackbourne, my daughter was just saying—”
“My lady,” he said easily, shifting his attention without a pause, as though the transition itself were part of the performance.
A third voice followed, then a fourth, each one weaving into the next until the pattern became familiar. Names offered, repeated, remembered just long enough to be used. Questions asked, answered, returned with a faint turn of wit that seemed more deliberate than it actually was. Laughter followed him easily. It always had.
“Lord Blackbourne, you must dance.”
“I would hate to disappoint.”
“You’ve already been requested twice.”
“Then I am clearly falling behind.”
It earned him another laugh, and another hand placed confidently into his.
He did not resist it.
This was him in his element.
Reluctantly so.
He moved through the room without urgency, not attempting to escape the attention so much as redirect it, choosing where to stand, when to turn, how long to remain. The distinction mattered, even if no one else noticed it.
Benedict did.
“Enjoying yourself?” he asked, appearing at Lucien’s side with the air of someone who had been observing for some time.
“Immensely,” Lucien replied, lifting a glass that was not his and setting it back down again.
Benedict’s expression suggested he believed none of it.
“You’ve made quite an impression.”
“I do try not to.”
“That has never stopped you.”
“Tragic, really.”
Colin joined them a moment later, already amused. “You’ve been requested five times.”
“I’ve only been here ten minutes.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“It wasn’t intended to be.”
Before either of them could respond—
“Lord Blackbourne—”
He turned, the shift so seamless it might have gone unnoticed.
“Miss—?”
As the evening progressed…
Eloise found Lucien midway through one of his conversations, inserting herself without hesitation and with very little patience for politeness.
“You,” she said, “are directly responsible for this.”
Lucien glanced past her at the two young men attempting, with limited success, to appear composed.
“I fail to see how.”
“You smiled at them.”
“I smile at everyone.”
“That is precisely the problem.”
“Then I shall stop.”
“You won’t.”
“No, I won’t.”
She exhaled sharply. “Walk with me.”
He did, abandoning the conversation behind him with nothing more than a courteous nod that implied continuation rather than dismissal.
“Miss Bridgerton—”
Lucien turned slightly, intercepting before Eloise could respond.
“She is engaged.”
Eloise snapped her head toward him. “I am not—”
“Temporarily,” he amended.
The gentleman faltered.
Eloise recovered first. “Yes. Temporarily.”
The man retreated.
She looked at Lucien, unimpressed. “That was unnecessary.”
“You asked for assistance.”
“I asked you to walk.”
“I improved the arrangement.”
Her eyes narrowed, though not entirely without appreciation.
“...Thank you.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not. I simply dislike needing help.”
“Noted.”
He left her a moment later, not abruptly, but with the same quiet ease with which he had arrived—present until he wasn’t.
Francesca stood near Violet, composed in the way that suggested effort rather than ease. She was answering politely, listening carefully, and enduring far more attention than she would ever willingly invite.
Lucien caught the stiffness in her shoulders and approached without hesitation.
“Miss Bridgerton,” he said, offering his hand with a faint, teasing inclination of his head, “it would be a crime not to dance with the most eligible bachelor in this room on your first evening.”
Francesca blinked, then looked at him unamused.
“That would be you, I assume?”
“I should hope so. My reputation depends on it.”
Violet’s lips curved, just slightly. Like she knew exactly what Lucien was doing. She nudged Francesca toward him.
“Unfortunately, he is right, my dear.”
Francesca placed her hand in his.
“You’re rescuing me.”
“I would never be so presumptuous,” he said lightly, guiding her toward the floor.
A pause.
Then, more quietly, just for her—
“We won’t speak.”
Relief flickered, brief but unmistakable.
“Thank you.”
The dance was exactly what he had promised.
No conversation. No expectation. Just movement—steady, unintrusive, giving her space without drawing attention to it. When it ended, she looked…settled.
“Better?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. Try not to set anything on fire.”
“That’s Hyacinth.”
“Ah. Then you’re safe.”
That earned him the smallest hint of a smile.
Lucien found Anthony and Vivienne standing slightly apart from the center of the room, arms linked, not removed from the evening but no longer claimed by it. People greeted them, of course, but the attention never lingered. It moved on, as it always did, in search of something more…available.
Vivienne looked up first, her expression immediately amused. “You look occupied.”
“I am being circulated,” Lucien replied. “I would not recommend it.”
Anthony openly snorted at that.
Vivienne laughed behind Anthony’s shoulder.
Lucien allowed himself a moment longer, watching the room in the way one does when one has already understood it.
“Aren’t you glad,” he said, almost idly, “that you’re no longer part of this circus?”
“Immensely,” Vivienne said at once.
“It has its advantages,” Anthony nodded.
Lucien’s mouth curved faintly. “I don’t remember it being quite this persistent last season.”
Anthony gave him a look. “That would be because you made a rather unnecessary public declaration that you were courting my wife and weren’t interested in anyone else.”
Lucien turned to Vivienne at once, head bowed and one hand settling against his chest in exaggerated sincerity.
“Then you have my deepest gratitude, angel.”
Vivienne laughed. “You’re doing perfectly well on your own.”
“Am I?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
She leaned in slightly, her voice lowering just enough to feel conspiratorial.
“Although, if you require a discreet escape, you need only ask. I could arrange something.”
Anthony turned to her immediately. “We will do no such thing. Our absence will be considered rude.”
“It would be subtle.”
“It would not be subtle.”
Lucien glanced between them, expression untouched but quietly amused.
“I feel remarkably supported.”
“You will remain,” Anthony said.
“Of course.”
“Lord Blackbourne—”
Lucien exhaled, soft enough to be missed by anyone not paying attention.
Anthony noticed.
And, just as quietly—
“You are not obligated to entertain all of them.”
Lucien glanced at him, brief but acknowledging.
“I know.”
And then he turned, the smile already in place, as though it had never left.
By the time Lucien stepped away from Anthony and Vivienne, the movement felt less like a decision and more like instinct. The room had begun to settle into a rhythm he knew too well—one where attention circled back with renewed intent the moment he stood still for too long—and he had no desire to be reclaimed by it quite yet.
The refreshments table offered just enough distance to pass as purpose.
He made his way toward it without haste, pausing once to acknowledge a greeting, inclining his head at another, never quite stopping long enough to invite conversation. The music carried easily behind him, the low hum of voices weaving in and out of it, familiar now in a way that required no effort to navigate.
No one intercepted him.
A small mercy.
He reached for a glass, turning it lightly between his fingers as he poured, the simple act grounding in a way the rest of the evening had not been. For a moment, no one spoke to him. No one expected anything.
It did not last.
He turned, intending to step aside before the next approach could reach him—
—and collided with someone moving just as quickly in the opposite direction.
The impact was slight, but immediate enough to shift them both a half-step off balance. His hand came up automatically, steadying her at the waist before releasing her as soon as he was certain she was upright.
“My apologies,” he said at once, the words smooth, instinctive, and followed—as they often were—by something just a shade more deliberate. “Though I must admit, if one must be interrupted, I can hardly object to the manner.”
It was light. Polished. Precisely the kind of line that usually softened the moment before it could settle into anything awkward.
And then he looked at her.
There was no pause long enough to be noticed, but it existed all the same.
She was…striking.
Not in the way that invited admiration.
In the way that seemed entirely uninterested in it.
Lucien’s expression did not change, though something in his gaze sharpened, just slightly, as though reassessing a situation that had not followed expectation.
Her reaction came quickly.
Too quickly.
“Not another one,” she muttered, the words edged with unmistakable irritation as she stepped back, brushing past the moment as though it were something to be dismissed rather than engaged.
Lucien blinked once, more in recalibration than surprise.
“I beg your pardon?”
She exhaled, the sound short and entirely unamused, and gestured vaguely between them as though the explanation should be obvious.
“You walk into someone, and it’s never just an apology, is it? There’s always—” she cut herself off with a small shake of her head. “Never mind.”
Lucien studied her for a brief moment, the line of his mouth settling into something thoughtful rather than amused.
“I assure you,” he said, still perfectly even, “my apology was genuine.”
“You walked into me.”
“I turned,” he replied, with quiet patience, “and you were already there.”
“I was leaving.”
“And I was moving.”
“Yes. Into me.”
“That would suggest equal fault.”
“That would suggest you’re wrong.”
For the first time that evening, Lucien found himself without an immediate response.
Not because he lacked one.
Because none of them seemed…appropriate.
He looked at her properly then, as though the answer might reveal itself if he examined the problem with sufficient care.
She was still watching him with that same expression—mildly irritated, entirely unimpressed, and already halfway disinterested.
It was…
New.
“...remarkable,” he said, more to himself than to her.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “I get that a lot.”
“I imagine you do,” he replied, before the words could be reconsidered, his tone still courteous, still measured, though now edged faintly with something sharper. “Though I suspect not for the same reasons.”
“If this is the part where you recover the conversation,” she said flatly, “you needn’t trouble yourself.”
Lucien almost smiled.
“I hadn’t intended to trouble you at all.”
“Then we are in agreement.”
For a moment, neither of them moved.
And then—
“Lucien?”
The interruption came gently, familiar enough to break the tension without fully dispersing it.
He glanced up.
Penelope approached with easy familiarity, her gaze moving between them with open curiosity.
“Oh, Lord Blackbourne,” she said warmly, “it is nice to finally make your acquaintance.”
Lucien’s attention flicked briefly back to the woman in front of him, then returned to Penelope with a faint lift of his brow.
“...finally?”
Penelope smiled, entirely pleased with herself.
“You might be the only gentleman left present this evening to introduce themselves to our new houseguest. She will be living with us the entire season.”
I will start posting the Lucien x reader spin-off from the second week of April, and I'm really excited to finally bring you back into this world.
While planning the fic, something unexpected happened. I ended up fully plotting two different approaches to the same arc and key moments for Lucien's story.
And now I'm genuinely torn between the two. So, I thought...maybe you should help me with this decision.
After all, this story only exists because so many of you loved Lucien in More Than Honour and asked for more of him.
Option 1: A traditional Regency reader-insert; similar in format to More Than Honour.
The MC already belongs to the Bridgerton universe, and the story unfolds entirely within that universe.
Option 2: A modern reader-insert, where a reader who has finished More Than Honour wakes up inside that Bridgerton universe and experiences the story as themselves.
In both versions, Lucien's journey and the core romance remain the same—this is only about how you step into the story.
Let's decide together how Lucien's story begins 💛
Option 1: Traditional reader-insert
Option 2: Modern reader-insert
Voting ended onMar 18
Just tagging a few of you that showed enthusiasm for Lucien's fic in the comments during More Than Honour because I'd love your input:
@yearninglustfully @sky0401 @khaleesibeach @imafangirlofeverything @eddiemunsons-lover @talkativecarnation
I feel like I owe you all a little honesty, and possibly an apology about the Lucien x reader spin-off.
I announced this story months ago, and I know it probably looks like nothing has happened since. But the truth is, I haven't been delaying for the sake of delaying. If anything, I've been working too carefully.
Lucien is my original character. He isn't borrowed from canon, and there's no other version of his story out there except the one I write. That makes this spin-off feel like a responsibility. I want this story to feel worthy of the character you all came to love in the main fic, and that means I can't just throw chapters out quickly and hope for the best.
A lot of my time has gone into small things most readers may never even notice—making sure the timeline fits with canon, making sure Lucien's choices make emotional sense after everything that happened with Vivienne and Anthony, making sure new pieces of his past actually explain the man you already know instead of changing him. I've been second-guessing myself a lot because I want the story to feel right, not just finished.
I know fanfiction is supposed to be fun and spontaneous, and it is—but this story matters to me. I'd rather take the time to write something I can be proud of than rushing something out just to say it's posted.
The spin-off is very much alive. I'm building it carefully because Lucien deserves that, and honestly, so do you—the readers who loved him enough to want his story in the first place.
Thank you for being patient with me. I promise the wait is coming from care, not neglect.
The Bridgerton estate looked deceptively peaceful that morning.
Sunlight filtered through tall windows. Tea steamed gently. There was polite chatter, the kind that suggested order, civilization, and the illusion of control.
Anthony noticed immediately.
He narrowed his eyes at the room.
“This is suspicious,” he muttered.
Vivienne glanced up. “You say that every time no one is screaming.”
“Because it never lasts,” Anthony replied.
Right on cue—
“They’re here!” Hyacinth shrieked from the window, where she had been stationed like a lookout for invading armies.
Vivienne rose with a smile. Violet set aside her embroidery. Anthony sighed into his tea like a man expecting war.
A carriage rolled to a stop.
The door opened.
Daphne stepped down first — radiant, composed, and visibly unwell in spirit. Simon followed, devastatingly handsome and profoundly tired, like a man who had stared into the abyss and found a screaming infant staring back.
And in Daphne’s arms, the very picture of cherubic serenity—
August Basset.
Perfect curls. Chubby cheeks. Cooed like angelic choirs.
Anthony nodded smugly. “See? Proper parenting. Structure. Discipline. Calm—”
Daphne’s voice cut through the air like a deranged violin.
“HE THREW A RATTLE AT SIMON THIS MORNING.”
Simon added deadpan, “It ricocheted off the mantelpiece.”
Silence.
Baby Augie gurgled happily and grabbed Anthony’s cravat with startling strength.
Eloise cooed. “Oh, he’s harmless.”
“Harmless?” Daphne laughed, eyes wild. “He bit me!”
Simon nodded solemnly. “Twice.”
Colin squinted. “But he looks…peaceful.”
“That,” Daphne said gravely, “is because he is recharging.”
Augie giggled.
Vivienne reached for him instinctively. “He’s perfect.”
“He is a menace,” Simon corrected.
“We haven’t slept in three days,” Daphne said flatly.
Hyacinth gasped. “None?”
Daphne stared into the middle distance. “Time has lost meaning.”
Simon scanned the room. “If any of you believe he is an angel, you are welcome to test that theory. Even for an hour.”
The room froze.
No one moved.
Anthony took one careful step backward.
“Well?” Daphne pressed.
Simon smiled thinly. “Volunteers?”
Colin suddenly found a great fascination in the ceiling.
Benedict became very busy adjusting a nonexistent cufflink.
Gregory vanished behind the sofa like a retracting periscope.
Hyacinth pretended to be a vase.
Eloise was flipping through her book upside down.
Anthony took another deliberate step backwards as if retreating from a bomb.
Daphne blinked. “Truly? None of you?”
More silence.
Then—
“I’ll do it.”
Every head snapped toward the doorway.
Lucien Blackbourne leaned casually against the frame, impeccably dressed, curls tousled just enough to suggest danger, expression one of serene self-confidence.
“I shall take him,” Lucien said smoothly. “Someone must ensure he develops taste, confidence, and a healthy disregard for authority.”
The room stopped breathing.
Anthony’s teacup rattled.
“NO,” he barked. “You will not mold another impressionable mind into whatever—whatever Blackbourne Doctrine you practice—”
Lucien placed a hand lightly over his heart.
“I promise only enlightenment, Viscount. Perhaps a touch of poetry. A dash of danger. The standard syllabus.”
Colin muttered, “I want that syllabus.”
Eloise’s eyes lit. “Same.”
Simon blinked. “…Honestly, he sounds more prepared than any of us.”
Anthony nearly inhaled his own tongue.
“ABSOLUTELY NOT!”
Lucien raised a brow. “Why not?”
Anthony sputtered. “You—You cannot—You corrupt every child you encounter!”
Lucien considered this. “I would argue I inspire them.”
Vivienne smiled lightly. “He’ll be fine, Anthony. Lucien is surprisingly gentle.”
Lucien placed his hand on Anthony’s shoulder. “I assure you, Viscount, I am very good with children.”
“NAME ONE.”
Lucien looked only mildly hesitant. “...Gregory.”
Anthony pointed violently. “THAT IS NOT HELPING YOUR CASE.”
Lucien offered his most disarming smile. “I know how to hold babies. They are just… small, squishy aristocrats.”
