Outpace Us All (Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Santiago centric, Eventual Santiago x Frankie,Original child character, Series)
Ch. 1
Ch. 2
Ch. 3
Ch. 4
The Old Guard
To Flee, To Gather (Joe x Nicky, angsty one shot, reflections on children, original child character, death, war)
Vigil (Joe x Nicky, Dr. Kozak creates an immortal child from their DNA. Unready parents. Original child character. Medical torture. Hurt/Comfort. Angst.)
When Viscount Anthony Bridgerton marries a woman befitting his name, his future is secured, orderly, respectable, and entirely devoid of the one thing he swore he could live without: love.
You.
Warnings: ANGST, heartbreak, kinda cheating, betrayal (let me know if I forgot anything).
Word Count:
Masterlist
You learn of his marriage the way most things arrive in your life, quietly, and all at once.
A letter. Not from him. From someone else.
The paper is expensive. Thick. Embossed. The kind of paper that carries announcements meant to echo through drawing rooms and ballrooms and polite society.
Viscount Anthony Bridgerton is to be wed…
You do not read the rest at first. You cannot.
Because the name alone is enough to hollow something out inside you, something fragile and foolish that had believed, despite everything, that he might choose differently.
That he might choose you. He doesn’t, of course he doesn’t. Anthony Bridgerton was never meant to belong to something as reckless as love.
There had been a time when you thought he did.
When his letters came like breath, constant, necessary, impossible to live without.
You write too honestly, he had once told you. And you read them anyway, you had replied. I read them because I cannot stop.
You had smiled at that, foolish and soft, pressing the paper to your chest as though you could feel the echo of him through ink and parchment.
You had written back the same night. You always did.
---------------
You never stopped writing.
Even after the letters slowed.
Even after they became shorter, more restrained, more careful, as though every word had to pass through some invisible filter of duty before it reached you.
Even after the day his letter came, stiff and formal, with none of the warmth you had memorized.
It is no longer appropriate for us to correspond.
That was all. No explanation. No apology.
Just an ending, clean and merciless.
You had stared at it for hours, waiting for something more to appear, as if the ink might shift, rearrange, reveal the truth he had been too afraid to write.
It never did. Still, you wrote one last letter.
You told yourself you wouldn’t send it. You told yourself it was only to empty your heart of him, to give your grief somewhere to go.
You told yourself many things.
And yet, somehow, it found its way to him.
---------------
Anthony does not burn your letters.
He tries. God, he tries.
On the night before his wedding, the house is quiet in a way that feels almost unnatural, like the world itself is holding its breath in anticipation of the life he is about to step into.
He stands alone before the fire, the glow casting long, unsteady shadows against the walls. The room smells faintly of smoke and polished wood, of something warm and grounding, everything he has been taught to value.
Everything he is about to choose.
And still, his hands tremble.
Your letters are gathered there, bound together, worn at the edges from being unfolded too many times, read too often, held too tightly. The ribbon slips slightly beneath his fingers, loosened by years of quiet revisiting.
He unties it. He tells himself this is necessary.
That this is the moment he becomes the man he is meant to be.
One by one, he separates them, the soft rasp of paper loud in the silence. The top letter is yours, of course it is always yours, and he does not need to read the name to know it.
He knows your handwriting the way he knows his own thoughts.
His thumb brushes over the ink, just briefly, as though he might feel something of you still lingering there.
The fire crackles.
Waiting.
All he has to do is let go. Just one motion. One decision.
Duty, he reminds himself. Responsibility, the future of his family.
The words echo in his mind, firm and practiced, the same ones he has used to justify every step that led him here.
The flames flicker higher, as though urging him forward.
As though they understand.
He lifts the letter slightly and holds it over the fire. The heat curls against the edges, threatening, insistent.
And then, his eyes catch on the first line.
I saw something today that reminded me of you…
His breath stutters.
He shouldn’t read it again. He has read it enough. Memorized it, even.
But something in him falters, weakens, fractures under the weight of everything he is about to lose.
His gaze drops further.
You would have laughed at this…
He exhales slowly, unsteadily.
There had always been laughter in your letters. Even when you wrote of ordinary things, you made them feel brighter, lighter, as though the world was something to be shared, not endured.
As though he could be something more than what was expected of him.
His grip tightens. The paper trembles.
I wish you had been there.
That line is the one that breaks him.
Because he had wished the same thing, more times than he could ever admit.
In crowded ballrooms.
In quiet studies.
In every moment that should have felt complete but never quite did.
His jaw tightens, he cannot breathe.
The fire snaps sharply, a burst of sparks rising, impatient. Waiting.
He lowers the letter an inch closer. The edge darkens, just slightly. One more second, that is all it would take.
One second to erase you from his life.
One second to become the man everyone believes him to be.
His hand falters. Stops.
Because the truth, unbearable and unrelenting, is this, burning the letters would not undo you.
It would not silence your voice in his mind, nor erase the way your words had carved themselves into something permanent inside him.
It would not make him forget. It would only leave him emptier.
Slower, now, almost reluctantly, he pulls the letter back from the flame.
The heat fades.
The moment passes.
And with it, something final.
He stares at the page for a long time, his expression unreadable even to himself.
Then, he folds it.
Carefully. Gently.
Like something sacred. Not to be destroyed. But to be preserved.
He gathers the rest, his movements deliberate now, resolute in a way they had not been before. Each letter is stacked, aligned, returned to the order he knows by heart.
He ties the ribbon again, though it sits looser than it once did.
Time has changed it.
Just as it has changed him.
But not enough.
Never enough.
He does not look at the fire again as he turns away.
Because he knows, with a certainty that will follow him into every day of his marriage, this is the one choice he will never be able to undo.
So he hides them. Every single one.
Your letters, tied together with a ribbon that has long since lost its color, tucked away in a drawer no one thinks to open.
Not even his wife.
---------------
Kate Sharma is not a fool.
She notices things.
She notices the way Anthony is attentive, polite, dutiful, everything a husband should be, and yet there is a distance in him that never quite closes.
A space she cannot cross.
She does not press him at first.
Marriage, after all, is an adjustment. A learning of rhythms, of silences.
But there are moments.
Small ones.
The way his expression changes when he hears a certain phrase.
The way he lingers over letters longer than necessary.
The way he sometimes looks as though he is remembering something he cannot afford to speak aloud.
She tells herself it is nothing.
Until the day it isn’t.
---------------
It happens by accident.
It always does.