Daphne, utterly exhausted: “Is anyone else offering to look after Augie for the day?”
The entire family avoided eye contact like someone had pointed a gun at them.
Simon shrugged, exhausted beyond sense. “If no one else is volunteering…”
He and Daphne turned in unison.
“Lord Blackbourne,” Daphne said, “the child is yours.”
Anthony made a noise like a teapot boiling over.
SCENE 2 – THE EXPERIMENT BEGINS
Augie immediately launched his tiny fists into Lucien’s hair with the fierce enthusiasm of a future conqueror. His fist locked, tugging a curl like a battle banner.
Lucien didn’t flinch—he tilted his head obligingly.
“A commendable grip,” he murmured. “Strong. Vengeful. You shall make an excellent monarch.”
Augie shriek-laughed.
Hyacinth squealed. “He’s imprinting.”
Gregory whispered, “Is this how villains are born?”
Colin looked pointedly at Lucien. “If he says ‘my lord’ before he says ‘mama,’ I’m blaming you.”
Anthony looked personally attacked. “HE’S NOT A MONARCH, LUCIEN. HE IS A BABY.”
Lucien nodded. “Yes. The larval stage.”
Vivienne laughed so hard she had to sit.
Lucien settled Augie against his shoulder with alarming competence, as if he’d been doing this all his life.
“Very well. So, what does one do with a baby?” he asked.
“Feed him,” Daphne said.
“Hold him,” Simon added.
“Don’t let Gregory teach him how to fence,” Anthony warned.
“Don’t let Hyacinth teach him how to pick locks,” Violet added.
“Don’t let Colin teach him how to wink,” Benedict said.
Colin spluttered. “What is wrong with my wink?!”
Lucien ignored all of them and carried Augie toward the drawing room with the serene confidence of a man carrying a small loaf of destiny.
Every Bridgerton trailed after him like ducklings.
SCENE 3 – THE DAY UNRAVELS
ONE HOUR LATER…
Lucien laid Augie on a blanket, sleeves rolled with elegant precision.
“Now, young sir. Sometimes in life, one must confront battles no amount of strategy can prevent. This is one of them.”
Augie gurgled.
Lucien continued, solemn as a general: “Rule one: never show fear. Rule two: never let the enemy know you doubt yourself. Rule three—”
Eloise peered over. “He’s changing a nappy like he’s preparing for war.”
Benedict wiped a tear. “This is art.”
Gregory scribbled notes. “Entry #43: Do all things with gravitas.”
Anthony shouted from across the room. “STOP TEACHING HIM THINGS.”
ANOTHER HOUR LATER…
Lucien, seated on the carpet, explaining medieval battle formations while Augie chewed on his cravat.
“Flanking maneuvers are key, young sir.”
Augie gurgles triumphantly.
Gregory, wide-eyed, scribbling notes. “Should a baby understand flanking maneuvers?!”
Anthony storms in. “No. Absolutely not.”
Lucien looked up calmly. “Ah, Viscount. We were learning tactical strategies.”
Augie drooled aggressively on Lucien’s sleeve.
Anthony pointed. “That is not learning.”
Lucien glanced at the baby. “Ignore him. He lacks vision.”
READING TIME…
Eloise handed Lucien a book. “Perhaps read to him.”
Lucien glanced at the title.
“The Political Failures of Monarchical Rule.”
Anthony screamed from the hallway: “NO.”
Lucien sighed and picked up a fairy tale instead.
“Once upon a time—”
Augie swung the book like a tiny, chubby gladiator.
Colin wheezed. “He assaulted Lord Blackbourne and lived.”
Hyacinth gasped. “He will be unstoppable.”
Anthony roared, “He is not learning violence from Lucien.”
Lucien, to the baby, “We shall revisit your opinions when you can speak.”
TEA TIME…
Augie babbled at Lucien with great seriousness.
Lucien listened, nodding gravely. “Ah. Yes. A compelling argument.”
Eloise whispered, “He’s negotiating.”
Colin laughed. “He’s losing.”
Hyacinth gasped. “I think Augie just declared war.”
Anthony buried his face in his hands.
LATER…
Colin tried to teach Augie how to wink.
Augie sneezed in his face.
Benedict painted a portrait of Lucien holding the baby, dramatically lit, titled The Viscount of Infants.
Gregory attempted to hide under Lucien’s coat to learn “stealth.”
Hyacinth attached a ribbon to Augie’s hair and declared him “Commander of Tiny Operations.”
Anthony returned every twenty minutes to check for danger.
Vivienne found him lurking behind a doorway, arms folded.
“Why don’t you admit you care?”
“I…am ensuring no knives are involved.”
“It’s a baby.”
“It’s Lucien.”
SCENE 4 – THE LULLABY
Late afternoon sunlight spilled through the tall windows in golden sheets, softening the edges of the room.
When Daphne and Simon returned from their blissfully child-free stroll, the house was strangely quiet.
Too quiet.
Simon whispered, “Either he’s sleeping…or Lucien has accidentally summoned a deity.”
They stepped into the drawing room…and stopped like statues.
Lucien sat in the tall-backed chair as if born to it—coat loosened, posture relaxed, eyes softened to a quiet dusk. Baby Augie lay sleeping against his chest, small head tucked beneath Lucien’s chin.
Lucien’s hand traced soothing circles along the baby’s back, fingers careful, gentle, reverent.
His voice hummed a quiet, old lullaby—gentle and melancholy, something he probably hadn’t sung in years.
Not for effect.
Not for an audience.
Just…because the baby needed it.
The sight was disarming.
Daphne covered her mouth. “He did it. He put him to sleep.”
Simon blinked. “How did he do this? Is it magic?”
But they weren’t the only witnesses.
The entire Bridgerton family had assembled silently in the doorway.
Eloise, stunned, “I am terrified and impressed.”
Colin, whispering, “This is worrying. A seductive menace with child-calming powers? Absolutely worrying.”
Benedict, already sketching, whispering, “The light, the composition—this is my masterpiece.”
Hyacinth, sparkly-eyed, “I would follow him into war.”
Gregory, in awe, scribbling in his notebook.
Vivienne, warm and smiling softly.
Violet, serene and proud.
Anthony, staring like the laws of nature had just shifted. “That—That is not normal. He’s supposed to be dangerous. Not…”
He gestured helplessly. “...soothing.”
Vivienne exhaled, voice a soft ribbon across the room. “I told you he’d be fine.”
Lucien glanced up at them, smirk brushing the corner of his mouth—subtle, amused, aware of the power he held in that moment.
“Don’t look so shocked,” he murmured softly. “Chaos may be my native tongue…but even thunderstorms know how to hush themselves to sleep.”
Silence hit the doorway like a spell.
Anthony clutched the doorframe. “This is deeply upsetting.”
Colin whispered, “Imagine if Lucien ever had children.”
Anthony nearly shouted. “DO NOT.”
Lucien smirked, barely.
The baby slept on.
And for one still, golden moment, the Bridgerton household fell entirely silent—watching the most dangerous, dramatic man they knew cradle a child like something small and sacred.
It began—as divine revelations often do—with Eloise Bridgerton committing a crime.
She was supposed to be looking for Hyacinth’s bonnet.
She was, in fact, turning Gregory’s room inside out.
Drawers were open. Trousers were flung. A chair had been overturned in the line of duty. Eloise knelt on the carpet, muttering darkly about younger siblings and shared spaces, when her hand brushed something stiff beneath the mattress.
She tugged.
The mattress popped up with a sound that could only be described as guilty.
A heavy object slid free.
Black leather. Gold leaf lettering. Thick pages.
A notebook.
Eloise froze.
She read the cover.
She reread the cover.
She stopped breathing.
‘FIELD NOTES: OPERATION BLACKBOURNE’
There was a long, holy silence.
Eloise whispered, reverently horrified,
“Oh…my…GOD.”
Then she bolted.
She did not knock.
She did not pause.
She sprinted through the halls like the house was on fire.
“BENEDICT!” she shrieked at maximum volume.
“BENEDICT, I FOUND GREGORY’S BRAIN AND IT’S WORSE THAN WE THOUGHT!”
SCENE 2 – THE FAMILY SUMMONS
The drawing room filled in record time.
Violet sat primly with her tea, already bracing herself.
Vivienne sat near Benedict, smiling with the calm certainty of a woman who had lived through far worse.
Anthony stood in the corner like a man awaiting execution.
Colin sprawled across an entire sofa, vibrating.
Hyacinth leaned forward eagerly. Gregory sat beside her, pale and sweating like a man awaiting trial.
Lucien lounged comfortably in a chair, legs crossed, sipping tea.
He looked…pleased.
That alone should have been illegal.
Eloise slammed the notebook onto the table.
“Explain.”
Gregory squeaked. “I can—”
Anthony snapped, “You will.”
Violet peered at the cover. “Operation Blackbourne?”
She looked up mildly. “Gregory, darling, why does this sound militarized?”
“It’s observational,” Gregory said weakly. “For learning.”
Benedict snatched the book and flipped it open.
“Entry #1,” he read solemnly.
“Arrive like a question nobody asked but everyone desperately wants answered.”
The room exploded.
Colin howled.
Hyacinth slapped the table.
Vivienne buried her face in her hands, laughing.
Lucien lifted his cup. “Accurate.”
Anthony pointed at him. “Do not encourage this.”
Lucien smiled wider.
Benedict flipped the page.
“Oh. Oh, this is worse. Entry #3: Navy waistcoat — must match the glint in your eye and the sins of your past.”
Colin fell off the sofa.
Hyacinth clapped like she’d just witnessed a miracle.
Lucien inspected himself thoughtfully. “I do own that waistcoat.”
Gregory beamed.
Anthony began pacing.
Benedict kept reading, voice rising with disbelief.
“This is not a notebook. This is scripture.”
Lucien placed a hand over his heart. “I am deeply moved.”
Anthony lunged. “We’re ending this now—”
The notebook vanished.
Hyacinth snatched it. Gregory shielded her. Colin blocked Anthony’s path with his entire body.
Anthony froze.
“...Why are you all like this?”
SCENE 3 – FLASHBACKS FROM THE NOTEBOOK (GREGORY’S POV)
Benedict read as the room dissolved into Gregory’s memories.
FLASHBACK 1: THE FIRST ENCOUNTER (MORE THAN HONOUR: CHAPTER 6)
Gregory crouched behind a settee, biscuit forgotten.
Lucien entered the room and reality adjusted around him.
Gregory’s voiceover as Benedict reads:
“Entry #4: When first encountered, smile with the promise of mischief and unmade plans. Make the room shift.”
Gregory watched the slow chess between Lucien and Anthony, and he wrote like a clerk of prophecies—lines jotted under the table, pencil stuttering with excitement.
FLASHBACK 2: THE NAVY WAISTCOAT (MORE THAN HONOUR: CHAPTER 9)
Lucien walked into the Bridgerton parlor in the deep navy waistcoat.
Gregory scribbled furiously from behind the piano:
“Entry #9: Tousle hair before entering. Adds danger.”
Lucien announced, “I intend to court her.”
Gregory’s pencil snapped.
Colin whispered, “This is better than theatre.”
Gregory nodded, eyes shining.
FLASHBACK 3: THE WRIST KISS (MORE THAN HONOUR: CHAPTER 10)
Gregory was in the garden with the rest of his siblings.
Anthony gave Edwina a rose.
Lucien took Vivienne’s wrist.
Kissed it—barely.
The whisper of lips on skin was recorded in Gregory’s brain as holy noise.
“Entry #17: Wrist kisses are weapons disguised as courtesy. Use sparingly; they irreparably loosen knees.”
Hyacinth screamed.
Colin yelled, “DID HE JUST—”
Gregory wheezed, “She should take both.”
Anthony visibly aged.
FLASHBACK 4: THE DINNER BATTLEFIELD (MORE THAN HONOUR: CHAPTER 11)
Lucien lifted his glass to Vivienne only and the toast became obsolete.
Anthony’s jaw worked like a machine trying to swallow a rage.
Gregory stared as Lucien pours wine into Vivienne’s glass with vicious tenderness.
Gregory wrote: “Entry #26: Pouring wine for another is territorial. Observe the rival’s consumption patterns for weakness.”
FLASHBACK 5: ‘ANGEL’ (MORE THAN HONOUR: CHAPTER 23)
Lucien spoke softly, explaining the nickname.
Gregory felt the entire room draw breath in a single held second. Lucien’s explanation was something Gregory felt in his ribcage.
Gregory wrote: “Entry #42: Use a nickname that could ruin kingdoms. Nickname = claim.”
Back in the present, everyone stared at Lucien like he’s descended from myth.
Lucien blinked. “I feel seen.”
SCENE 4 – CONFISCATION FAILURE
Anthony snapped.
“That book is immoral. I am confiscating it.”
He lunged.
Hyacinth scooped it up and popped it under her sash.
Benedict distracted Anthony by shouting, “Where’s Colin’s pastry?”
Colin, in a masterclass of misdirection, tripped over his own feet and grabbed the notebook from Hyacinth’s lap.
Gregory tackled Colin with the solemnity of a man protecting scripture and they both tumbled onto the rug.
Anthony grabbed it—
—and Hyacinth slid it free like a magician.
Anthony roared, “THIS IS YOUR FAULT!” pointing at Lucien.
Lucien sipped his tea and shrugged. “Accidental mentorship.”
Anthony lunged again and knocked a cushion into the fire of the room—metaphorically. Colin, who at this point had gone very quiet and very far into plotting, slipped the book into his coat and walked out the door.
Anthony shouted aghast, “COLIN! RETURN THAT BOOK!”
Colin popped his head back in, “For research,” and ran back out.
Anthony screamed into a pillow.
SCENE 5: CONSECRATION
That night in the library, with a small circle of conspirators—Vivienne, Benedict, and Gregory (smaller still, hovering), Lucien took the notebook.
He opened to a blank page at the back as if signing a covenant.
Gregory vibrated.
Lucien lifted a quill with the same theatrical grace as opening a curtain.
He paused, looking at Gregory like a man seeing his reflection in an adoring student’s eyes.
Lucien smiled, “If I sign it, do you promise to write footnotes about my better lines?”
“Yes, I will,” Gregory said breathlessly.
Lucien scribbled his name in a long, looping hand, then added, as a flourish:
“To Gregory — Continue this heretical scholarship.
— L. Blackbourne”
Gregory made a sound that was half keening, half prayer. He kissed the page like a relic.
Benedict murmured, “He will ascend.”
Vivienne laughed, delighted in his glee.
Lucien leaned back, satisfied.
And somewhere in the house, Anthony lay awake, plotting vengeance.
Gregory was the first to notice something abnormal happening outside—
Abnormal meaning:
Lucien Blackbourne existing before breakfast.
“Hyacinth,” he hissed, face pressed to the window. “HYACINTH. He’s out there.”
Hyacinth burst out of her room like she’d been summoned to war.
“Is he dead?”
“No—worse. He’s walking.”
She slammed against the window beside him.
Lucien strolled through the garden in full morning glory, coat loose, hair perfect, looking like the dawn paid HIM rent.
Hyacinth put a hand to her chest.
“He wakes up looking like that?”
Gregory nodded gravely.
“He is not normal.”
Hyacinth: “We must gather the others.”
THE ASSEMBLING OF THE CHAOS SQUAD
Within minutes:
Colin slid down the bannister. “Why are we whispering?!
Hyacinth: “He’s awake.”
Colin pressed to the window. “He’s… brooding at sunrise. Who does that?”
Eloise arrived with the newspaper. “If this is about Lord Blackbourne existing—”
She saw him.
Eloise: “Oh that’s rude. How is his hair already styled?”
Benedict, half-dressed: “What’s happening?”
Hyacinth pointed. “He’s being aesthetically disrespectful to the morning.”
Vivienne strolled into the hallway with her tea, looked at the cluster pressed against the glass, and sighed in the tone of someone accustomed to this level of stupidity.
“What now?”
Gregory: “He’s walking at six in the morning.”