A misplaced key. A drawer left slightly ajar. A curiosity that would have meant nothing on any other day.
Kate does not expect to find anything of consequence.
Certainly not a bundle of letters, worn at the edges, handled too often to be forgotten.
Certainly not something hidden.
Her fingers pause as she lifts them.
There is no name on the outside.
Only the ribbon.
She hesitates.
Then, she unties it.
---------------
You do not know the moment your life is unearthed in another woman’s hands.
You are somewhere else, living a quieter version of what you once imagined, your days no longer punctuated by anticipation, your nights no longer filled with ink-stained confessions.
You have learned to exist without him.
Or at least, you have learned to pretend.
---------------
Kate reads the first letter.
Then the second. Then the third.
She tells herself she will stop.
She does not.
Because the voice in those letters is not the man she married.
It is someone else entirely.
Someone softer.
Someone undone.
Someone who writes “You must not write to me like this. Not when I find myself waiting for your letters as though they are the only honest thing in my life”.
Her breath catches.
She turns the page.
I do not believe in love. I have made that quite clear. And yet, when I read your words, I begin to understand why others do.
Kate’s hands tremble.
This is not duty.
This is not obligation.
This is something far more dangerous.
She keeps reading.
Because she has to know.
Because she has to understand.
Because she has to see just how deeply her husband has been shaped by someone who is not her.
---------------
Anthony finds her with them.
Of course he does.
There is no universe in which this ends quietly.
He knows something is wrong the moment he steps into the room.
The silence is too heavy. Too deliberate.
And then he sees the letters. In her hands.
Open. Exposed.
Everything he buried, laid bare in a single, devastating moment.
“Kate,”
His voice falters.
He has faced down grief, responsibility, the weight of an entire family on his shoulders.
But this is something else entirely.
She looks at him.
And for the first time since their marriage began, there is no softness in her gaze.
“Who is she?”
The question is quiet.
But it cuts deeper than any accusation.
Anthony does not answer. Because he cannot. Because saying your name aloud would make it real in a way he has spent years trying to avoid.
Kate rises slowly.
The letters remain in her hands, but she does not clutch them, she holds them as one might hold evidence.
Proof.
“You kept these,” she says.
Not a question. A realization.
He swallows.
“Yes.”
The word feels like a confession. Her jaw tightens.
“For how long?”
He doesn’t need to think. “Since the beginning.” Since you.
---------------
There are many things Kate could say.
Many ways she could react.
Anger. Hurt. Betrayal.
All of them would be justified.
Instead, she asks the only question that matters.
“Do you love her?”
The room stills.
Anthony closes his eyes. For a moment, he considers lying, it would be easier.
Kinder. Safer.
But he has already done enough damage with silence.
So he tells the truth.
“Yes.”
---------------
The word does not shatter the room.
It does something worse. It settles.
Heavy. Final.
Kate inhales sharply, as though the air itself has betrayed her.
“And yet you married me.”
It is not an accusation. It is a statement.
Of fact.
Of reality.
Of the life she now understands she has stepped into.
Anthony opens his eyes.
There is something broken in them.
Something that has been breaking for a very long time.
“I married you because it was my duty.”
The honesty is brutal. Unforgiving.
“I thought…” He exhales shakily. “I thought it would be enough.”
Kate lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh.
“Enough for whom?”
He has no answer. Because there isn’t one.
---------------
You receive a letter.
You almost do not open it.
You have trained yourself not to hope for things that cannot belong to you.
But something in you, something stubborn and aching, refuses to let it go unopened.
So you break the seal.
Your hands tremble before you even read the name.
Viscountess Bridgerton.
You frown, confused. Then, you read.
---------------
Kate’s letter is not what you expect.
It is not cruel.
It is not bitter.
It is something far more unsettling.
It is honest.
I found your letters.
Your breath catches.
I did not intend to read them. But once I began, I could not stop.
Your grip tightens on the page.
You should know that he kept them all.
Your heart stutters.
Every single one.
There is a pause in the ink, as though she hesitated before continuing.
I asked him if he loves you.
Your vision blurs.
He said yes.
The world tilts.
For a moment, you cannot breathe.
Cannot think.
Cannot exist outside of that one, impossible truth.
And then, the final line.
I thought you deserved to know.
---------------
Anthony does not know she wrote to you.
Not at first. Not until he sees the way something in your expression changes the next time your paths cross.
Because of course they do.
This is the cruel symmetry of your lives, you are never quite free of one another.
You stand across the room, surrounded by people, noise, and expectation, and yet it feels like it is only the two of you.
Your eyes meet and everything that was buried rises to the surface.
He sees it in you.
The knowledge.
The understanding.
The grief that never truly left.
“You know,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
You nod.
You do not trust yourself to speak.
For a moment, neither of you moves, because what is there to say?
What words could possibly bridge the distance that duty has carved between you?
Anthony takes a step closer. Then another.
He stops just short of you, as though there is an invisible line he cannot cross.
“I never stopped-”
He cuts himself off.
Because finishing that sentence would be a betrayal of everything he has chosen.
Everything he has sacrificed.
Everything he is still trying to uphold.
You swallow.
Your voice, when it comes, is soft.
“I know.”
That is the tragedy of it.
You always have.
---------------
There is no grand resolution.
No sweeping declaration that changes the course of your lives.
Because some choices cannot be undone.
Some paths cannot be rewritten.
Anthony returns to his wife.
To his duty. To the life he chose.
And you carry on. With the quiet, persistent knowledge that somewhere, hidden away, there are pieces of you that he could never let go.
Letters that refused to fade.
Just like the love they held.
And perhaps that is the cruelest thing of all.
Not that he did not love you.
But that he did.
And still he let you go.
--------------------
I have been on a Bridgerton binge recently so yk I had to write something for them. If anyone has read the books let me know if they are worth buying cause I'm condsiering it, but like $204!! <3
summary: Creating an heir is your current and most important duty as viscount and viscountess... if only you could get some alone time.
Or, the 4 times you were interrupted and the 1 time you weren't.
word count: 21.6k+
pairing: anthony bridgerton x fem!reader
notes: first time posting an anthony fic🥺kinda nervous. i love this man so much goddddddd
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, married!anthony, fluff, implied to be trying for a baby, kissing, the bridgerton siblings are menaces, takes place during season 3, some allusions to plot of season 3 but not exact, soft smut, oral (f!receiving), fingering, unprotected piv, creampie
Bridgerton House had a way of waking before the sun had fully decided what sort of day it wanted to be, because the servants were already moving with quiet purpose and the downstairs hall always carried the faintest echo of footsteps and polished manners. You find Anthony in the morning room with a ledger open, correspondence stacked in neat piles, and a cup of tea he has forgotten to drink, because his attention is fixed on a list he’s written in his unmistakably sharp hand.
He doesn’t look up when you come in, not at first, but you can see the exact second he registers you anyway, because his shoulders ease as if the room has finally become habitable. He drags his gaze up from the page and the stern look he wears for the rest of the world breaks at the edges.
“Good morning,” he says, and it sounds as though he means it.
You cross to him, leaning in to kiss his temple before you take the chair opposite. He turns his head just enough that your mouth brushes his cheek instead, and he acts as if that small change of angle was a brilliant idea he’s been waiting for all morning. “Good morning,” you reply, then glance pointedly at the untouched tea. “Do you intend to drink that, or is it only here to make you look less terrifying?”
“I am not terrifying.” You lift your brows and he sighs, a long-suffering sound that would be convincing if he weren’t already reaching for the cup as though you’ve ordered him to take medicine. “I am… occupied.”
“With what?” You tilt your head toward the papers. “The family accounts? A new scheme to frighten away your sisters’ suitors? A list of men you’d like to challenge to a duel for looking in your direction?”
“That last one is not a list,” he says, insulted on principle. “It is merely a natural consequence of existing in society.”
You give him a look that says you are not fooled by the distinction, then reach across the table and slide the top sheet closer. It’s covered in tidy blocks of time, names, and appointments, the sort of thing a man writes when he cannot bear the idea of being surprised by his own life.
You read aloud, because of course you do. “‘Ten o’clock: call on Lady Danbury. Eleven: return call from the Smythes. Noon: speak with the steward. One:—’” You pause, eyes narrowing. “‘One-thirty: private time.’”
Anthony’s hand flattens over the page as if he can physically prevent you from seeing it. It’s too late, of course. You keep your face composed for a full second longer than necessary, then the laugh breaks out of you, warm and helpless. “It is perfectly reasonable,” he says, and the tips of his ears turn the faintest shade darker. “I do not see what is amusing.”
“You’ve scheduled it,” you say, still laughing, and you tap the line with one finger. “Anthony, you have made it an appointment.”
“It is not an appointment,” he insists, but it’s weaker than his earlier protest, because his mouth is starting to twitch. “It is… a consideration.”
“A consideration between the Smythes and your steward,” you say, delighted. “How romantic.”
He sits back, eyes narrowing as if he’s deciding whether to be offended or to drag you into his lap and end the conversation by other means. The second option clearly appeals to him, because his gaze slides to your mouth and lingers there for a heartbeat. “Do not mock me,” he says, but there’s no bite in it.
“I’m not mocking,” you reply, and you soften your voice just a little, because you like him like this, caught between duty and desire. “I’m only trying to understand how you reached the conclusion that this needed ink.”
His expression shifts into that familiar Viscount look, the one he puts on when he thinks the universe is a misbehaving estate that can be managed with firmness and exact timing. “We have been… interrupted, as of late.”
You fold your hands and pretend to consider. “Have we?”
Anthony’s stare turns flat with disbelief, because the audacity of your innocence is apparently too much. “Yes.”
“By whom?” you ask, and when he keeps staring, you add sweetly, “because if you mean your siblings, I am shocked. Truly shocked.”
“Do not be insufferable.”
“I’m not insufferable,” you counter, and you glance down the list again. “I’m practical. If you want privacy, perhaps you should schedule your brothers and sisters instead.”
He huffs. “I cannot schedule my family.”
“You try,” you say, and now you’re smiling too wide to be anything but honest mischief. “You’ve tried since the moment I met you.”
Anthony’s mouth opens, then closes again, because he knows you’re right and he hates that you’re right. He reaches for the teacup, takes a drink as if it will restore his authority, and sets it down with a careful clink that suggests he’d rather set something else down far less gently.
“I am simply ensuring we are not disturbed,” he says, as if this is a problem any reasonable man would solve with a timetable. “There are calls to return. There is Francesca’s presentation to consider. There is Colin—” He stops himself mid-sentence, as though he’s remembered Colin is perfectly capable of wreaking havoc without being invoked. “There are expectations.”
You lean back in your chair, watching him, letting him talk himself into righteousness. “Expectations,” you repeat, and you make it sound like what it is: a nuisance dressed up as propriety.
Anthony’s eyes flicker to you, then away, then back again. “You know what I mean.”
“I do,” you say. “And I also know you’re the only man in England who would try to conquer the question of children with a ledger.”
He bristles at that, but not too hard, because the truth of it is wrapped in your fondness, and he knows it. “I am not attempting to conquer anything.”
“You are,” you say, and you tap the page again, gentler this time. “You’re trying to arrange the world so it behaves.”
He leans forward, elbows on the table now, his gaze steady and demanding in a way that would make most of the ton sit up straighter. It doesn’t work on you, not anymore, because you’ve seen him laugh into your shoulder and you’ve heard him say your name like it’s a prayer he doesn’t mind repeating. “I am trying to give you what you want,” he says.
You blink, and your teasing falters into something quieter, because there’s no performance in his tone. It’s plain, like a truth he’d rather say once and be done with, but it sits between you anyway. “I already have what I want,” you reply, then let the smile return, because you refuse to let him turn this into solemn duty. “A husband who is handsome and occasionally ridiculous.”
His eyes narrow again, but this time it’s pure affection. “Occasionally?”
“Frequently,” you correct. “But I don’t mind, it’s one of your charms.”
He pushes his chair back and stands, moving around the table with the kind of purpose that suggests he’s decided talking is a losing game. When he stops behind you, his hands settle on your shoulders, warm through the fabric of your morning dress, and the touch is both gentle and possessive, as though he can’t help reminding himself you’re real. “You are enjoying this far too much,” he murmurs.
“I enjoy many things,” you say, tipping your head slightly so his fingers slide up to the line of your neck. “Including watching you pretend you’re not flustered.”
He leans down, mouth near your ear, and you feel the quiet shift in the air, the way the room seems to narrow into only the two of you and the steady rhythm of his breath. “I am not flustered,” he says.
You turn your head just enough to meet his eyes over your shoulder. “Then you won’t mind if I add something to your schedule.”
His brows lift, suspicious. “What?”