Vivienne: “Yes. He always does. He likes the quiet.”
Colin: “He’s making the rest of us look undisciplined.”
Eloise: “We are undisciplined.”
The siblings nodded.
Vivienne sipped her tea. “I’m going to greet him.”
Gregory grabbed her skirt.
“No! We must observe him first.”
Hyacinth nodded. “We’re learning about his patterns.”
Anthony appeared behind them.
He looked like someone had set his schedule on fire.
“What are you all doing?”
Colin pointed out the window. “Look.”
Anthony leaned in.
Lucien paused in the path, tilted his head like he heard a symphony only he could hear, and brushed a hand through his hair.
Anthony recoiled.
“Oh, not this.”
Hyacinth: “We’re going outside.”
Anthony: “No one is going outside.”
Vivienne: “Anthony—”
Anthony: “Vivienne—”
She smiled sweetly.
He immediately shut up.
Hyacinth pushed the door open.
Gregory followed.
Colin marched.
Eloise complained but tagged along.
Benedict wandered after them.
Vivienne strolled.
Anthony went last, muttering prayers.
THE DISCOVERY OF THE DAWN STRIDER
Lucien turned when they approached, eyebrows raised.
He did not look surprised.
He looked amused.
Which was worse.
“Good morning,” he said, like a man deeply aware everyone was staring at him.
Hyacinth: “How did you know we were here?”
Lucien gestured vaguely at their collective volume. “I heard… all of you.”
Gregory stepped forward. “Why are you awake?”
Lucien shrugged lightly. “Couldn’t sleep. Too much beauty in the world.”
Eloise: “Be serious.”
Lucien: “All right. Your brother snores.”
Anthony’s rage traveled through the hedge like a shockwave.
“I DO NOT SNORE,” Anthony barked—which was, unfortunately, very close to what he sounded like when he snored.
Vivienne sipped her tea. “You absolutely do.”
Anthony spun. “ET TU, VIVIENNE?”
Lucien bowed slightly to her. “Good morning, angel.”
Vivienne smiled. “Morning, menace.”
Anthony took a deep inhale of utter despair and decided to walk away before he committed a felony before breakfast.
BREAKFAST, OR: HOW TO LOSE ONE’S SANITY BEFORE TEA
The moment Lucien entered the breakfast room, the energy shifted.
He didn’t even do anything dramatic.
He just…sat down.
In Anthony’s chair.
Violet blinked slowly.
Anthony stopped mid-step.
The siblings froze in reverent horror.
Eloise whispered, “He’s in the throne.”
Colin: “He’s brave.”
Gregory: “He’s my hero.”
Lucien calmly poured himself tea.
“No need to stare,” he said pleasantly. “I’m extremely approachable in the morning.”
Anthony marched toward him like a soldier approaching a cannon.
“You’re in my seat.”
Lucien: “Not today.”
He didn’t even look up when he said it—which somehow made it worse.
Anthony stuttered. “W-what?”
Lucien sipped his tea. “I claimed it at dawn. You weren’t here. Finders keepers.”
Hyacinth gasped. “I love him.”
Vivienne choked on her toast laughing.
Violet looked to the heavens. “Lord, give me strength.”
Anthony pinched the bridge of his nose.
“This is not how households function.”
Lucien: “It is now.”
Eloise leaned forward. “Where did you get that robe?”
Lucien looked down.
“Oh. Borrowed it.”
Anthony: “FROM WHERE?”
Lucien: “The linen closet.”
Anthony looked ready to combust.
“THAT IS MY ROBE.”
Lucien blinked innocently.
“Not today.”
Gregory: “He’s unstoppable.”
Benedict helped himself to jam.
“This is the best entertainment I’ve seen in months.”
THE BREAKFAST CHAOS CONTINUES
Hyacinth: “Do you duel at breakfast?”
Lucien: “Only if provoked.”
Gregory held up his fork like a sword.
“I provoke you.”
Lucien: “Noted.”
Eloise slammed the newspaper down.
“Society is stupid. Agree?”
Lucien: “Completely.”
Eloise stared at him, astonished.
“Well. That’s refreshing.”
Colin: “Tell us something scandalous.”
Lucien: “Gregory was about to spar with a cabbage in the garden yesterday.”
Gregory: “HOW DID YOU KNOW—?”
Lucien winked.
“I know everything.”
Vivienne: “Unfortunately.”
Lucien smiled at her.
“You love it.”
Anthony sank further into despair.
THE HOUSE TOUR BEGINS
After breakfast, the siblings surrounded Lucien like a coordinated attack.
Colin: “Tour time.”
Lucien blinked. “Tour of what?”
Hyacinth: “Our domain. You have only been here as a guest before—it's time to see beyond the rooms Mother stages for outsiders.”
Eloise: “We voted. Unanimous.”
Benedict: “I abstained. But yes.”
Gregory: “WE ARE SHOWING YOU EVERYTHING.”
Anthony: “No, you’re not.”
Lucien: “Lead the way.”
Anthony: “NO.”
Colin: “Too late.”
Gregory: “We move as one.”
Eloise: “For educational purposes.”
Benedict: “For comedic purposes.”
Vivienne: “For destiny.”
Anthony: “FOR MY SANITY—STOP.”
They did not stop.
THE LIBRARY
Eloise immediately shoved Lucien into a reading nook.
“This is where I hide when society is unbearable.”
Lucien looked around. “So you live here.”
Eloise pointed a finger. “Do not mock my sanctuary.”
He bowed. “Would never dream of it.”
Eloise pointed around dramatically.
“This is where hope dies.”
Lucien: “Lovely!”
Anthony (entering): “DO NOT ENCOURAGE HER.”
Lucien: “I would never.”
Hyacinth: “He would always.”
THE MUSIC ROOM
Hyacinth flung open the door. “Play something!”
Lucien sat at the pianoforte and cracked his knuckles theatrically.
Anthony: “NO.”
Vivienne: “Yes.”
Lucien played the most dramatic thing he could think of.
Eloise: “That sounds like someone stabbing a poem.”
Lucien: “Correct.”
THE ATTIC
Colin opened the door.
Dust. Shadows. Bad decisions.
Lucien stepped inside.
“Oh, this is awful. I love it.”
Gregory grabbed an old helmet. “Treasure!”
Lucien snatched it away. “Tetanus.”
Gregory: “Please!”
Lucien: “Fine.”
Anthony walked in at the worst time possible.
“WHAT IS THAT ON HIS HEAD—”
The helmet fell sideways.
Gregory hit a box.
A trunk spilled open.
Hyacinth cheered.
Colin found a sword.
Benedict found a hat.
Lucien found a cloak.
Lucien put it on.
Vivienne: “Take that off.”
Lucien: “Absolutely not.”
Anthony: “Why are you like this?”
A moth-eaten curtain fell on Anthony’s head.
Lucien: “Symbolic.”
Anthony: “I am going to throw you out!”
THE KITCHEN
Mrs. Wilson adored Lucien instantly.
“You’re the handsome one.”
Anthony made a sound normally reserved for battlefield wounds.
“Excuse me?”
Lucien accepted a pastry gracefully.
“Thank you, Mrs. Wilson.”
Anthony: “Mother—help.”
Violet: “No.”
Gregory stole two pastries.
Hyacinth stole three.
Lucien stole one from Colin.
Colin: “HEY!”
Lucien: “Survival of the fittest.”
THE PORTRAIT HALL
Benedict: “Sit.”
Lucien: “Why?”
Benedict: “Art.”
Lucien sat.
Gregory: “Pose like a tragic hero!”
Anthony: “Pose like a normal person!”
Hyacinth: “Tragic hero.”
Vivienne: “Let him.”
Lucien: “She said let me.”
Lucien struck the most dramatic pose imaginable.
Anthony nearly walked into a wall.
THE BLUE SUITE
They finally reached Lucien’s room.
Lucien set a single glove on the desk.
Hyacinth set down six of his trunks.
Gregory dragged a crate.
Colin dumped a coat rack.
Eloise put books everywhere.
Benedict threw in pillows.
Vivienne added flowers.
Anthony screamed.
“WHERE ARE YOU ALL GETTING THESE THINGS?”
Vivienne leaned against the doorframe, amused.
Lucien turned, smiling warmly.
“I believe I’m settling in.”
Vivienne smiled back.
“Just don’t make this one explode.”
Lucien: “No promises.”
Anthony made a strangled noise in the hallway.
Lucien: “Something wrong, Bridgerton?”
Anthony: “YES.”
Lucien: “Wonderful.”
Anthony slammed a door.
The siblings cackled.
Lucien stretched out on the bed like royalty.
And just like that, the Bridgertons had fully, inexplicably, disastrously adopted him.
Vivienne, curled gracefully on the sofa with her tea, smiled. “Shall we?”
Anthony—Viscount, husband, head of the house, and lone bastion of resistance—stiffened like he anticipated bad news from a doctor.
The siblings dove in.
THE LETTERS
Hyacinth ripped hers open:
“Hyacinth,
Your last update regarding your plan to install secret passageways in Aubrey Hall was bold. I approve in theory. I disapprove in legality. I will bring you blueprints when I arrive in London. And your plan to train pigeons for espionage has both intrigued and concerned me. Please do not teach them to carry knives. I fear your Viscount brother has enough to worry about.
Warm mischief,
Lucien”
Hyacinth squealed. “HE’S BRINGING BLUEPRINTS.”
Anthony groaned.
Eloise’s letter had a different flavour:
“Eloise,
Your arguments on why marriage is a structural failure of society were magnificent. I read them thrice. In retaliation, I have enclosed my own rebuttal. Consider this: perhaps the true failure lies not in matrimony, but in the inability of men to be tolerable.
Your move,
L. Blackbourne”
Eloise preened.
“Finally. Someone who can keep up.”
Gregory opened his with reverence:
“Young sir,
Your poem about a knight’s quest was valiant. Your rhyming of ‘courageous’ with ‘outrageous’ was bold. I fear for the future of poetry, but admire your enthusiasm nonetheless. Continue training.
One day we shall spar.
—L”
Gregory turned red with happiness.
Anthony choked. “He is NOT sparing with Gregory.”
Benedict opened his and immediately started laughing:
“Benedict,
I send you sketches of my new fencing sabers. They deserve portraiture.
Also—here is a charcoal of myself looking dramatic, in case you need inspiration.
Yours in artistic suffering,
Lucien”
“I love him,” Benedict declared.
Anthony muttered, “Of course you do.”
Colin unfolded his and read aloud:
“Colin,
Your travel route suggestion was excellent. I shall take it.
If I die on the way, tell Eloise she was right about the monarchy.
Fondly,
Lucien”
“That man understands my soul,” Colin said.
Vivienne took hers last.
It was addressed in smooth ink: To Lady Vivienne Bridgerton.
She opened it, smiling already:
“Angel,
I trust married life is treating you with the chaos you deserve.
Please inform your husband I intend to behave myself this season. Mostly.
I miss your conversations. Tell Gregory he may pick any dagger he likes when I visit.
Even affectionately,
Lucien”
Vivienne laughed softly, eyes glowing. Anthony glared at the card like it had insulted him.
The siblings sighed in satisfaction.
Anthony tried very hard not to look interested when he discovered there was a letter with his name.
Addressed without flourish: Viscount Bridgerton.
He opened it slowly.
Inside:
“My favourite Viscount,
I trust the estate is running well.
I commend your decision to avoid writing back. It maintains the illusion that you do not like me.
I am sending you a bottle of the brandy you enjoyed last winter.
Please do not pretend you didn’t.
With utmost respect,
L. Blackbourne
P.S. You will not win the next fencing bout.”
Anthony closed the letter as if it personally attacked him.
“Why does he think we’re friends?” he muttered.
Vivienne: “Because you are.”
Anthony: “We are NOT.”
The siblings: “You are.”
Anthony glared at all of them.
THE LETTER THAT CHANGES EVERYTHING
On Friday morning, a particularly thick envelope arrived.
Benedict, Colin, Hyacinth, Gregory, and Eloise circled the footman like wolves.
Vivienne took the envelope with a smile. “It’s addressed to the entire family.”
Anthony immediately grew suspicious.
She opened it.
Her brows rose.
“Read it, Vivi,” Benedict said, leaning in.
Vivienne cleared her throat:
“My beloved terrors,
My London estate is undergoing renovations. An explosion may or may not have been involved.
As such, I shall be late arriving for the season.I shall miss you terribly.
Affection and disaster,Lucien Blackbourne"
A full second of silence.
Then:
Hyacinth: “NO.”
Colin: “UNACCEPTABLE.”
Benedict: “WHO CAUSED THE EXPLOSION?”
Eloise: “Probably him.”
Hyacinth: “We cannot be deprived of him!”
Gregory: “He promised to teach me how to throw a dagger!”
Vivienne blinked. “He did what?”
Eloise: “Mother must allow him to stay with us. Immediately.”
Anthony’s head snapped around. “What? No. Absolutely not. That house—MY house—is not turning into Blackbourne Abbey.”
Vivienne: “Anthony, darling. Be reasonable.”
Eloise: “Mother!”
Hyacinth: “MOTHER!!”
Anthony: If you all start chanting his name, I’m leaving the country.
Gregory: “LORD BLACKBOURNE IS HOMELESS!”
Vivienne snorted. “He is not homeless.”
Benedict: “But he could be.”
Colin: “Mother, please. Please. PLEASE.”
Violet entered the room at that exact moment with the serenity of a queen entering Parliament.
“What is the commotion?”
The siblings swarmed her.
“Lucien’s house is broken—”
“He has nowhere to go—”
“He’ll be late to the season—”
“Mother PLEASE—”
“He must stay with us—”
“I miss him—”
“He understands me—”
“He lets me commit minor crimes—”
Violet raised a hand.
Silence.
She looked at Vivienne.
Vivienne nodded politely.
She looked at Anthony.
Anthony’s mouth opened.
“No.”
Then closed.
Violet smiled gently.
“Of course Lord Blackbourne may stay with us.”
The siblings CHEERED.
Anthony stared at his mother, betrayed.
“Mother—”
“Anthony,” Violet said, patting his arm, “it is rude to leave a friend without lodging.”
“He is not—” Anthony stopped himself. “He is not a friend.”
“He is my friend,” Vivienne said mildly, which ended the argument instantly.
The siblings cackled.
“It’s settled,” Violet said. “Send a letter. Invite him to stay.”
Anthony let out a strangled noise.
Vivienne patted his arm. “It will be fine.”
“It will be chaos,” Anthony whispered.
“Exactly,” Hyacinth said happily.
THE DAY OF ARRIVAL
The Bridgerton estate hummed like a beehive about to riot.
Colin had climbed halfway up the banister to get the best view of the driveway.
Hyacinth was hiding behind a fern.
Gregory held a spyglass.
Eloise was pretending not to care while caring immensely.
Benedict had set up an easel “just in case.”
Vivienne stood beside Violet with patient amusement.
Anthony stood in the corner like a man walking willingly toward his own execution.
Then—
Three carriages turned into the drive.
Not one.
Not two.
Three.
Anthony’s face drained. “Oh, for the love of—”
The first carriage stopped.
Footmen moved.
Trunks emerged.
Trunks so large they could fit bodies.
Hyacinth whispered, “Please tell me he brought the cane.”
Synopsis:
Lord Lucien Blackbourne was never meant to move into the Bridgerton household.
Which is exactly why he’s here.
With his London estate undergoing “mysterious renovations” (read: something exploded), the Bridgertons have taken him in for the season. What follows is pure chaos:
a devilishly charming houseguest, seven meddling siblings, a mother who treats Lucien like a stray cat she fully intends to keep, a former-courtship-turned-bestie, and a Viscount who is one minor inconvenience away from spontaneously combusting.
This mini-series follows the absolute uproar that erupts when Lucien becomes an honorary Bridgerton—whether Anthony likes it or not.
Light. Humorous. Utterly unhinged.
And possibly the worst idea the Bridgertons ever had… or the best.