You reach up, catch one of his hands, and tug him forward until he has to bend closer, until his body is near enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back. “Cross out ‘private time,’” you tell him softly. “If we’re going to try, let it be because we want each other, not because the Smythes have been neatly contained.”
Anthony’s throat works, like he’s swallowed a protest and found it turning into something else entirely. “You are suggesting—”
“I’m suggesting,” you say, cutting him off with a smile that you know will undo him, “that you stop treating our bed like a committee meeting.”
His mouth twitches, then he exhales, half laugh and half surrender. “Very well.”
“Good,” you say, and you rise from the chair, turning fully now so you’re facing him. “Now, Viscount Bridgerton, what is next on your list?”
His gaze drops to your mouth again, and the way his hands settle at your waist makes it very clear he’s done pretending the page matters. “I believe,” he says, voice low, “that I am about to revise it.”
You hum thoughtfully, as if you’re weighing the merits of his proposal, then let your fingers curl into the front of his coat and pull him closer by an inch. “Revisions are welcome,” you tell him, “but if someone knocks on the door, I’m leaving you to explain why you were defeated by your own household.”
Anthony’s smile turns sharp and dangerous in the most enjoyable way. “No one will knock.”
“Anthony,” you say, and you let the warning sit in your tone like a dare. “Don’t tempt fate.”
Anthony doesn’t let you get more than two steps away from the table before he’s there, close enough that the edge of his coat brushes your skirts. His hand settles at your waist with a familiarity that still makes something warm spark behind your ribs, and his mouth finds yours again like he’s determined to prove that he can, in fact, revise the day into obedience. The kiss is not gentle in the way the ton would approve of; it’s the sort he saves for when the door is shut and there is no one watching, his thumb pressing lightly at your side as he angles you back toward the corridor.
“You look far too pleased with yourself,” you murmur when he finally lets you breathe.
“I am pleased with you,” he replies, and the emphasis he puts on the words makes your face warm. He dips his head again, kissing along your jaw in a way that suggests he’s decided the morning room is no longer fit for respectable conversation, then pulls back just long enough to add, “and I am correct. No one will knock.”
“You say that as though you’ve bribed the entire household,” you tell him, letting your hands slide up the front of his coat, smoothing it even though it’s already perfectly arranged.
“I have not bribed anyone,” Anthony says. He looks offended by the very idea, which is comical considering he is currently steering you toward the stairs with all the subtlety of a man guiding a carriage through a narrow lane. “They will simply do their duties elsewhere.”
“Because you will glare at them until they flee,” you say, laughing a little when he shoots you a look. “It’s a gift.”
“It is authority,” he corrects.
“It’s terrifying,” you correct back, and you don’t fight him at all when he leads you up the stairs, because you are not made of stone and neither is he. Bridgerton House is bustling below—voices, the soft clatter of breakfast trays, a distant instruction called from one servant to another—but the upper floor is quieter, the air cooler, the carpets muffling your steps.
At the top landing, Anthony pauses, as if listening for some sign of impending chaos, then continues with renewed purpose. His hand doesn’t leave you, not for a moment, and you catch him glancing toward the family wing as though half-expecting Benedict or Colin to leap out with a question about nothing at all.
“You’re scanning the corridor like a soldier,” you remark.
“I am being vigilant,” he says, then opens the door to your bedchamber with a firmness that suggests he would like it understood by the world that this room is not to be invaded. He shuts it behind you, and for a moment the quiet is immediate and complete, broken only by the soft sound of the latch settling.
You turn to face him properly. The morning light is pale through the curtains, catching on the dark fall of his hair, the clean line of his jaw. He looks like he’s been wrestling responsibility since dawn and is about to surrender to something he likes far more. “Now,” you say, drawing the word out just enough to see his gaze sharpen.
“Now,” he agrees, and his hands come to your shoulders, turning you slightly as if he wants to take you in from every angle. He leans down, kissing you again, slower this time, as though he’s decided he has all the time in the world. His fingers slide to the ties at the back of your dress, not hurried, but sure, and you let your hands drift to his collar, tugging him closer.
“You’re very confident for a man who has been defeated by a single knock,” you tease against his mouth.
His breath hitches in a sound that might have been a laugh if it weren’t clearly something else. “Do not remind me.”
“You’re the one who said no one would knock,” you point out, and you pull back just enough to watch him. “If we’re disturbed, I will hold you personally responsible.”
Anthony’s eyes narrow, but it’s the look he gives you when you’ve challenged him and he’s already decided he likes it. “Then we shall not be disturbed.”
He guides you backward until the backs of your knees brush the edge of the bed. The sheets are crisp, the coverlet neatly smoothed, the pillows stacked in a way that suggests a maid has only just made everything perfect. Anthony does not look like he appreciates the perfection; he looks like he wants to ruin it in the most satisfying way possible.
You sit, letting him stand over you for a moment, and tilt your head. “Anthony, are you attempting to seduce your own wife as if she might refuse you?”
“I am not attempting,” he says, voice low, and his hand slides along your cheek with a tenderness that turns the words into something warm rather than arrogant. “I am succeeding.”
“Oh?” You smile, fingers catching at the front of his coat. “Then take it off.”
His brows lift at the bluntness. He hesitates for the briefest second, as if you’ve spoken too plainly for morning, then he huffs out a breath like he’s decided he doesn’t care about morning’s opinions. He shrugs out of the coat and tosses it over a chair, then undoes his cravat with brisk efficiency.
“You’re in a hurry now,” you observe, watching him.
“I am not,” he says, though he absolutely is. “I am merely… prepared.”
“Prepared,” you repeat, and you lean forward, catching his hand before he can return to unfastening your dress. You bring his knuckles to your mouth and press a kiss there, slow enough to make his focus flicker. “For a man who puts everything on paper, you are very easy to distract.”
His eyes darken, and his voice drops. “Do not do that if you intend for me to remain calm.”
“I don’t,” you reply honestly.
Anthony’s hand slides to the back of your neck, and he leans in again, kissing you with a little more hunger, his other hand working at the ties and buttons with practiced familiarity. You feel the loosen of fabric at your shoulders, the gradual ease of your dress giving way under his careful hands, and you smile into his mouth because this is exactly what you wanted: not an appointment, not a task, just the two of you deciding that the world can wait.
A knock lands on the door.
It’s not loud, it’s not urgent. It’s polite, measured, and perfectly timed like a weapon.