Before anyone drags me through the mud — yes, I am working on the Lucien x Reader spin-off that so many of you’ve been asking for. He absolutely deserves his own love story, and I want to do it justice.
But to keep everything consistent with the More Than Honour’s universe (and to avoid snapping you out of the continuity), I’m starting with a small Lucien spin-off prequel.
✨ What is it?
Lucien Blackbourne is moving into Bridgerton House for the new season, and we get to watch him survive the chaos, comedy, meddling, and emotional devastation that comes with being unofficial family.
Same timeline. Same characters. Same dynamic.
Pure chaos. Pure comfort. Pure Lucien.
✨ Why am I doing this first?
Because jumping straight into a Lucien x Reader story felt too sudden for the universe we’ve built.
I want the transition to feel natural — like his arc is continuing from where we last left him, not restarting from scratch.
✨ What about the original protagonist?
She will be renamed Vivienne in this spin-off so she can remain part of the Bridgerton world without confusing the POV for the eventual reader-insert.
✨ And the Lucien x Reader fic?
It is coming.
But I want it to feel earned — like a true next chapter in his life, not a patchwork addition.
So think of this prequel as:
A bridge.
A transition.
A chance for Lucien to breathe, grow, banter, suffer (lovingly), and be adored by the Bridgertons before stepping into his own romance.
Thank you for trusting my vision — this universe has grown beyond anything I imagined, and I want to build this next story right. 💖
Introduction:
It’s something neither you nor Lucien will ever speak of again.
It’s the breath before you return to your real life—and his last moment of pretending he’s part of it.
Author's Note: Okay,so...this one's for us. For every single one of you who fell a little too hard for Lucien—and for me, because let's be honest...I was right there with you.❤️
This doesn’t change the ending, it doesn’t rewrite anything—it just exists. Somewhere between memory and what-if.
I was listening to All I Ask by Adele and...my brain basically short-circuited. The scene wouldn’t leave me alone until I wrote it.
Think of it as a ghost chapter. A final moment for the ones who still wonder what might’ve been, if timing had been kinder. 💌
It was far too late for visiting hours.
The town outside had long gone still—that breathless hour before dawn when even London seemed to hesitate. The carriages had quietened. The streetlamps had burned low. And yet here you were, standing in front of Lucien’s estate with your heart pounding hard enough to make you feel foolish.
You weren’t supposed to be here.
He wasn’t supposed to be awake.
And yet…both were true.
You raised a hand, not sure whether you meant to knock or to stop yourself, but the door opened before you decided.
Lucien stood in the doorway, half-shadowed, barefoot, robe loosely tied, as though he had expected you. His eyes swept over you once, lingering — not in surprise, but in recognition.
Neither of you spoke.
After a moment, he stepped aside.
You crossed the threshold, the faint scent of smoke and scotch following him as the door clicked shut behind you. The fire in the drawing room was still alive, burning low, its glow painting him in amber and gold.
Lucien stood at the window, not looking at you—his posture relaxed, deceptively calm. But his hands? One was clenched around a tumbler of scotch. The other hung at his side, flexing, betraying the restraint that coated every breath he took.
The silence between you wasn’t comfortable like it usually was.
Finally, Lucien’s voice broke it—soft, low, the kind of tone that felt almost too fragile to exist.
“Does he know,” Lucien said, his voice slicing through the stillness, “that he’s the lucky one?”
You looked up from your hands. The question wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t even jealous. Just quiet
“Yes.”
He nodded once. The smallest movement. Like he needed the word to hurt just enough to be real.
And then…he turned.
Not with the charm he usually carried like armour. Not with the smirk, or the carefree gleam in his eyes.
He turned to you as a man with no weapons left. Just ache.
His voice cracked, just once. “Then why are you here?”
You had no answer, only motion—slow, unthinking—as you moved toward him.
“I don’t know,” you whispered.
You hesitated. Because you truly didn’t know. Because there wasn’t a reason that sounded kind when spoken aloud.
“Maybe to say goodbye,” you said finally. “Maybe to remember.”
His breath caught on the word goodbye.
For a second, he looked like he might step back. But then he didn’t.
Instead, he tilted his head, studying you as though you were something he wanted to memorize. The half-light caught in his hair. The faint crease in his brow betrayed everything he wouldn’t say aloud.
“Tell me something,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
A pause. The smallest tremor.
“If the world were different—if he didn’t have years with you over me—would you have chosen me?”
You could have lied cleanly. Could have told him no, like a promise to yourself.
Instead, you whispered, “I don’t know.”
His eyes closed. His breath caught. And then he smiled — a soft, trembling thing.
“Then lie to me once,” his voice breaking—pleading. “Just for me. Let me believe. Just for tonight.”
Something inside you gave way.
You took one step closer—then another—until you were close enough to see the reflection of the firelight in his eyes. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just waited.
Your hand rose before you realized it—fingertips brushing the edge of his collar, the rough fabric, the warmth of skin beneath it.
Lucien’s breath stuttered. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, as though steadying himself.
When he finally looked at you again, there was nothing left of the charming rogue. Just the man underneath — stripped bare of every defense he’d ever built.
“You don’t owe me anything,” he whispered.
“I know,” you said. “That’s what makes this harder.”
You didn’t know who moved first—maybe both of you did. But suddenly the space between you wasn’t a space at all.
It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t gentle either. It was inevitable.
You felt his hand come to rest at the side of your neck, the other ghosting along your back, drawing you closer as if trying to hold the moment still. Your own fingers found the line of his jaw, tracing the roughness there, the steady tremor beneath his skin.
The fire cracked softly behind you, but neither of you noticed.
There was only breath and warmth and that unbearable sense of almost—like the universe had tilted, and for once, you’d both leaned into the fall.
When the world righted itself again, your foreheads were still pressed together, your breathing uneven. Neither of you dared move.
Lucien’s voice came first, raw and reverent.
“All I ask,” he said quietly, “is if this is my last night with you… hold me like I’m more than just a choice.”
You didn’t answer.
You just reached up, rested your palm against his chest, and felt his heartbeat beneath your hand — quick, uneven, real.
For a long while, neither of you spoke. The fire burned lower. The night bled into gray.
When dawn finally began to touch the windows, the air between you had changed again.
Not heavier. Not lighter. Just final.
You stepped back first, hands falling away, eyes downcast.
Lucien didn’t move. Didn’t stop you.
He only watched—the same way he always had—with a softness that was somehow more painful than anger could ever be.
“Go,” he said, and his voice broke on the word. Then, quieter: “Before I stop being decent about this.”
You tried to smile. You almost managed it.
“Goodbye, Lucien.”
He nodded once, slow and sure. “Not goodbye, angel. Just goodnight.”
Your hand lingered on the doorknob, the cool metal grounding you in this impossible moment.
When you finally opened the door, the first light of morning spilled across the floorboards, gilding the room—gilding him.
He didn’t follow.
He just stood there, one hand still clutching the edge of the mantel, watching as you disappeared into the dawn.
And when the door closed, the fire behind him gave its last flicker—one last sigh before the room went still.
End Note: Since I’ve decided to continue Lucien’s story in the same universe as this fic to make it so this is more like a shared world now than a single POV, I’ll need to give the protagonist for this one an actual name to make future references.
I’ve shortlisted a few names so you can help me decide which one feels right.
Chapter 40: The First Breakfast of the Rest of Our Lives
Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader
Introduction:
The scandal’s barely cooled, the Viscount’s hair is a disaster, and somewhere, Lady Whistledown is sharpening her quill. But here we are — love confessed, reputations pending, and breakfast waiting.
Series Masterlist
Author's note:
It’s been a while, hasn’t it?
Life got in the way. But I couldn't just leave this story without tying up everything in a nice little bow.
Thank you for your patience, your passion, and your Lucien-level devotion.
To those waiting for his story: it’s coming. He’s not gone — just waiting for his own sunlight.
And to everyone who’s stayed, laughed, cried, and fought through these chapters with me — this one was for you.💖
The first thing Anthony noticed was the sunlight.
Pale and gold, it slipped through the gap in the curtains. It traced a slow path across his pillow, across the bare skin of his forearm, over the half-buttoned shirt he couldn’t quite remember putting back on.
For one dizzy, disoriented moment, he thought it had all been a dream — the kiss, the bourbon, the confession, the way her name still felt raw on his tongue.
You.
The way you’d said his name like it was both a question and an answer.
He blinked, sat up, and instantly regretted it—his head throbbing like it was housing a small symphony of regret and leftover bourbon. The study. The floor. The laughter. The decision.
And then—Lucien.
God help him, had they really gone to Blackbourne’s house?
Had he actually thanked the man for being better than him?
Anthony groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Christ.”
But underneath the hangover and the embarrassment, something fragile fluttered open in his chest—something that felt suspiciously like hope.
Because he remembered your words.
Your choice.
The way you’d looked at him—steady, certain, real.
He needed to see you.
Needed to know he hadn’t dreamed it all up like a drunkard’s fantasy.
Before his mind could talk him out of it, he was on his feet. Shirt half-tucked, hair mussed, the picture of a man still half-lost in last night’s chaos. He stood outside her door for a heartbeat, listening. The silence mocked him. Then he knocked—once, firm, heart hammering.
Meanwhile, across the hall, in your bedroom
You woke up to the kind of silence that didn’t feel empty—it felt full.
Full of memory of hands and whispers and laughter pressed too close.
Full of the slow hum of contentment that came after chaos.
Your body was heavy but your heart was light, as if for the first time in weeks you weren’t bracing for impact.
You turned your head on the pillow and smiled to no one, quietly.
Anthony Bridgerton loved you.
He had said it—brokenly, beautifully, honestly. And you had said it back.
And for one perfect, impossible night, nothing else had mattered.
Then, like an unwelcome guest, the thought arrived:
The family.
The ton.
Your eyes snapped open.
God. The world hadn’t stopped just because your heart finally had somewhere to rest.
The recollection of Lucien’s graceful reaction to your decision was like a balm, but the rest of the ton wouldn’t be as gentle.
By the time you sat up, your pulse had already quickened—panic, disbelief, and joy fighting for space in your chest.
You ran a hand through your hair, trying to collect the pieces of yourself that had scattered across the night before. You couldn’t stay in this half-dream forever. You would have to face them. Violet. The siblings. The scandal.
You could already hear Eloise’s voice: “Well, if you insist on making the ton combust, at least do it fashionably.”
A soft, disbelieving laugh escaped your lips.
And then came the knock.
Firm. Familiar. Desperate.
You didn’t even need to ask who it was.
Anthony stood outside your door, breathing staggered.
His voice was low when he spoke. Rough. Unpolished. “Tell me this is real.”
Your breath caught.
You blinked, startled. “Anthony—”
“Tell me you chose me.”
It wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t even a plea.
It was a confession, all over again.
A man undone, asking to be rebuilt in the truth of you.
For a heartbeat, neither of you breathed.
Then you exhaled. Slow. Sure.
And the fear drained from both of you at once.
You reached for his hand—just that—and when your fingers brushed, something electric and certain snapped into place.
“We’re real,” you whispered.
And his shoulder sagged, the fight leaving him in a rush.
Anthony leaned his forehead against yours, eyes closed, a breath escaping him that sounded like a prayer.
“We’re real,” he echoed, softer.
For one blissful moment, he’d forgotten the world still existed.
Neither of you moved for a while—just stood there, fingers threaded, hearts still syncing to the same impossible rhythm.
When you finally drew back, you were smiling.
“Now,” you said, brushing your thumb over his knuckles, “we have to tell the family.”
Anthony groaned. Loudly. “Must we do that immediately?”
“Yes,” you said. “Before Benedict dramatizes it, Eloise writes about it, or Violet plans the wedding.”
He cracked a grin despite himself. “You know them too well.”
“I grew up here,” you teased.
He kissed your knuckles, eyes still half-dazed. “God help me, I love you.”
You laughed—quietly, fondly. “You’d better.”
Later that morning…
You could hear it before you even reached the landing—the soft clatter of silver, the thud of footsteps across polished floors, and Hyacinth’s unmistakable voice floating up from below.
“If someone doesn’t pass the marmalade in the next ten seconds, I’m declaring war!”
Anthony froze halfway down the stairs, his head tilting slightly toward the sound, and then sighed like a man heading to the gallows.
You smiled—all dimples and quiet menace—and looped your arm through his.
“Ready?”
He exhaled. “Not remotely.”
“Perfect,” you said, giving him a tug forward. “Let’s ruin breakfast.”
He groaned softly. “You say that like it’s a group activity.”
“Oh, it is,” you promised. “You’re just lucky I’m leading the charge.”
The dining room was already in motion when you and Anthony stepped through the doorway—sunlight slanting in generous panes across linen and porcelain; footmen moving like choreography; Hyacinth mid-threat over a jar of marmalade; Gregory building a fortress out of toast points; Benedict halfway through buttering a scone with an artist’s intensity he had never once applied to canvas; Colin cheerfully doing nothing at all and yet somehow making it look exhausting.
Violet looked up at the exact second your feet crossed the threshold—as if the house itself sent word to her spine. Her expression shifted in the smallest, most dangerous ways: surprise, comprehension, relief, and the serene steel of a woman who’d seen eight children through storms and knew the shape of weather when she felt it in her bones.
Eloise clocked the linked arms. Then the air between your bodies. Then the way Anthony’s hand covered your fingers like a vow his mouth hadn’t said yet this morning.
“Oh, good,” she announced brightly, stabbing her egg. “The scandal has arrived.”
Anthony faltered for half a step.
You tightened your hold. “Morning,” you said, as if this were any other day, as if your life hadn’t detonated and reassembled itself in a single night.
“Is that bourbon I smell?” Colin asked, delighted. “At breakfast? How forward-thinking of us.”
“It’s penance,” Benedict murmured, eyes flicking to Anthony with a look that was ninety percent brotherly menace and ten percent feral glee.
Hyacinth finally obtained the marmalade through sheer, weaponized charm, then paused with her knife midair as she truly saw you. Her grin bloomed like conspiracy. “Oh. Oh! Ohhh. Good. Now pass me the scandal knife.”
“There is no ‘scandal knife,’” Violet said without looking up.
Gregory passed Hyacinth the knife anyway. “There is now.”
Anthony cleared his throat. “Mother. Everyone.”
You felt him steady—just a shift beneath your hand, a gathering. The room seemed to tuck itself in around the table, all noise softening at once.
And then, from the far side of the table, in a voice you knew too well:
“Ah. Salvation. I feared I’d be forced to endure this domestic opera without its stars.”
Lucien.
He sat—of course he did—like a cat who had found the warmest patch of sun and intended to be praised for it. Dark coat perfectly cut, expression perfectly polite, eyes perfectly, wickedly alive. A delicate teacup rested between his fingers, which was both an act of civility and a threat.
Anthony stopped dead. “You stayed the night.”
Lucien’s mouth tilted. “Your brother offered me a guest room after I escorted the bourbon-blessed home.” A beat. “Lady Bridgerton conscripted me for breakfast. Said I had the look of a man who shouldn’t be alone with his thoughts before noon.”
Violet sipped her tea, unbothered. “Quite right.”
Anthony looked like a man remembering three different embarrassing things at once.
You found your voice. “Lucien.”
“Angel.” His gaze flicked between the two of you, then down to your joined hands—the faintest, fondest lift at the corner of his mouth. “Congratulations on finally catching your Viscount.”
Eloise gasped, delighted. “Oh, I adore when a breakfast comes with plot.”
“Do sit,” Violet said gently, her eyes soft and steady on you both. “Before Hyacinth insists on a formal recitation.”
“I do insist,” Hyacinth said, already gesturing like a magistrate.
You and Anthony moved as one. You slid into the only two empty chairs—somehow miraculously side by side—and the table, which had always been your arena, your refuge, your test, became—today—something else.
Home.
Anthony didn’t release your hand until you were both seated. Even then, his thumb stroked once across your knuckles, like a promise he needed to say aloud but would not yet, not here.
“We have… news,” he began.
“Do we?” Gregory whispered to his toast fort, thrilled.
Violet’s smile was small and devastating. “We’re listening.”
Anthony inhaled. You felt it, the old impulse to armor, to arrange, to stand between the family and the weather. Then his shoulders tipped, just slightly, and he chose something else.
Honesty.
“I have ended my courtship with Miss Sharma,” he said, voice even, low. “I have made my apology. I will do all that is needed to make the public piece.”
A hush, respectful, acknowledging the sting beneath the dignity.
“And,” he added, turning at last, not to the table, but to you, “I am in love. I am done pretending otherwise.”
The room held its breath.
You neither flinched nor flushed. You met him where he was and gave him back the truth.
“And I love him,” you said. Your voice didn’t tremble. It didn’t need to. “I chose him.”
Colin exhaled like an overinflated balloon. “Thank God. Now I can stop pretending I didn’t spend all week placing bets in my head.”
Benedict thumped a hand to his heart. “As the brother who dragged the Viscount away from a coat rack last night, I accept tribute in the form of scones.”
Hyacinth slapped the table, beaming. “At last! A proper breakfast.”
Eloise tilted her head at you—searching your face for cracks, for cost—and seemed satisfied when she found only the steady thrum of joy under your ribs. “Fine. But if we’re done pretending to be surprised, may I also register that this is going to melt the ton’s collective brain?”
“Darling,” Lucien murmured, lifting his teacup, “that’s the only reason I’m still here.”
Anthony looked at him. Inevitable. Necessary. Some tension coiled there, a thread that might have snapped on a lesser day. It didn’t. It bent. It held.
“You knew,” Anthony said quietly.
Lucien’s smile was knives wrapped in velvet. “Only because you announced it every time you tried not to look at her.”
A beat. Then, softer, honest, no theatre: “I’m glad you did. Look at her, I mean. At last.”
Anthony’s jaw tipped once, a soldier’s nod offered to a rival who had never been one. “Thank you. For last night. For… all of it.”
Lucien’s eyes glinted. “I shall consider it an investment in future entertainment. Besides,” he added, languid as a cat in sunshine, “I promised Benedict I’d stay to witness the fallout. It would be ungentlemanly to flee before Eloise begins a mutiny.”
Eloise brightened. “Oh, I’ve already drafted a manifesto.”
“Of course you have,” Violet said, not without pride.
There was a collective breath then—the kind a room takes when a storm passes not because it lost its strength, but because someone opened the windows and let the weather in.
Violet set her cup down with soft finality. “Very well.” She glanced around the table, counting hearts as much as faces. “I believe what we require now is breakfast, followed by a plan.”
Anthony winced. “Mother—”
“Anthony.” Violet’s voice was velvet-wrapped iron. “We will be discreet. We will be kind. We will not pretend. I will call on Lady Mary and Miss Sharma myself.”
“Thank you,” he said, and meant the thousand things tied to it.
“As for the ton,” Violet continued, eyes turning to you with a warmth that made your throat sting, “they will always prefer scandal to context. We will give them the former as little as possible and the latter only to those who deserve it.”
“Which is no one,” Hyacinth stage-whispered.
“Which is very few,” Violet corrected delicately.
Colin leaned toward Eloise. “Do we need to form a protective phalanx when they walk in the park later? I can bring a parasol. For intimidation.”
“You can bring your inside voice,” Eloise said. “For once.”
Benedict nudged a plate your way, the gesture quiet, practical, brotherly. “Eat,” he murmured. “You’ll need your strength for ignoring idiots.”
Gregory finally emerged from behind his toast battlements. “Do we duel anyone?”
“Emotionally,” you said solemnly. “At dawn.”
Gregory glowed. “At last.”
As laughter flickered and clinked through the room, you felt Anthony’s hand find your knee beneath the table, a question that wasn’t nervous so much as reverent.
You slid your fingers under the edge of the cloth until you found his. Answer: yes. Still yes. Always yes.
Lucien watched the silent exchange. A shadow moved through his expression—gone as quick as a blink, replaced by a lazy salute with his teacup in your direction alone. You caught it. You returned it with the smallest, sincerest tip of your chin.
We’re alright? you mouthed.
He smirked. Always.
“Lord Blackbourne,” Violet said, drawing him neatly back into the circle, as she always did with strays and sovereigns alike, “will you stay and walk with us later? The gardens are kinder than the street just now.”
Lucien’s eyebrows made a brief, elegant climb. “If my Lady insists.”
“I do,” Violet said, and the matter was settled.
Plates went around. The world reassembled itself into small, human motions: butter passed, cups refilled, Hyacinth threatening to elope with the marmalade if anyone so much as looked at it. Every so often, someone touched you—Benedict’s shoulder to yours in a wordless I’ve got you, Eloise’s quick squeeze of your wrist under cover of reaching for jam, Colin pressing a second scone onto your plate like a peace offering to your nerves. Anthony never stopped looking at you. Not hungrily. Not desperately. Just with the quiet awe of a man who keeps discovering his house has more windows than he thought and every one of them is opening.
When the immediate ruckus had settled into the softer clatter of contentment, Violet dabbed her lips and set her napkin down. “One more thing,” she said lightly.
Every Bridgerton in existence braced, Pavlovian.
She smiled. “Do try not to be caught kissing in the study again. The staff talk.”
Anthony turned a colour you had never seen on a living person.
Colin wheezed. “Again?”
Eloise slapped the table. “I KNEW IT.”
“Wonderful,” Benedict sighed. “Now the furniture isn’t safe.”
“Leave the chaise out of this,” you said primly, and Hyacinth actually fell off her chair.
Even Lucien laughed—low, startled, helpless.
It rolled through the room and left everything brighter.
When breakfast—or whatever ritual of absolution it had become—finally loosened its hold, the family scattered into necessary orbits. Violet to letters; Benedict to pretend he wasn’t hovering nearby; Colin to “important errands” that were absolutely not important; Gregory to sharpen a spoon for an emotional duel; Hyacinth to weaponize ribbons; Eloise to find paper and then pretend she hadn’t found paper.
You stood to go and felt Anthony rise with you, his hand at the small of your back in a touch so careful it made you want to breathe deeper just to make room for it.
Lucien set his cup down and came to stand before you. He was too composed by half—every inch the scoundrel who’d made a religion of looking unbothered.
“Angel,” he said softly.
“Villain,” you returned, just as soft.
He leaned in a fraction, enough that only you could hear it. “If he ever forgets what he said last night…send for me. I’ll remind him. Thoroughly.”
You smiled, the kind that was equal parts gratitude and warning. “If you make him miserable on purpose, I’ll haunt you.”
“Promises,” he murmured, wicked, and then did what only the best men in the world know how to do—stepped back so that the light could fall on someone else.
Anthony cleared his throat. “Thank you,” he said again, because there are times when repetition is the only ritual that works.
Lucien’s eyes softened. “Try not to be boring about it, Bridgerton.”
“We won’t,” you said.
“Good.” He offered you a courtly bow that did not hide the fondness in it. “Then go on. Ruin the ton. It had it coming. And I expect to be included in the wedding planning. After all, someone has to veto all our Viscount’s attempts at making it a ‘sensible affair’.”
You laughed, and the sound followed you into the hall as you and Anthony slipped away toward the garden, toward the necessary conversations, toward the afternoon and the eyes and the whispers and the plan.
Halfway down the corridor, Anthony slowed you with a hand at your wrist. You turned. He looked nervous. Not of you. Of deserving you.
“Tell me again,” he said, almost shy. “Before the world comes looking.”
You stepped in, close enough to count every fleck of gold in his gaze. “We’re real.”
His answering exhale felt like summer finally trusting the weather.
“Walk with me?” he asked.
“Always,” you said, and meant it.
Behind you, the house breathed—a living thing, a witness, a chorus. In the dining room, Violet rang for more tea and steel. In the doorway, Lucien watched a moment longer, then smiled to himself and reached for the paper, already anticipating the next column and daring it to try and tell your story better than the way you were about to live it.
Introduction:
You laughed. You spiraled. You chose sides.
But deep down, you always knew it had to come to this.
The bourbon. The confessions. The heartbreak that doesn’t scream — it whispers.
Let’s put the triangle to rest, shall we?
Series Masterlist
You’re still tangled in Anthony’s arms, breathless and stunned. That kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t polite. It was the kind of kiss people write books about and never get over. It left your fingers trembling, your lips burning, and your entire moral compass doing backflips.
But just as he tries to pull you closer, maybe go in for another — you put your hand on his chest to stop him. Your lips still barely parted from his, your breath still uneven. Still so close your noses nearly brushed, your fingertips lingering against the curve of his jaw, unwilling to let go—but your voice, when it came, was clearer than it had been in days.
“We can’t do this… not yet.”
Anthony stilled. His hands were still braced at your waist, grounding him like he feared you’d disappear if he let go.
Your voice dropped, gentler now. “Not when there’s still so much tangled.”
For a moment, you thought he might argue. You saw it—the flash of resistance, of desperation—flare in his eyes like a match about to strike. But it passed. Slowly. With effort.
He nodded slowly.
He nodded slowly. ‘Then what do we do instead?’ The question wasn’t sharp or wounded—just open. Honest. “Because I’m not ready to let you walk away. Not yet. Not even to leave this room right now. Maybe not ever again.”
You exhaled, stepping back just enough to blink some air back into your lungs.
“You know what,” you said slowly, “I think I need a drink.”
He blinked. “A drink?”
You nodded. “Something strong. And then we’re going to talk.”
Anthony didn’t even hesitate.
He crossed to a cabinet near the far bookcase and pulled open a small hidden compartment like a man on a mission. A bottle of aged bourbon appeared, followed by two tumblers—clearly not meant for tonight. He raised the bottle, one brow arched.
You smirked. “Is that bourbon hidden in your study, or are you just always prepared for emotional crises?”
“Do you hide sarcasm in your bloodstream?” he shot back, pouring.
Touché.
He returned, offering you one glass and lowering himself to the carpet with the other like it was the most natural thing in the world. After a beat, you followed suit—sitting down on the floor beside him, your skirts pooling around you in a scandalous, crumpled mess.
“I’m never going to be able to sit in here again without picturing this exact scene,” you murmured, inspecting your drink.
Anthony took a slow sip, eyes still half-lost in you. “That’s rather the idea.”
You rolled your eyes but felt the corners of your mouth twitch. And there it was—that flicker of something old and familiar. Not the yearning or the heartbreak or the almosts that had haunted you both for weeks.
Just him. Just you. Like it used to be.
“You know,” he said after a long moment, “you’re the only person I’ve ever had a drink with on this floor.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Is that meant to be romantic or mildly concerning?”
He shrugged, taking another sip. “Bit of both.”
You tilted your head toward him. “I can’t believe you’re trying to flirt after—” you gestured vaguely between you “—all of that.”
He gave a lazy, lopsided grin. “Darling, I’ve been trying to flirt with you since you pushed me into the fountain when you were twelve.”
You stared at him.
He blinked. “Wait, was that not flirting?”
You couldn’t help it—you laughed. Really laughed. The kind that cracked something open, that made your ribs ache and your heart warm all at once.
Anthony was watching you again—like he’d waited years for that sound. Maybe he had.
When your laughter finally faded, you sipped your drink again and leaned back on your hand, eyes still dancing.
“I should warn you,” you said, voice casual, “I’m still very upset with you.”
“Oh, I’m counting on it,” he replied. “Keeps things exciting.”
“Anthony.”
His smile softened. “I know.”
And just like that, the air shifted again—lighter, but not fragile. Real.
The ghosts of everything unsaid lingered, but for now—they could wait.
Right now, you were just two people on the floor of a Viscount’s study, nursing stolen bourbon and something a little stronger than hope.
Moments later…
The bourbon had burned at first. The kind of slow heat that curled down your throat and made your chest ache — not because of the alcohol, but because Anthony poured the first glass with trembling hands.
Now, a few drinks in, the burn had dulled. Your legs were tucked beneath you on the carpet, the hem of your dress fanned out around you like a misplaced debutante, while Anthony lounged beside the fireplace, collar undone, waistcoat off, cheeks pink.
It felt... weirdly normal.
“I still cannot believe we’re just sitting here,” you murmured, tipping your glass slightly toward him. “Like we didn’t just—”
“Kiss like the world was ending?” Anthony offered dryly, smirking.
You threw him a flat look. “I was going to say blow up our entire lives, but sure. Let’s go with that.”
He chuckled, tipping his head back against the wall. “I don’t suppose you have any thoughts on what we do next?”
“Oh, plenty,” you said. “But most of them involve running away to a foreign country and changing our names.”
Anthony grinned — an unguarded, youthful grin you hadn’t seen in years. “And leave the Bridgertons behind? Gregory would start a revolution.”
You snorted into your drink. “Gregory would follow us with a wooden sword and a three-act monologue.”
“And Hyacinth would write a scathing pamphlet about betrayal.”
“Eloise would edit it,” you added helpfully. “Then publish it under a pseudonym while pretending to be outraged.”
Anthony laughed so hard he choked on his drink. “God, she would.”
There was a lull. Comfortable. Soft.
“I think Benedict might actually be relieved,” you said after a moment. “He’s been giving us those smug little glances for weeks now.”
Anthony groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “He has no right to look that smug when his idea of flirting is throwing paint at women.”
You grinned. “And Colin?”
Anthony blinked. “Colin will pretend he’s shocked. Then make three inappropriate jokes and tell everyone he always knew.”
You tipped your head toward him, arching a brow. “Violet?”
The grin slipped a little. He swallowed. “She’ll say she’s happy. Then cry. Then say she’s fine. And cry again.”
“And Daphne?”
He didn’t answer right away. Then: “She’ll smile. That terrifying Duchess smile that means she’s already planning a wedding. And then she’ll go tell Simon.”
“And Simon?”
Anthony narrowed his eyes. “Simon will say nothing. Just raise an eyebrow like he knows every sordid detail. Which he won’t. And never will.”
You snickered. “Sure, Anthony.”
He looked at you then. Really looked. Warm and a little lost. “What about Francesca?”
You softened. “She’s in Bath, but she’ll write a letter. Something short. Just enough to make us cry.”
Anthony hummed, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “You’ve always known how this family works.”
You took a sip. “I did grow up in this house.”
Another pause. A quieter one.
“About my conversation with Edwina today…”
Your hand froze mid-sip. The moment twisted slightly.
Anthony didn’t look at you. He was staring into his glass like it held answers. “I never meant to hurt her,” he said quietly. “I truly believed she was the right choice. The… safe choice.”
“And I was the dangerous one?” you asked, a bitter edge curling into your voice.
He turned to you, eyes wide. “No. No, never that. You were the real choice. And that terrified me.”
You looked down at your lap. “She’s a good woman.”
“I know.”
“She deserved more.”
“I know.” His voice cracked. “I told her that.”
You nodded, lips pressed tightly together.
“Lucien deserves better, too,” you say quietly.
Anthony’s chest twisted, but he didn't say anything.
“He makes me laugh,” you said. “Not just in passing — really laugh. In that way you forget you’re hurting.”
Anthony stared.
“He never asked me to explain myself. Never made me feel like a puzzle he needed to solve. And when I was around him… I didn’t feel like I was holding my breath.”
Anthony’s throat bobbed. “He’s a good man.”
You nodded. “One of the best.”
There was a silence. Not heavy — not yet.
And then Anthony said it. Like it had just occurred to him:
“Oh wait! Lucien already knows.”
You blinked. “I’m sorry — what?”
Anthony winced. “I may have… told him. At Aubrey Hall.”
Your mouth dropped open. “You what??”
He shrugged helplessly, looking both sheepish and defensive. “He confronted me. Said he could see it written all over my face, and that I should not waste time hiding my feelings for you. He knew, alright? He said that he would step aside if you chose me. And then he thanked me — like a lunatic — for letting him know he had real competition.”
Your face twisted. “You two had an entire moment without me??”
“I wouldn’t call it a moment—”
“You shared feelings and secrets! That is peak best friend behavior!”