Anthony freezes so completely you can feel it through his hands. You stay very still, not because you’re startled, but because you are suddenly struck by the pure comedy of it and the fact that his expression looks one heartbeat away from murder. Another knock follows, gentle again, then a familiar voice through the wood. “Anthony?” Violet calls. “Are you in there, dear?”
You press your lips together, eyes widening as you look up at him. Anthony’s gaze flicks to the door as though he’s considering setting it on fire. “Do not answer,” you whisper, unable to keep the amusement out of your voice.
His jaw clenches. “I must.”
“No, you don’t,” you insist, keeping your voice low. “You’re a grown man. You’re the Viscount. You can ignore your mother.”
Anthony stares at you as if you’ve suggested he rob a bank. “I cannot ignore my mother.”
“Anthony,” Violet calls again, still perfectly polite. “It will only take a moment.”
You bite your lip, shoulders shaking with silent laughter, because of course she’s said that. Of course she has. Anthony inhales slowly, visibly attempting to summon composure. He leans down, mouth near your ear, and mutters, “if I open this door and she is holding a list, I shall throw myself out the window.”
You whisper back, “I’ll help you.”
His hand leaves your shoulder and drifts to your waist again, as if grounding himself. He looks as though he might refuse, as though he might finally decide that he is allowed one private moment in his own house, then Violet says, very gently but with unmistakable authority, “Anthony, I know you are in there. I saw you walk up the stairs.”
You choke on a laugh, pressing your fist to your mouth. Anthony closes his eyes for a beat, opens them again, and straightens his cravat with brisk, furious motions, as though tying it tightly enough will keep his patience from spilling out.
He points at you in a silent command—stay. The fact that you are his wife and not a misbehaving sibling makes the gesture ridiculous, but you nod solemnly anyway, because you want to see how this unfolds.
Anthony crosses the room, opens the door, and plants himself in the doorway like a barricade. “Mother,” he says, voice controlled to within an inch of his life. “Good morning.”
Violet stands there with a small smile and a folded paper in her hand, dressed as though she has been awake for hours, which she certainly has. Her gaze flicks past his shoulder, not in a scandalized way, but in the way a woman who raised eight children assesses a room in half a second and understands everything she needs to understand. “Good morning,” Violet replies, and her smile widens by a fraction. “Am I interrupting something?”
“No,” Anthony says immediately, which would be convincing if his ears weren’t turning red.
You can’t help it. You call out from the bed, sweet as honey, “yes.”
Anthony’s head snaps around. His glare is devastating and entirely affectionate at once.
Violet’s eyes find you, and her expression softens into something warm and genuinely pleased, which is the worst possible reaction because it makes it impossible to be properly indignant. “Ah,” she says. “There you are, dear.”
Anthony speaks through his teeth without looking away from you. “You are not helping.”
You adjust the loosened fabric at your shoulders with exaggerated innocence. “I’m only being honest.”
Violet clears her throat, still smiling, and shifts the paper in her hand. “I truly will not take long. I only wished to speak to you both, if I may. It’s about the season, and… certain expectations.”
Anthony’s shoulders go rigid. “Mother.”
Violet lifts her brows. “What? I am your mother. I am allowed to have expectations. Also, I am allowed to knock.”
“You knocked,” Anthony says flatly. “Yes.”
“And you did not answer,” she replies, calm as ever.
“Because I was—” Anthony stops himself, breathes, then tries again with all the dignity he can gather. “Because we were occupied.”
Violet’s smile becomes almost unbearably serene. “Naturally.”
You shift closer to the edge of the bed, unable to resist leaning into the moment. “Lady Bridgerton, if you are here to give instructions, I must warn you that he already attempted to schedule me.”
Violet’s eyes widen with delighted surprise, and then she laughs, a soft, quick sound. “He did not.”
Anthony looks as though he might dissolve into the floorboards. “I did not,” he lies, then turns sharply to you. “I did.”
Violet’s gaze goes fond as she looks at him. “Oh, Anthony.”
“It seemed sensible,” he says, defensive and miserable at once.
“It is very like you,” Violet agrees, stepping half a pace forward as though she might come in, then stopping when Anthony subtly blocks her again with his entire body. She glances at the doorframe, then back at him, amused. “You need not guard the room as if I am the Queen.”
“I am not guarding,” Anthony says.
You snort. Violet’s eyes flicker to you again. “My dear, are you comfortable?”
“Very,” you say brightly. “For the moment.”
Anthony shuts his eyes for a beat, then opens them and looks at Violet with a desperate sort of politeness. “Mother. Please.”
Violet’s smile softens into something more practical, the expression of a woman who has managed a household longer than Anthony has been alive. “Fine. I will be brief, since you are clearly… occupied.”
Anthony’s jaw tightens at the word, and you can see him fighting not to glance back at you.
Violet holds up the folded paper. “There is a dinner this evening at Lady Danbury’s. She has asked that you both attend, and she was quite clear that it is not a request that can be declined. Also, Francesca’s modiste is arriving at noon, and she insists on your opinion, Anthony.”
Anthony’s stare turns hollow. “My opinion.”
“Yes,” Violet says, perfectly serious. “She says you have a ‘severe eye’ and that it will keep her from being overwhelmed.”
“I have never offered an opinion on a gown in my life,” Anthony says.
Violet’s mouth twitches. “Then today is a fine day to begin. She wants you in the blue room at noon.”
Anthony looks down the corridor as though he might flee. “I have meetings at noon.”
“You will move them,” Violet says, as calm as a judge.
He exhales. “Very well.”
Violet’s gaze dips toward the bed again, and she adds, still gentle, “And as for other expectations… you needn’t let the ton make you feel watched. You will do things in your own time.”
You blink at that, because it’s the closest Violet Bridgerton ever comes to saying anything blunt. Anthony’s posture eases by a fraction, not enough to be obvious, but enough that you notice it. “Thank you,” you say, voice softer now, because you can take teasing only so far before it becomes cruel, and you have no interest in making him feel cornered.
Violet nods, satisfied, then reaches out and pats Anthony’s sleeve as if he’s twelve again. “Now, I will leave you to your… revision of the schedule.”
Anthony’s head tilts back in silent agony. “Mother.”
Violet steps away, still smiling. “Do remember the dinner,” she calls lightly as she retreats down the hall, and then, as if she cannot resist delivering the final blow, she adds, “and do lock the door next time, dear. It saves everyone a great deal of embarrassment!”
Anthony shuts the door with careful restraint; the latch clicks and the quiet returns. For a moment, he simply stands there, hands at his sides, staring at the door as though it has personally betrayed him. You wait until he turns, because you want to see his face when he looks at you again. When he does, he has the expression of a man who has survived a war and lost anyway.
You can’t keep it in. You laugh, not a delicate giggle but a full laugh that bends you forward, your hands pressed to your stomach. “I told you,” you manage between breaths. “I told you not to tempt fate.”
Anthony crosses the room in three long strides, stopping at the side of the bed. “Do not laugh.”
“You’re blushing,” you accuse, delighted.
“I am not blushing.”
“You are,” you insist, and you reach out, tugging gently at his sleeve. “Come here.”
He resists for half a second out of sheer stubborn pride, then gives in, sitting on the edge of the bed beside you. His shoulders are tense, his mouth set, but his hand finds your thigh automatically, thumb stroking through fabric as if he cannot help needing to touch you. “She told me to lock the door,” he says, voice flat.
You turn toward him, still smiling. “She’s not wrong.”
“She should not have said it,” he replies, scandalized.
You tilt your head. “Anthony, she raised eight children. She has said far worse things than that in her life.”
He looks at you, as if he wants to argue, then seems to realize he has no ground. “This house is impossible,” he declares.
“It is,” you agree, and you lean in to kiss the corner of his mouth. “But you love it.”
“I love you,” he corrects, and the intensity of it lands right against your ribs. “And I would like to spend a single moment with you without my mother announcing herself like a herald.”
You slide your hand up his chest, fingers resting over his heart. “Then we’ll try again.”
Anthony’s eyes narrow. “Try again.”
“Try again,” you repeat, and you let your smile turn wicked. “But perhaps not in the morning room, and perhaps not with the confidence of a man who thinks the universe can be bullied into silence.”
He leans closer, his voice dropping. “I can bully the household.”
“You cannot bully your mother,” you say, and you kiss him again, slower now, coaxing the tension out of his jaw. “Though watching you attempt it might be entertaining.”
His hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you close. “You enjoy my suffering.”
“I enjoy you,” you correct, and you keep kissing him until his breath evens out and his grip softens into something warm instead of tight. When you finally pull back, you brush your thumb along his cheek. “No more schedules,” you tell him, gentle but firm. “If you want me, come and take me. If you want a baby, we’ll find our moments. We’re not racing anyone.”
Anthony watches you for a long beat, then exhales like he’s letting go of a battle he didn’t realize he was fighting. “Very well,” he says, and he leans in to kiss you again as if he’s sealing an agreement.
Somewhere downstairs, a door shuts, a voice calls, life continues as it always does in a house full of Bridgertons. Up here, for the moment, it’s just the two of you again, and Anthony’s hands are back at the ties of your dress with renewed determination, like he plans to win this war even if it takes all season.
Two days later, the house is no quieter, but the chaos has shifted shape, as it always does. The morning callers have been managed, Francesca has been whisked out with Violet and a modiste who speaks as if lace is a matter of national importance, and Benedict has vanished somewhere between breakfast and whatever it is he does all day that produces paint stains and smugness. The servants move with practiced ease, and yet you can feel Bridgerton House waiting for something to happen, the way it always seems to hover on the edge of commotion.
You’re in your sitting room with the windows cracked just enough to let in a cool breeze. A small vase of fresh flowers sits on the table, and you’re halfway through a letter when you hear Anthony’s footsteps in the corridor. They’re unmistakable: purposeful, steady, as though the floorboards belong to him by right.
He enters without knocking because it’s your sitting room and you’re his wife, and he looks like a man who has been holding himself together with nothing but habit and stubbornness. His coat is immaculate, his hair is tidy, his expression is controlled, but his eyes go straight to you with something sharper than duty. “Are you alone?” he asks.
You glance past him toward the hall as if you’re considering whether a Bridgerton might be dangling from the chandelier. “At present? Yes.”
Anthony closes the door behind him with a very particular care, the kind that says he’s learned at least one lesson from recent experience. He remains there for a moment with his hand still on the knob, as if he doesn’t trust the door to stay shut unless he threatens it.
“You look as though you mean to interrogate the furniture,” you say, folding your letter.
“I am ensuring we are not about to be interrupted,” he replies, then immediately looks toward the wall as if the house itself might be listening.
You smile. “Oh, you’re cautious now.”
“I am practical,” he corrects, and he takes another step, then another, scanning the room as though Eloise might burst from behind a curtain with a pamphlet and a lecture.
You set the letter aside and lean back. “What is it you want, Anthony?”
His gaze flickers down your face, your mouth, the line of your throat, and he clears his throat like he’s trying to shove that thought back into the box he keeps it in for public hours. “I have been thinking.”
“That’s never a comforting start,” you say, amused.
He ignores the jab, which is how you know he’s serious about whatever he’s decided. “We require a new strategy.”
You tilt your head. “We do?”
“Yes,” he says, and this time there’s no hesitation. “Because the current method of attempting to find privacy in this house is… ridiculous.”
You laugh, but you keep it gentle. “It’s your house.”
“It is my mother,” he returns flatly, and then, as if he’s realized he’s spoken too plainly, he adds, “and my siblings.”
“And the entire ton,” you say, gesturing vaguely, as if Mayfair itself is waiting in the corridor.
Anthony’s mouth tightens. “Exactly.” He crosses to the settee and sits beside you, not close enough to be improper if a servant were to glance in, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him through your sleeve. His hand lands on the cushion behind you, a casual possession he doesn’t even seem to notice he’s doing.
“All right,” you say. “What is your brilliant plan?”
He glances at the door again before answering, which makes you grin even wider. “We leave.”
You blink. “Leave?”
“Yes,” he says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “For a few hours, perhaps an entire day. Somewhere with fewer… doors.”
You look at him. “Somewhere with fewer doors?”
Anthony gives you a look that says you’re being deliberately difficult. “Somewhere without my family. Somewhere without callers. Somewhere without my mother’s impeccable timing.”
You shift closer, just enough to let your knee brush his. “You’re proposing we abandon Bridgerton House like fugitives.”
“I am proposing,” he says, voice dropping, “that I would like to kiss my wife without the threat of my mother appearing like a benevolent specter.”
You hum thoughtfully. “A very noble desire.”
His eyes narrow. “Do not tease.”