Anthony groaned, burying his face in his hands. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re apparently in a bromance with my almost suitor.”
Anthony looked up, cheeks flushed. “Lucien was the only one who actually understood what it was like to be hopelessly — pathetically — enamored with you.”
You stared.
He blinked. “I didn’t mean— I mean, I did, but—”
You burst out laughing. A deep, ridiculous, drunken laugh that sent your head tilting back and your stomach clenching.
Anthony laughed too. Helplessly.
And in that moment — half drunk, the bottle of bourbon much emptier than either of you remembered, wildly in love, and sitting on the carpet like children pretending nothing else existed — it didn’t matter how much had been broken before.
You were putting it back together now.
Anthony was watching you now.
That look again.
The one that felt like gravity.
He leaned in, lazy and warm, his voice a low rumble just above your ear. “So... is this the part where I get to kiss you again?”
You turned to him—eyes still dancing with leftover laughter, but softer now.
“No.”
He blinked. “No?”
You raised a brow. “Not yet.”
He gave you a look that could only be described as betrayed. “But why?”
“Because,” you said, and to your credit, your tone was almost serious, “Lucien still deserves to hear it from me.”
Anthony let out a breath through his nose and dropped his head back with a groan. “Ugh, why are you such a good person?!”
You tilted your head dramatically. “Would you rather I wasn’t?”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation, dragging a hand through his hair. “Just for tonight. Just so I don’t have to wait.”
He leaned toward you again, slower this time—more pleading than seductive.
You put a hand on his chest, firm but fond. “Nope.”
He pouted. Actually pouted. “But I don’t want to wait to kiss you.”
“Well,” you said, tapping your chin as if deep in thought, “we could go tell him now.”
Anthony straightened. “Now?”
“Now.”
“It’s—” he looked at the window. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“Yes,” you said, as if that fact were entirely irrelevant. “But you’re not going to stop trying to kiss me, and I’m not going to let you unless this is settled. So… logically speaking—”
“Oh god, not logic.”
“—we should just go and tell Lucien right now.”
Anthony squinted at you. “You’re drunk.”
“So are you.”
He grinned. “Perfect. Let’s do it.”
You stared. “Wait—really?”
“Absolutely. Let’s go.”
“You’re not going to talk me out of this?”
He stood up, wobbled slightly, and offered you his hand with all the confidence of a man who had absolutely no business walking in a straight line. “The sooner you tell him, the sooner I get to kiss you. I’m invested in the timeline.”
You laughed as he hauled you to your feet, the two of you swaying together in a bubble of giddy, half-buzzed logic.
“Okay,” you said, heart hammering. “Let’s go confess to the most dramatic man we know.”
Anthony smirked. “Oh, he’s going to love this.”
And with that, the two of you stumbled out of the study and into the night—drunk on bourbon, bold on love, and very much unprepared for whatever chaos awaited you at Lord Blackbourne’s doorstep.
A short carriage ride later…
The door to Lord Blackbourne’s townhouse opened with a slow, deliberate creak — one that might as well have been signaling the arrival of an impending storm. Midnight had never felt quite so... theatrical.
Lucien blinked once, his face a portrait of elegant indifference as he took in the scene before him: Anthony Bridgerton, looking like he'd just fought an army of drunken demons, standing on his doorstep with that signature grin — all flushed, disheveled, and far too pleased with himself for the state he was in.
And then, there was you. Equally tipsy, a little unsteady on your feet — but the smug glint in your eyes was impossible to miss. Like you had just pulled off some great victory.
Lucien raised a brow, his robe casually tied at his waist. The kind of elegance that could only come with hours of practice in not giving a damn.
“Well,” he drawled, his voice smooth, “If it isn’t chaos incarnate... And her escort.”
You shifted your weight, eyeing him as you crossed your arms. “Lucien.”
Anthony, swaying slightly, took the liberty of answering before you could go on. “She insisted. Wouldn’t even let me kiss her again until—”
“He said you knew,” you cut in, voice cool and edged with accusation as you looked at Lucien. “About him. About the fact that he's been in love with me.”
Lucien blinked, slow and deliberate this time, taking in the confession as if it were nothing more than another piece of gossip. “Did he now?”
“You didn’t tell me,” you continued, holding his gaze. “Which, by the way, is betrayal.”
Lucien sighed, as though he was summoning patience from the very air around him. Then, with a languid grace, he stepped aside, opening the door wide enough to let both of you through.
“By all means, come in and accuse me on plush carpets instead of the street. Wouldn’t want the neighbors thinking I’m the scandal of the hour.”
Anthony barely managed to make it past him before collapsing onto the chaise, groaning like he'd just been run through with a sword. You followed, a little too dignified for someone clearly in the same state of tipsy disarray.
Lucien shut the door behind you and turned, his arms folding with practiced ease as he regarded you both. The silence was thick, but there was a small, subtle shift in his gaze when it landed on you. Something that felt less like judgment and more like quiet understanding.
You softened slightly, the facade of indignation slipping as you faced him. “I didn’t want you to hear it from a gossip column. Or the ton. Or,”—you waved vaguely at Anthony, who was still struggling with his cravat as if it had become a personal enemy—“that.”
Lucien studied you, taking in the way your eyes flickered from Anthony back to him. There was a light there, a glow that hadn’t been there before. A certainty. You weren’t waiting anymore.
You had chosen.
Lucien exhaled, leaning against the doorframe with a long, drawn-out breath. “Something to drink?”
Both of you answered in unison, your voices betraying how much of the evening had already been drowned in alcohol. “No more.”
He smirked, eyes flickering with that familiar, sharp amusement. “Cowards.”
You took a half-step closer, your voice a little quieter now. “I’m sorry.”
Lucien let the silence linger a moment longer, his gaze shifting from you to Anthony. The latter had somehow managed to unbutton his waistcoat and now lay back on the chaise, looking up at the ceiling like it held the answers to life itself.
Lucien’s throat tightened. He should be devastated. Should feel the world tipping sideways beneath him.
But how could he?
Look at you. Look at how happy you were.
Lucien exhaled deeply. “So, the Viscount finally got there.”
Anthony made a small noise of acknowledgment, still swaying slightly as he propped himself up on one elbow. “Took me long enough.”
Lucien raised a brow. “And here I thought I was your competition. Turns out I was your confessor.”
Anthony winced, a bit sheepish. “You were... better than I deserved.”
Lucien’s gaze flickered to you, watching the way you both exchanged that look — the one that said everything needed to be said in a single glance. “He’s a fool, you know.”
You grinned. “I’ve always known.”
Lucien chuckled under his breath, but there was a quiet ache in his chest. Not jealousy. Just a dull ache for the road not taken.
He should have been angry. But how could he be, when you were radiating this happiness, so certain of what you wanted?
He straightened with a sigh. “I should get you both home before this turns into a scandal worthy of column ink.”
You blinked. “You’re taking us?”
Lucien glanced over at Anthony, who was currently wrestling with his cravat like it was a personal vendetta. Lucien’s tone was dry, his expression unchanging. “Would you trust him to?”
You sighed, resigned. “Fair enough.”
With a small huff, Lucien went for his coat, adjusting it with a nonchalance that belied the way his chest felt heavier now, weighed down by this undeniable truth.
Back at the Bridgerton Estate…
The door swung open, and the poor maid who answered blinked like she wasn’t entirely sure if she was awake or dreaming.
In front of her stood Lord Blackbourne — coat slightly rumpled, expression unreadable — flanked by two disasters masquerading as nobility.
“Would you be so kind,” Lucien said gently, “as to fetch Benedict? I fear the Viscount and Lady Y/N are one spilled drink away from dueling the carpet.”
Behind him, Anthony attempted to hang his coat on the rack. Missed. Tried again. Missed worse. Then whispered something to it like it had betrayed him.
You were leaning against Lucien’s arm with the kind of wide-eyed affection that only came from half a bottle of bourbon and a full-hearted confession. “You smell like expensive sadness.”
Lucien snorted. “It’s bergamot, actually.”
Anthony reached out and patted Lucien’s shoulder like he was knighting him. “You’re a saint. Possibly a prophet. Definitely too good for this world.”
Lucien looked between the two of you and sighed. “Please stop complimenting me. It’s making the heartbreak confusing.”
You gasped, smacking his chest lightly. “You are not heartbroken. You are a glorious marble statue of emotional maturity.”
Anthony nodded sagely. “You’re the best man I’ve ever met.”
Lucien glanced toward the ceiling. “And yet you chose him. Curious.”
You grinned. “I’m clearly a woman of contradictions.”
The maid reappeared, wide-eyed, with Benedict trailing behind her in a robe — looking for all the world like he’d just walked into a fever dream.
He took in the scene: Anthony swaying, your head on Lucien’s shoulder, Lucien holding you up like it was just another Thursday.
Benedict blinked. “How… how did this happen?”
Lucien raised his hand like he was delivering the punchline of a joke. “She picked Anthony.”
Anthony raised both arms in victory. “It’s me. I’m the Anthony.”
You beamed. “And I love him.”
Lucien placed a hand over his heart. “Tragic, isn’t it?”
Benedict looked vaguely delighted. “Honestly? It tracks.”
Lucien nodded solemnly. “Don’t worry, I’ve already called for the violins and drafted my tragic poetry. Act II begins tomorrow.”
You poked him in the side. “You love us.”
Lucien smiled softly. “Unfortunately, I do.”
Benedict clapped his hands. “Alright, romantic gremlins. I’ll take disaster number one.” He nodded toward Anthony. “You,” he said, pointing at Lucien, “get her to bed. Try not to let her flirt with the wallpaper.”
“She flirted with the bannister earlier,” Lucien said thoughtfully. “Said it had excellent posture.”
You pouted. “Don’t betray my secrets.”
Lucien rolled his eyes but adjusted his grip on your waist. “Come on, heartbreak. Let’s get you off the battlefield.”
Benedict was already guiding Anthony away, the Viscount mumbling something about duels and destiny.
Lucien looked at you one more time — your flushed cheeks, your wild grin, the soft gleam of certainty in your eyes.
He was hurting.
But more than that, he was proud.
You were happy.
And somehow, even this ache felt worth it.
Upstairs—Your bedroom…
Lucien opened the door gently, like he might wake something sacred. You were still leaning against him, sleepy now, the edges of your smile blurring under the weight of bourbon and everything that had come after it.
He guided you to the bed without a word — helped you sit, pulled the blanket up over your legs, smoothed the covers with the kind of quiet care that asked for no recognition.
And then he turned to leave.
“Lucien…”
His hand paused on the doorframe.
You swallowed. “All jokes aside, you really are a better man than I deserve. Truly. I am very fond of you, and I would have grown to be in love with you with time. But Anthony—”
“—You’re in love with him now,” Lucien finished, turning back to face you.
His voice was steady. Warm. But underneath, it trembled with something close to reverence.
“I get it. I’m not cross with you over this, angel. I knew that you had fallen for Anthony. I only wanted to give you a soft landing in case he wasn’t there to catch you.”
Your brows lifted slightly. “You knew?”
Lucien’s mouth curved, not into a smirk, but something quieter. “I may be a scoundrel, but I’ve always been good at reading what’s never said aloud. The way you looked at him? That was never mine to touch.”
He stepped forward, just enough for the firelight to catch the edge of his expression — wistful, but not wounded.
“But someone had to push him.”
You didn’t speak.
Neither did he.
Not for a moment.
Then—
“I told myself it was a game,” Lucien said quietly. “That I could handle losing. That I was clever enough to love you in the shadows without it costing anything real.”
Another beat of silence.
“I was wrong.” His voice dipped. “And knowing how it ends—I’d still do it again.”
Your throat tightened.
But no words came.
Lucien smiled then — not with his usual flair or mischief, but with a gentleness that was almost painful.
“Do you know what I envy most about him?” he asked softly. “He gets to stay.”
Your eyes lifted to meet his. “Then why did you—?”
“Because he needed to see it,” Lucien replied. “Because you needed to see it.”
There was a flicker of something more familiar now — that signature spark that never quite left him, even in moments like this.
“And, if I am to be honest,” he added, tone dry, “I do enjoy making your dear Viscount absolutely miserable.”
A breath of laughter escaped you before you could stop it.
“You are insufferable,” you muttered.
Lucien’s smile widened. “That I will not deny.”
Another pause.
But it was a warm one this time. Full of everything that wasn’t lost.
“I do not wish to lose you,” you said quietly. “As a friend. You have become very important to me.”
Lucien straightened slightly, like the weight of those words deserved good posture.
“Then you shall not!”
You blinked. A little surprised.
He tilted his head. “Did you think I would cast you aside?”
You didn’t answer.
You didn’t need to.
A slow, knowing smile curved at the corner of his mouth. He stepped closer, reached forward—not to take your hand, but to brush his fingers lightly against yours.
The touch was fleeting.
But it was real.
And it held the weight of everything he wasn’t saying.
“You forget, angel,” Lucien said softly. “I am not Anthony Bridgerton.”
The words hung in the air — mischief and melancholy balanced delicately between them. A reminder. A farewell. A promise.
He moved back toward the door, hand resting on the frame once more.
Then—gently, like a lullaby:
“Now go to sleep. Sweet dreams, angel.”
And with that, he left.
The door clicked shut behind him.
And for a long moment, you just sat there — blanket tucked around you, fingertips still tingling from his touch, heart full of things that would never be spoken again.
Out in the hallway…
Lucien stood there for a second. Breathing. Collecting himself.
Then he turned.
And found Benedict Bridgerton leaning against the wall a few paces away, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Lucien arched a brow. “Were you lurking?”
“I prefer the term loitering with purpose.”
Lucien huffed out a breath — something like amusement, something like exhaustion.
“She asleep?” Benedict asked.
“Eventually,” Lucien said. “She tried to argue with the blanket, so I assumed the night had peaked.”
Benedict smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re taking this well.”
Lucien’s gaze dropped, just for a moment. “Am I?”
Benedict pushed off the wall, stepping closer. “You don’t have to lie. Not to me. I have been watching the three of you since all of this started.”
Lucien looked at him then — really looked.
And for once, didn’t dodge the truth.
“I’m not angry,” he said, voice quieter now. “And I’m not surprised. But it hurts more than I thought it would.”
Benedict nodded slowly. “I know.”
Lucien let out a slow exhale, hands tucked into his coat pockets. “The thing is… I never expected to win her. Not really. But for a while, I got to imagine what it would feel like. To be the one she looked at that way.”
“And now?” Benedict asked.
Lucien smiled, soft and crooked. “Now I get to let her go.”
A silence stretched between them. Comfortable. Sad.
“She loves you,” Benedict said eventually. “Not the same way. But she does.”
Lucien nodded once. “I know.”
“And Anthony?”
Lucien rolled his eyes. “Is going to ruin everything by waking up tomorrow and trying to be noble again.”
Benedict snorted. “God, I hope not.”
Lucien tilted his head, something flickering in his expression. “The real chaos begins when the rest of the family finds out.”
Benedict groaned. “Eloise alone could start a mutiny.”
“And Hyacinth will charge interest.”
Benedict grinned. “Are you staying for the fallout?”
Lucien smirked. “Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Author's Note:
Now, for those of you rooting for Lucien — and asking (begging) for a Lucien x Reader — I hear you. Loud and clear.
Honestly, I never expected him to get this much love, and I want to take the time to make sure his story is told right.
That being said, I already had a Lucien spin-off idea in the works — one that continues his journey in this universe. It wasn’t originally planned as a prequel, but now… it just might be.
So if you’ve been waiting to see more of him, trust me: you will.
Just not all at once. And not without giving him the arc he deserves.
I really hope you can trust my vision for this — and thank you, truly, for loving him the way you have. 🤍
Introduction:
(Read this like the start of 'The Greatest Showman’) Woaaaaaah...Ladies and gents, this is the moment you've waited for...😏
Series Masterlist
Author's Note: I know it’s been a while. Almost a month, in fact. Life got busy, this chapter was intense, and honestly, I didn’t want to post it until it felt worth the wait. So, if you reread the story from the start while waiting — this one’s for you. 💌
I poured everything into this chapter. And I’m so grateful you stayed. Thank you for loving this story — and these characters — enough to come back when it mattered most.