“You make it impossible not to,” you reply, and you reach out to straighten his cravat, slow and unhurried, enjoying the way his attention drops to your hands. “Where are we going to go? Aubrey Hall is not exactly a short walk.”
“I am not taking you to Aubrey Hall,” he says, and then pauses like he’s reconsidering whether he should. “Not unless you wish it.”
You lift your brows. “Do I sound as though I’m objecting?”
Anthony’s jaw flexes as if he’s deciding whether to smile. He fails; the corner of his mouth betrays him. “We could go to the town house on Half Moon Street.”
You blink again. “We have a town house on Half Moon Street?”
“We have a town house on several streets,” he says, and there’s the Viscount pride again, as if he’s offended you didn’t memorize the family properties for pleasure. “Half Moon Street is simply… quieter. It is used less often.”
“So it’s empty,” you translate.
“It is managed,” he corrects. “But yes, it is not full of Bridgertons.”
You tap his chest lightly with one finger. “You do realize how strange it is that we must flee your own family in order to have a moment alone.”
Anthony catches your wrist, not hard, just enough to stop you, and his thumb slides over your pulse with slow intention. “Do you mind?” His voice is calm, but the question is real, and he watches you the way he does when he wants a straight answer and doesn’t trust the world to give him one.
“I don’t mind,” you say, and you let your smile soften into something warmer. “But I’m not going to let you turn it into a military campaign.”
His brows lift. “A military campaign.”
“You’re making plans,” you say, leaning closer. “You’re scouting doors. You’re selecting locations.”
“I am ensuring success,” he replies, and the way he says it makes it sound like he’s speaking about negotiations with Parliament.
“You’re ensuring you won’t be interrupted,” you correct. “Which is fair, given what happened, but if you start drafting timetables again, I’m taking your pen away.”
Anthony’s grip on your wrist tightens slightly, and his gaze drops to your mouth again. “You will not take my pen away.”
“Oh?” you say, delighted by the spark in him. “And how will you stop me?”
His answer is not verbal—he leans in, and the kiss is quick at first, a sharp press of intention, then it deepens as he decides he has permission to take what he wants. His hand slides from your wrist to your waist, drawing you closer, and you make a soft, satisfied sound against his mouth because this, at least, is not scheduled.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead nearly touches yours, and his voice is quieter. “We leave this afternoon.”
You keep your hands on him, smoothing the front of his coat as if you’re thinking. “This afternoon?”
“Yes,” he repeats, and he looks almost relieved to have a plan that isn’t a page of ink. “We take the carriage, we tell the household we are not receiving, and we go to Half Moon Street.”
“You’re still giving orders like it’s a campaign,” you point out, though you’re smiling.
“I am the Viscount,” he says, as if that settles everything.
“You’re also a husband,” you remind him, and you tilt your head. “Shouldn’t you ask your wife if she’d like to go first?”
Anthony’s eyes narrow in mock annoyance. “Would you like to go?”
“Yes,” you answer immediately. He blinks, like he’d expected at least a moment of negotiation. You continue, sweetly ruthless. “But only if you promise you won’t turn the entire day into ‘attempting.’”
Anthony’s mouth tightens again. “We are trying for a child.”
“We are,” you agree. “And we can try as often as we like, but if you look at me like you’re evaluating an estate investment, I will lose my mind.”
His expression shifts, and he actually laughs, a quiet sound that seems rare when he’s wearing his public face. “An estate investment.”
“You know exactly what I mean,” you say, and you give his collar a final tug as if you’re satisfied with the arrangement. “I want you. I want the idea of it, the fun of it, the closeness of it. I don’t want to feel like I’m being entered into your ledger.”
Anthony’s gaze holds yours, steady and intent. “You will never be a line in my ledger.”
“Good,” you say. “Then we’re agreed.”
He studies you for a beat longer, then nods like a man accepting terms. “We are agreed.”
You stand, smoothing your skirt, feeling his eyes follow the movement. “All right, we’ll flee to Half Moon Street.”
Anthony rises too, and he reaches out, catching your hand before you can step away. “One more thing.”
You lift a brow. “If this is another instruction—”
“It is not,” he says, but his voice drops anyway. “If anyone interrupts us there, I will buy the building and have it emptied.”
You laugh, properly this time, and squeeze his hand. “That’s the spirit.”
He brings your knuckles to his mouth and kisses them, and there’s something almost smug in the way he looks at you afterward, as if he’s finally found a solution that will work. “Go and dress,” he says. “Something comfortable.”
“Comfortable?” you repeat. “How scandalous.”
Anthony’s eyes flick down your body again, and his tone turns dry. “If you are uncomfortable, it will take longer.”
You pause mid-step, turning back to him with an expression of innocent disbelief. “Did you just admit you’re planning for it to take longer?”
His face doesn’t change, but his ears go faintly red again. “Go and dress.”
“Yes, my lord,” you say, far too pleased with yourself, and you leave him standing there in your sitting room looking like a man trying very hard not to chase you down the corridor.
You’re halfway to your chamber when you hear a door open somewhere down the hall and Eloise’s voice carry, sharp and energetic. “Mother, you cannot possibly expect—”
Anthony exhales like a prayer for patience, and you bite back another laugh as you continue on, already imagining the look on his face when the carriage finally rolls away and Bridgerton House is left behind, loud and impossible and not your problem for a few blessed hours.
The townhouse on Half Moon Street remains a very fine idea for exactly six hours, right up until the moment it becomes impossible. Because that night, just as you’re finishing supper and Anthony is wearing the particular expression he gets when he believes he has finally arranged a quiet evening, the front doors downstairs fly open with all the restraint of a man arriving with news too large to carry politely. The entry hall fills with sound—boots on marble, an excited voice, servants startled into motion—and you and Anthony both pause mid-conversation, turning as one toward the commotion.
Anthony’s gaze narrows at the ceiling as if he can see through floors. “No.”
You set your glass down slowly. “That’s Colin.”
“It is,” Anthony agrees grimly, already pushing back his chair. “And he is doing something.”
Colin’s voice carries up the stairs, bright and unabashed. “Mother! Benedict! Anthony! Everyone—where is everyone?”
Anthony straightens his coat, because he can’t help himself, and looks at you with the resigned fury of a man who can feel his evening collapsing. “Stay here,” he says, as if you’re going to miss this.
You stand immediately. “Absolutely not.”
By the time you reach the top of the stairs, Violet is already in the hall, summoned as if by instinct, and Benedict has emerged from wherever he lurks, looking entertained before he even knows why. Eloise appears behind Violet with her usual suspicion, as though joy is something the family might be attempting to sell.