Now go scream. I’ll be right there with you. 😌❤️
Two days had passed since Aubrey Hall — since the waltz, since the silence, since the weight of a hundred unspoken things had been packed away into trunks and tucked behind polite farewells.
And yet, somehow, it still clung to the air.
The Bridgerton town estate had returned to its usual rhythm — maids polishing silver, butlers coordinating calling cards, footmen opening doors just before the knock — but the pulse of the house had shifted. It beat slower. Or maybe faster. Or maybe… just differently.
The morning sun spilled in golden slants through the breakfast room windows, warming the long table that had hosted meals, arguments, and announcements. The scent of buttered toast, marmalade, and fresh coffee filled the room — but so did something else.
A tension.
Soft. Subtle.
But unmistakable.
You were already seated when Anthony entered.
You didn’t look up.
Neither did he.
But every other Bridgerton in the room noticed.
Violet was seated at the head of the table, her teacup poised in midair as she tracked the non-interaction with a precision honed by years of motherhood. She said nothing — merely raised a brow and took a measured sip.
Benedict, across from you, watched Anthony settle into his seat like one might watch a fox enter a henhouse — with casual amusement and a hint of mischief.
Colin, beside him, looked between the two of you and then narrowed his eyes in mock suspicion, as though mentally rearranging puzzle pieces he didn’t yet have.
Gregory was already piling eggs onto his plate like nothing in the world mattered more than cholesterol.
Hyacinth had clocked the energy the second Anthony walked in. She said nothing. But her elbow on the table was angled just enough to let her chin rest on her fist as she observed.
And Eloise — dear, feral, chaotic Eloise — broke the silence like it owed her money.
“Well. This is fun,” she said brightly, slicing into her scone like it wronged her lineage. “Who died?”
“Must we always start breakfast with a murder accusation?” Colin asked, reaching for the butter.
“Would you rather we ease in with a scandal?” she replied sweetly.
Violet cleared her throat with a matriarchal elegance that immediately silenced the room. “I believe I requested one morning — just one — where scandal is not served with breakfast.”
As if summoned by irony itself, the butler entered at that exact moment with a silver tray.
And on it — the crisp fold of Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers.
The entire table straightened like puppets on strings.
Violet groaned under her breath. “Oh for heaven’s sake.”
Colin perked up. “Is that…?”
“Lady Whistledown,” the butler confirmed, delivering it into Violet’s reluctant hands like a weapon disguised in fine linen.
“I hate her,” Eloise muttered automatically.
“She’s the best part of my week,” Hyacinth said at the same time.
Gregory leaned forward, eyebrows wiggling. “Is it a good one?”
Violet didn’t respond immediately. She opened the sheet with practiced dread, scanning the front until her brow furrowed.
Then rose.
Then furrowed again.
Benedict leaned in. “On a scale from ‘genteel disappointment’ to ‘Eloise accidentally set the parlor curtains on fire,’ how bad is it?”
“Shall I read aloud?”
Anthony cleared his throat. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hyacinth chimed. “We’d have to wait for Gregory to sound out the big words.”
“I can read just fine,” Gregory huffed, though he did glance sideways like the letters might rearrange themselves in protest.
Violet cleared her throat delicately. “If I may…”
And then, with all the decorum of a general announcing wartime strategy, she began:
“Dearest Gentle Reader,
The Hearts and Flowers Ball was intended to bloom with predictability — a garden of eligible matches and perfectly rehearsed waltzes. But it seems the ton’s favorite pastime — speculation — has once again borne unexpected fruit.
While all eyes were meant to rest upon the diamond of the season, one could not help but notice that the Viscount’s attentions wandered… repeatedly. His eyes, his posture, even his dance steps seemed to follow a different rhythm — one that led him not to the season’s brightest debutante… but to a familiar face the ton has long dismissed as merely a friend of the family.
And when said lady left the Viscount mid-waltz — yes, dear reader, mid-waltz — the room did not gasp so much as hold its breath.
So I pose the question: is the Bridgerton courtship we were all anticipating not quite the one unfolding before our eyes? Or has the Viscount, for the first time in his life, allowed his heart to stray from the script?”
Violet lowered the paper slowly.
Silence.
Benedict blinked. “Well.”
Colin coughed pointedly.
Gregory whispered, “Mid-waltz?” like he was trying not to be impressed.
Hyacinth let out a low whistle. “At least when I cause a scene, it involves paint.”
Eloise leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Do tell — was it a dramatic exit or a polite one? Because I need to update my internal ranking of ballroom scandals.”
“I would like,” Anthony said slowly, voice calm and clipped, “to eat my breakfast without commentary.”
“Oh, that ship has sailed,” Benedict said cheerfully. “And crashed. And burst into flames.”
You didn’t speak.
You hadn’t touched your toast.
Anthony hadn’t touched his coffee.
The silence between you was not loud.
It was precise.
Eloise, never one to let a moment go unpunctuated, twisted her expression into mock-thought. “Technically, though… dropping a dance partner mid-waltz does qualify you for something.”
You looked up — just barely — and met her eyes.
She grinned.
Benedict took a slow, theatrical sip of tea and set the cup down with solemn finality. “Never have I ever,” he intoned, “dropped a dance partner mid-waltz.”
A beat.
Then he looked directly at you and raised his eyebrows. “I believe it’s your turn to drink.”
The table snorted.
Even Violet pressed a hand to her mouth to hide a smile.
But you… you didn’t laugh.
Not this time.
You reached for your water glass. Lifted it.
Took a sip.
And set it down.
No one teased you for it.
Because the joke had landed.
But the silence after it? Said everything.
Anthony didn’t look at you.
And you didn’t look at him.
But your hands curled against the edge of the table.
Tension pressed against your spine like a second corset.
The table began to recover — slowly, unevenly — falling back into casual chatter as Violet passed the marmalade and Gregory asked if anyone had seen his cravat from last night. Benedict and Colin resumed whispering about the line in Whistledown’s column, trying to deduce how long the ton had been watching Anthony’s eyes instead of his actions.
But your thoughts had already splintered.
Because even as the laughter resumed and the tension tried to ebb…
You weren’t listening anymore.
You were staring at the paper.
At the words.
His eyes, his posture, even his dance steps seemed to follow a different rhythm…
That wasn’t gossip.
That was precision.
Someone had seen it — all of it. Someone who had noticed every beat of that waltz, every crack in your voice, every moment your body betrayed the chaos inside.
And someone had published it.
Any doubts you had before about the identity of Lady Whistledown turned into confirmation.
You folded the paper carefully — too carefully — as if the controlled motion could disguise the rage beginning to build at the base of your throat.
Across the table, Eloise raised an eyebrow. “You look like you’re trying not to throw that paper into the fireplace.”
You didn’t answer.
Because your mind had already crossed the street.
To a house with yellow curtains and a girl who always had ink smudged on her fingers.
You would go there later today.
Because if Penelope Featherington thought she could publish your pain without consequence?
Then she had sorely misjudged the kind of woman she was writing about.
A while later…
The afternoon light slanted through the window of the Featherington drawing room, casting golden streaks across the floor. The house was unusually quiet—Portia and the girls were out, leaving only Penelope, curled up in her usual chair by the window, a book resting in her lap.
She did not startle when you entered, but you caught the slight tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers curled ever so slightly against the pages. She had been expecting you.
You closed the door behind you with the softest click.
The silence stretched. Heavy. Knowing.
You crossed the room slowly, letting each step carry its own echo, letting her feel the weight of it. A cup of tea sat untouched on the table beside her, the liquid long gone cold. She had been waiting in her own sort of purgatory, hadn’t she?
Finally, she spoke, her voice carefully light.
“I thought you might visit.”
You hummed, settling onto the settee across from her.
“Did you?”
Your tone was calm. Not cold—but not kind either. She looked down at her book, running a finger along the worn edge.
“I suppose I should be grateful you are not already throwing accusations.”
“I do not need to throw accusations, Penelope,” you said, voice low. “We both know why I’m here.”
Her throat bobbed in a swallow. “I have always written the truth.”
You gave a bitter little laugh, quiet and sharp.
“Truth,” you repeated. “Is not just what one observes. Nor what one chooses to say. It’s what one dares to leave unsaid.”
She flinched. Just slightly. But it was enough.
Your voice softened—dangerously. “Why did you write about me that way?”
Her fingers clenched around the book. “Because… because I had to.”
“No.”
You leaned forward, elbows resting on your knees. “You chose to.”
She let out a shaky breath, closing her eyes for a moment before meeting your gaze again. There was something raw there, something breaking. “If I didn’t… people would suspect. If I ignored it, they’d wonder why. They’d ask questions. And then… then the mask would slip.”
The mask.
You exhaled, understanding beginning to root itself—heavy and bitter.
“You think to protect yourself by throwing ink upon others,” you murmured. “But did you consider what it might do to me? What it might do to–”
Your voice faltered. You could not say his name. Not now.
Penelope looked down, shame flickering across her face. “I did not intend to harm you.”
“But you did.”
The words landed like a blade—clean, final.
She swallowed hard, gripping the book in her lap as if it might keep her upright. “You can’t tell anyone.”
There it was.
The fear.
You studied her—the friend you had trusted, the girl who had hidden behind paper and power and played puppeteer to an entire city.
And then, softly, you said, “Then tell me the truth. All of it.”
The silence thickened.
Penelope’s fingers twisted into the fabric of her dress, her knuckles white. You could see the war behind her eyes—shame, pride, fear, the deep, impossible loneliness of someone who’d hidden too well for too long.
And finally—
“I am Lady Whistledown.”
The words were quiet.
But they detonated.
You leaned back slightly, exhaling as the truth settled over you like dust.
She gave a hollow laugh, shaking her head. “At first, it was harmless—gossip no one would miss. But then…it grew. And people listened.”
“And so you made them listen,” you murmured. “You created a voice in a world that would never have given you one.”
She nodded. “I had nothing else. No title. No dowry. No place. But with my words, I had power.”
You nodded slowly, eyes never leaving hers.
“And yet you used that power against me.”
She flinched. “I told myself it was the only way to keep suspicion away. If I ignored your involvement, people would question why. But that is no excuse.” Her voice broke. “I never wanted to hurt you.”
You stayed silent, your gaze locked on her.
A part of you had wanted to be furious, to demand why she had not spared you, why she had thrown your name into the storm. But looking at her now—her hands trembling in her lap, her lips pressed together as if bracing for your rejection—you understood.
She had not done it out of malice.
She had done it because she was afraid.
“I should hate you,” you said quietly.
Her eyes glistened, but she nodded, as if she, too, believed she deserved it.
“But I don’t,” you continued.
And she broke.
The breath she had been holding came out in a choked sound, and she turned her face away, pressing a hand to her lips. Relief and guilt warred in her expression, the weight of years spent hiding finally catching up to her.
“I won’t tell anyone,” you said, voice steady now.
Her eyes snapped to yours, disbelief flashing through them. “You won’t?”
“I should. I could.”
Penelope waited, not breathing.
“But you’re my friend, Pen,” you continued, softer this time. “And I understand what fear can make a girl do.”
A tear slipped down her cheek, and she let out a shaky breath, laughing weakly. “You always were too clever for your own good.”
You smirked, though the ache in your chest had not yet faded. “And you were too reckless for yours.”
She let out a breath, wiping at her eyes. “What now?”
Now, you held her secret in your hands. A secret that could shatter the very foundation of the ton.
But for now, you would keep it.
You rose from your seat, smoothing the fabric of your dress. “Now…you fix what you broke.”
Penelope blinked, her brow furrowing.
“I do not ask for retractions,” you said. “But I will not allow you to wield your pen carelessly where I am concerned.”
She nodded quickly. “I swear it.”
A beat of silence, then—
“Will you ever forgive me?” Her voice was small, uncertain.
You studied her, this girl who had built herself from ink and paper, and exhaled slowly.
“Perhaps,” you said, soft but firm, stepping toward the door. “But not yet.”
And then you left—your back straight, your pace sure—even as your heart pounded beneath your ribs like a drum that would not settle.
Behind you, Penelope sat in silence, drowning in the confession she could never take back.
At the same time—Across the street…
The afternoon sun filtered through the windows of Bridgerton House with a deceptive softness, gilding the edges of the furniture in a quiet that felt anything but peaceful.
The drawing room was still.
Not silent — the clock on the mantle ticked on, and somewhere in the house a door clicked shut — but still, in the way only a sunlit room could be when it was waiting for something to break.
Anthony stood by the window, spine straight, gaze unfocused. He hadn’t meant to linger there. He’d come in for a moment of quiet, perhaps a drink, perhaps a breath, but the air tasted stale in his lungs.
The morning’s column sat folded on the low table behind him. Unread, technically—but only because he hadn't needed to.
He already knew what it said.
He already knew what it meant.
The door creaked open behind him. Soft footsteps. Deliberate.
He didn’t turn.
"Lord Bridgerton."
Edwina’s voice was quieter than he’d expected. Composed. Like she had practiced it on the walk over.
He stiffened, and slowly pivoted, facing her fully. She stood just inside the doorway, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, the lavender hue of her gown soft against the stark tension in her posture. Her eyes found his, and they did not waver.
“May I speak with you?” she asked quietly.
Anthony nodded. “Of course.”
She stepped into the room — not tentatively, but carefully, as though she knew something sacred was about to splinter. She did not sit. Neither did he.
A long moment passed.
Then she drew a breath.
“Is it true?”
He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
She tilted her head slightly, a strand of hair coming loose from her braid. “Whistledown. This morning. About your courtship. About…” She exhaled. “About me not being the only option you’ve considered.”
Anthony closed his eyes for half a second. It was just enough to feel the weight settle deeper into his chest.
“I never meant to—”
“Is it true?” she repeated, voice sharper now.
He couldn’t lie. Not now. Not anymore.
“Yes.”
A silence stretched. Then: “Is it Y/N?”
Her voice barely wavered on your name, but he still heard it—how it lodged like something bitter at the back of her throat.
He said nothing.
But his head dipped. Just slightly. Just enough.
And that was all it took.
Edwina laughed.
It wasn’t amused.
“Of course,” she said softly. “I always suspected. Or maybe I just refused to look at it clearly. I thought I was imagining it. That maybe I was insecure, or paranoid. But the way you looked at her… Anthony, I saw it. Everyone did.”
“Edwina—”
“You let me believe,” she cut in. “You let me believe I mattered. That I was being courted. And all the while—what? You were just waiting for her to look at you the way you looked at her?”
His stomach twisted.
“It wasn’t like that.”
“No?” she asked, eyes shining now. “Then tell me what it was like, my lord. Because I seem to have missed the chapter where I was something more than… than an obligation.”
Anthony stepped forward, voice low, desperate. “I thought you were the right match. I thought we would suit. And I told myself that was enough. That it should be enough.”
“But it wasn’t,” she whispered. “Because your heart was never mine.”
His throat closed around the truth.
“I spent the whole week at Aubrey Hall waiting,” she said, and now the tears came. Quiet, dignified tears. “I kept telling myself that something was wrong with me. That if I smiled more, spoke less, wore something new… maybe then you'd stop hesitating. But I know now—” her voice cracked, “—you were never hesitating. You just weren’t looking at me at all.”
Anthony felt something collapse inside his chest.
“I replayed every moment,” Edwina said, quieter now. “Every time your eyes wandered across the room. Every time you spoke with me but listened for someone else’s voice. And I told myself not to be foolish. That you were honourable. That you would not string someone along if your heart belonged to another.”
“I didn’t know,” he said, voice barely audible.
“You did know,” she snapped — and finally, the tears fell. Slow. Furious.
“Maybe I did,” he said, voice low and unraveling. “Maybe I just didn’t want to admit it to myself. Because it was easier to convince myself that logic made a good match. Easier to hold onto what I thought I should do, than risk what I felt.”
Edwina exhaled slowly, looking at him now with something closer to sorrow than anger.
“You know what hurts the most?” she whispered. “I think I could have forgiven the indecision. The misstep. But what I can’t forgive is that you knew you were hurting both of us. And you kept going.”
He didn’t argue.
He didn’t defend.
There was nothing to say.
Then—quietly, almost as if it were an afterthought—Edwina said, “She has someone, you know. Lord Blackbourne.”
Anthony blinked.
“He looks at her the way I wanted to be looked at. Like she’s the beginning and end of every sentence. Like he’s grateful just to be near her.” Her voice shook again. “And he doesn’t hesitate. Not once.”
Anthony’s stomach twisted.
“I hope,” Edwina continued, her tone firm now, “that if you truly love her… you give her the courtesy of not wasting time. Like you did with me.”
A silence settled between them. This one final. Clean.
Edwina stepped back, wiping at her cheek with the edge of her sleeve.
“I wish you both happiness,” she said, and she meant it. It was the kindest wound he had ever received.
Then she turned and walked out, her footsteps quiet, her back unshaking.
Anthony didn’t move.
Couldn’t move.
He stood there alone in the drawing room, with sunlight glancing off the edges of the mantle and the words of the man he had been compared to ringing in his ears.
She’s looking for you, you know. Even when she’s not.
And for once, Anthony Bridgerton didn’t know how to follow.
He only knew that he had to.
Later that day…
You were alone again—curled into a corner of the Bridgerton library, knees drawn close, spine pressing into the carved wood of the settee. The air still carried the crisp chill of early evening, though golden light stretched lazily through the tall windows, turning dust motes into suspended stars.
Everything felt quieter after the day’s whirlwind.
Too quiet.
A soft creak of hinges interrupted the stillness.
You didn’t look up until footsteps—familiar, hesitant—tapped toward you on the rug.
“Can I sit with you?”
Hyacinth’s voice was gentler than usual, her usual impish tone smoothed into something careful. Protective, even.
You nodded, shifting slightly as she folded herself beside you, tucking her legs underneath like she used to do when she was small and unsure of the world.
For a while, she says nothing, and you let her have that silence. When she does speak, it’s not what you expect.
“He’s not okay, is he?”
Your breath hitched, but you didn’t pretend not to know who she meant.
“He’s trying to pretend he is,” she went on, gaze fixed out the window, “but it’s like…like his face doesn’t fit properly anymore.”
You glanced sideways. Her expression was pinched with worry—shoulders drawn tight, fingers twisting the hem of her sleeve.
“I saw him today,” she continued. “After Edwina left.”
You stilled.
Hyacinth’s voice dropped further. “His eyes were red. Like he hadn’t blinked in hours. And he kept staring at the carpet like it had something to say.”
Your throat closed. But still, you didn’t interrupt.
“I know it’s not just about Edwina,” she added. “I think… I think it’s about you.”
A beat passed. Then she said it—soft, but unflinching:
“Y/N… did he break your heart?”
It was the first time anyone had asked you that aloud.
“I don’t know,” you whispered.
Because the truth was: not yet. But also… yes. Repeatedly. With silence. With hesitation. With all the things he didn’t say.
Hyacinth leaned her shoulder gently against yours.
“I don’t get everything the grown-ups are tangled in,” she admitted. “But I do know when someone is lying to themselves. And Anthony—” she paused, swallowing hard, “he’s been doing that for a while now.”
You turned your face toward her.
She gave a tiny shrug, like the words weighed more than her frame should carry. “I just wish he’d stop.”
There was something achingly young in her voice. The kind of young that knew too much. That had watched her eldest brother hold up the sky so long, she forgot he was never built to carry it.
“He’s more than a brother to me, you know.”
She pauses again. The silence lingers for a breath too long. Then—
“Everyone says Edmund Bridgerton was a wonderful father…but I don’t remember him. I only remember Anthony.”
She swallows hard.
“I remember,” she murmured, eyes glassy, “when I had the flu once and couldn’t sleep. He sat up all night with me—just humming. I thought he was magic. When I think of a father…I think of him.”
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep it from trembling.
“And now he’s hurting. And I think you’re part of it. I don’t say that to blame you. I just—” she hesitates, “I want to understand. Because if you care about him…then maybe you know how to help him.”
The air is thick with emotion. Her eyes are big and earnest, not demanding answers, just offering a truth you weren’t ready to face.
“I don’t like seeing him like this,” she finishes, voice barely audible. “I just want him to be okay.”
You reach for her hand slowly, like one might reach for a thread unraveling.
“I know,” you whisper, thumb brushing across her knuckles. “I know he’s not alright.”
Hyacinth doesn’t respond, just presses her lips together and looks down, like she’s afraid she’s said too much.
“You’re not wrong to see it,” you continue softly. “He’s not always very good at hiding things from the people who really love him.”
Hyacinth blinked back a tear. “Do you still love him?”
You hesitated—but only for a breath. Then: “Yes.”
Her lower lip trembled, but she nodded. “I thought so.”
A long silence stretched between you.
Then—so softly you nearly missed it—she whispered, “But Lucien loves you too.”
You looked at her then, surprised.
She met your gaze, not with accusation, but with clarity. “I see it. He looks at you like you’re the last page of his favorite book.”
Your heart ached.
You smile, soft and honest. “Lucien is someone special. Someone I care about deeply, too. This isn’t about one or the other. It’s…more complicated than that.”
“I hate complicated,” she mutters.
You chuckle, brushing your thumb across her knuckles. “Me too.”
She leans into your side then, small and warm and familiar. “I just want both, you and Anthony, to be happy.”
“I know,” you whisper, placing a kiss to the top of her head. “So do I.”
“Don’t tell anyone I got soft like this,” she mumbled. “I have a reputation to uphold.”
You chuckled, though it caught slightly in your chest. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
The two of you sat like that as the sun slipped behind the rooftops. In the middle of everything broken, everything uncertain—one small, steady place where love didn’t demand decisions, or declarations.
Just presence.
And for now, that was enough.
A few hours later—After dinner…
The hallway was dimly lit, the sconces casting soft pools of light along the walls as you made your way back to your room. The quiet stretched unnaturally, like the house itself was holding its breath.
Dinner had been subdued. Not for lack of food or company — the Bridgertons were never truly quiet — but something had shifted. Anthony had not come downstairs. And someone had mentioned, in a low voice over dessert, that Edwina had stopped by earlier in the afternoon.
No one knew what had passed between them.
Only that she’d left in tears.
No one asked further. No one needed to. The silence that followed had spoken volumes.
You reached your door and paused, fingertips grazing the handle before pushing it open. The familiar comfort of your room welcomed you — the same soft light spilling in from the window, the same faint scent of lavender clinging to the air.
But something was different.
Your gaze dropped to the bed.
A note. Folded. Waiting.
You moved slowly, carefully, like the paper might vanish if you startled it. You picked it up—and forgot how to breathe.
“Can we talk?
Please?
—A”
This time, your eyes didn’t skim past the scrawl. You looked. Closely.
The slant of the letters. The pressure of the pen. The unmistakable way he signed just the initial — like he always had.
It was him.
Not Gregory. Not Colin. Not another attempt at mischief to lift the mood.
Anthony.
Your pulse fluttered in your throat.
There were no instructions. No time. No place.
Just a question.
Just hope.
Your thumb hovered over the ink.
You didn’t want to hope. Not after everything he’d said. After everything you’d said.
But your own words came back to you now—cutting and clear.
“You are going to let me go.”
And his reply, raw and unraveling:
“Because I’m not sure I can.”
You had told him to stop trying.
“Then perhaps you should stop trying.”
And now—this note.
A simple plea.
But it wasn’t simple. Not when it came from the man who’s all but said he loved you—who hadn’t asked you to stay, but hadn’t known how to let you go.
So despite yourself, you breathed in.
Not with certainty. But with something far more dangerous.
Hope.
A few minutes later…
The hallway outside your room was dim, lit only by the faint flicker of sconces lining the walls. You moved slowly, carefully, as if your footsteps might give you away to your own thoughts.
The house was quiet. Not the stillness of sleep, but something heavier—like everyone was holding their breath without realizing it.
You reached his study.
The door was slightly ajar.
Your hand hesitated on the frame. Just for a moment. Just long enough to remember how it had felt the last time—standing too close, saying too much, hearing too little until it was too late.
Then you pushed it open.
Anthony stood by the fireplace.
Not seated behind the desk. Not pretending this was just another conversation.
No jacket. Shirt sleeves rolled. One hand braced on the mantelpiece like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
He turned at the sound of the door. His eyes met yours.
And whatever rehearsed line he had prepared—died on his tongue.
Because there you were.
Not furious. Not distant.
Just…there.
You closed the door behind you, quietly.
“I got your note,” you said, voice steady.
He nodded once, jaw tight. “Thank you for coming.”
Silence stretched again. The last time you were alone in a room together, you told him to stop trying to let you go. And here you were, standing before him. Waiting.
And he knew it.
“Edwina came by today,” he said at last.
You said nothing.
He took a breath.
“I told her the truth.”
Your breath caught—but you didn’t move.
He watched you carefully. Not pleading. Not defensive.
Just…honest.
“I told her I’m in love with someone else.”
The fire popped once behind him.
Your heart thudded so hard it hurt.
“She asked if it was you,” he added. “And I… I couldn’t lie.”
The silence was thick now, pulsing with every heartbeat in the room.
“And what did she say?” you asked, voice tight.
Anthony exhaled—one hand running through his hair.
“She said I had wasted her time. That she’d spent weeks wondering what was wrong with her. And all the while…” He trailed off.
You could see it in his eyes—that guilt, that weight. He had worn it for days, but now it was seeping through.
“I hurt her,” he whispered.
You nodded once. “Yes. You did.”
He looked away.
“And I almost hurt you.”
His voice cracked on the last word.
You held his gaze.
“Anthony—”
“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he said quickly. “I know I have no right. I know I made you believe that I had chosen someone else, and in doing so, I made you believe that you were not it. That you were not enough. When the truth is—”
He stepped forward once.
You didn’t move.
“The truth is, I’ve never been more certain of anything than I am of you.”
The room was too small for this much feeling.
And yet you stood there. Still. Silent.
Because you needed more.
And he knew it.
So when he finally spoke again, it wasn’t with urgency.
It was with surrender.
“I'm not here to ask for your affection. I'm here to tell you that you were right.”
You blinked.
He stepped closer—slow, deliberate.
“You said I was a fool. For not knowing what I felt. For not facing it when it was right in front of me. And you were right.”
He was close now—just out of reach.
“You said I couldn’t have you after I’d given myself to her.” His voice dropped. “But I never gave her what I gave you.”
You couldn’t say anything.
Anthony’s voice was low, unshaken now. “She never had my heart.”
That stopped the world.
You couldn’t breathe.
“And I should’ve said that sooner,” he whispered.
You stared at him.
Not with softness. Not with the aching relief he might’ve hoped for.
Just... stillness.
And then, quietly, you said, “You should have said it sooner.”
His breath caught.
Because there it was—consequence.
“I waited,” you continued, your voice low but unwavering. “I waited while you toyed with logic. While you made choices like a Viscount, not a man. And when you finally said you loved me—finally—you did it after you’d promised yourself to someone else.”
He flinched. No one had ever sliced him open so gently before.
You didn’t stop.
“And you know what’s worse?” you asked, stepping forward now, voice trembling not from fear but control. “I almost let myself fall into that story again. The one where everything I felt was just waiting to be returned. As if my world had paused for you to catch up.”
Anthony swallowed hard, eyes locked to yours.
“But it didn’t,” you said. “My world kept moving.”
And now you smiled—not cruel, not cold. Just truthful.
“I met Lucien.”
You saw it. The flicker. The crack in his composure.
“Lucien, who cares for me without hesitation. Who doesn’t make me question his affections. Who listens when I speak and never once assumes I need protection in place of partnership.”
Anthony looked away, jaw clenched, breathing sharp.
“Lucien,” you went on, quieter now, “who makes me laugh in a way I hadn’t since you started sending mixed signals. Who never makes me feel like I’m asking for too much.”
You could see it now—guilt, yes. But something deeper.
Pain.
And then he spoke—quiet, hoarse.
“I know.”
You stilled.
“I know he’s the better man,” Anthony said, each word like it scraped its way out of his chest. “I see it. Every time he’s near you. Every time he looks at you like you’re it.”
He stepped closer.
“Every time I saw you smile at him, something broke inside me. Because I wanted that smile for myself. And I knew I hadn’t earned it.”
Your throat tightened.
Anthony’s voice cracked now—just once. “I wanted to be the one to make you laugh like that. To make you light. But I didn’t know how. Not without losing control.”
He took another step.
“And I was scared,” he admitted. “Terrified. That if I loved you, if I let it be real… I’d lose you. Like my mother lost everything when my father died. And I told myself it was safer to choose logic over feeling.”
You didn’t speak. Couldn’t.
“But then I realized,” Anthony whispered, his eyes locked to yours, bare and broken and whole all at once— “that losing you in life would be worse than anything death could ever do to me.”
That did it.
Neither of you moved.
Because the air between you snapped. Too full of everything—of months of tension, of heartbreak, of longing threaded with fury, of years spent pretending not to see.
Anthony’s voice broke the stillness, soft—at first.
“I love you, Y/N.”
You blinked.
He wasn’t moving. Just standing there. Wrung out and wide open. The words didn’t sound like a declaration—they sounded like a confession. Like they’d clawed their way up his throat after months of being buried alive.
“I love you,” he repeated, and now his voice was frayed, cracked at the edges. “God, I love you so much it’s ruined me.”
You flinched, just slightly—but he saw it.
He took a breath. Then another. Like every second was a war in his chest.
“I have loved you from the moment I realized I was allowed to want something that wasn’t expected of me. And then I hated myself for it. For wanting you. Because I had already promised myself to a future that didn’t have you in it.”
Your chest ached, but you didn’t move.
Anthony stepped forward. Not pleading now—breaking.
“I thought I was being noble. Choosing Edwina. Choosing duty over desire. Logic over love. But I wasn’t noble. I was terrified.”
He exhaled. Shaky. Unsteady. Honest.
Anthony’s eyes were glassy now. His voice shook.
“And maybe Lucien is the better man. Maybe he’s who I should be. But he’s not the one standing here shaking, because I can’t breathe at the thought of you loving someone else.”
He exhaled sharply. One last step. Just a breath away.
“I love you. And I will say it a thousand times, in every way, if it means I get even one more second where you don’t look at me like I broke you.”
And something inside you gave way.
“Tell me it’s not too late,” he whispered. “Please.”
You looked up at him, and his voice nearly broke on the next words—
“Tell me you still love me.”
Silence stretched—one breath, then two.
You stared at him—and finally saw it.
Not the viscount.
Not the mask.
Just Anthony.
Unraveled. Stripped bare. Shaking in front of you with his heart in his hands.
And then—
“I do.”
Your voice was quiet, but the weight of it was earth-shattering. You stepped closer, barely a whisper between you.
“I never stopped.”
Anthony didn’t wait.
He surged forward and you met him halfway—obliterating the space between you that had always felt unbearable.
His lips crashed against yours, desperate and raw and reverent, like a man who had been dying of thirst and finally found water.
It wasn’t gentle.
It was months of longing and ache and unspoken truths, colliding with the force of every held breath.
His hands came to your waist, your shoulders, your face—like he couldn’t decide where to hold you first, only that he had to keep you close.
Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him deeper, anchoring yourself to the one thing that had felt like a storm for so long—but now felt like home.
The kiss deepened, stuttered,and found rhythm again. Lips parting. Breaths stolen. Noses brushing.
There was no caution left.
Only hunger. Only love. Only finally.
When he pulled back just a fraction, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathless, dazed, trembling.
“I’m here now,” he whispered. “I’m not leaving.”
Your fingers curled in the fabric of his waistcoat.
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