Colin stands in the entry, cheeks flushed from the cold and excitement, eyes shining. Beside him—half a step behind, hands clasped tightly as if she isn’t sure where to put them—Penelope looks like she’s trying not to faint.
Colin doesn’t ease into it. He doesn’t even attempt a preface. “I am engaged,” he announces, like he’s declaring a victory in battle. “To Penelope.”
There’s a beat of stunned silence so complete you can hear the faint clink of a servant’s tray somewhere in the back hall. Violet’s hand flies to her chest, Eloise makes a noise that sounds like she’s swallowed a cough, Benedict’s brows shoot up, and Anthony, beside you, goes perfectly still.
Then Violet moves first, because she always does. “Engaged?” she repeats, voice breathless with surprise and immediate delight. “Colin—Penelope—oh!”
Colin nods hard, grinning. “Yes. Yes, I—I asked her, and she said yes, and—”
Violet crosses the distance like she can’t help herself and takes Penelope’s hands. “My dear,” she says warmly, eyes shining, “how wonderful—how very wonderful.”
Penelope’s face is pink, but her eyes are bright, too. “Thank you, Lady Bridgerton.”
Benedict turns his head toward Anthony with the kind of grin that means he’s about to be insufferable for at least a week. “Well,” Benedict says, “this is a surprise.”
Eloise stares at Colin as if he’s announced he’s joined the clergy. “You cannot be serious.”
Colin blinks at her. “Eloise, I assure you I am—”
Anthony’s voice cuts in, low and sharp. “Colin.”
Colin looks toward him, still smiling, as if Anthony is going to applaud and clap him on the shoulder. “Brother!”
Anthony takes one step forward. His expression is controlled, but you can see the way his jaw flexes. “When,” he says, “did this occur?”
Colin lifts his chin, like a man proud of himself. “This evening.”
“This evening,” Anthony repeats, as though Colin has said he became engaged during a thunderstorm on a ship at sea. “You became engaged this evening, and you decided the appropriate way to share this information was to burst into the house like a highwayman.”
“It is good news,” Colin protests.
“It is sudden,” Anthony corrects.
Benedict laughs under his breath. “Oh, Anthony, do not pretend you do not enjoy a little drama.”
Anthony ignores him completely and looks at Penelope. His tone softens a fraction, as if reminding himself she’s not the one who enjoys bursting into rooms. “Miss Featherington,” he says, then corrects himself with stiff formality that makes you want to pinch him, “Penelope. Congratulations.”
Penelope manages a small smile. “Thank you, my lord.”
Colin beams like he’s personally improved the world. “He is pleased,” Colin announces to the room, as if interpreting Anthony is now his duty.
“I am—” Anthony begins, then stops, because whatever he is, he is not going to say it in front of Violet and Penelope and half the house. “I am… glad you have made your intentions honorable.”
Violet turns, eyes bright with happiness and barely contained plans. “We must inform Portia at once. We must speak with the modiste. There will be a breakfast, and then a dinner—Anthony, there will be announcements to manage!”
Anthony’s face tightens like he’s taken a physical blow. “Mother—”
Eloise takes a sharp step forward, eyes fixed on Penelope. “Since when?”
Penelope’s hands tighten together. “Eloise—”
Colin steps in quickly, protective. “It is not an interrogation.”
“It is absolutely an interrogation,” Eloise snaps.
You slide a hand lightly onto Anthony’s arm, not to restrain him, but to anchor him, because you can feel the storm gathering in his posture. He glances down at your hand, then up at you, and you can almost hear him silently counting the hours of quiet he thought he’d arranged being eaten alive by Bridgerton chaos.
You lean in and murmur, “so much for leaving this afternoon.”
Anthony’s mouth barely moves, but his reply is immediate. “We will still leave.”
You lift your brows. “With an engagement in the house?”
“I will drag my brother into the carriage with us if I must,” he mutters, which is not at all what he means, but it does make you smile.
By the time the congratulations are finished, the questions asked, Violet’s immediate plans declared, and Eloise’s outrage temporarily redirected into pacing, the hour is too late for any sane attempt to flee Mayfair. The townhouse plan is quietly abandoned under a mountain of family discussion and social necessity, and when you finally return upstairs with Anthony, he shuts your bedchamber door with enough care that it looks like restraint rather than desperation. He turns, shoulders slumping the slightest bit in private. “This house is cursed,” he says.
You slip out of your gloves and lay them neatly on the table, pretending you haven’t noticed his mood even though you have. “It’s your house.”
“It is my family,” he says, and the way he says it makes it sound like a battlefield.
You approach him, smoothing the front of his coat, and kiss him once, quick and affectionate. “We’ll find another day.”
Anthony’s hands land at your waist automatically, pulling you close as if he might steal what the evening has taken. “We will find tomorrow.”
“You always say tomorrow,” you tease.
“Then we will find the next day,” he corrects, eyes narrowing. “But we will find a day.”
You smile up at him. “Confident again, are we?”
He looks like he might answer with something grand, but instead he drops his forehead briefly to yours, as if he’s trying to keep himself from swearing. “Do not provoke me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you say, still smiling, and you let him kiss you properly this time, slow and lingering, until his grip steadies and his breath evens.
It is, annoyingly, still not enough to save your plan.
A few days later, the ton has already taken Colin’s engagement like a morsel and begun devouring it in public, and Bridgerton House has become a parade of callers: Violet is radiant, Penelope arrives and departs under the careful watch of chaperones and excited servants, and Eloise vanishes every time she sees a Featherington carriage, only to reappear with a stormy expression and a book held like a shield.
Anthony bears it for as long as he can, which is longer than most men would, and then one late afternoon, when the house has finally quieted and the sun is lowering into a soft amber glow, he finds you again like a man who has reached his limit.
You are in the library this time, because it is one of the few rooms where the door feels like it means something. The fire has been lit even though it isn’t truly cold, and the air smells faintly of paper and polished wood. You’re standing near the shelves, skimming spines, when Anthony comes in and closes the door behind him with a decisive click.
He doesn’t speak immediately. He simply looks at you as if he’s been thinking about you all day and the moment he’s finally alone with you, words stop being useful. “Well,” you say, amused by the intensity, “you look like a man with an intention.”
“I am a man with an intention,” he replies, crossing the room toward you. He reaches you, and his hands settle on your hips as though that is where they belong, thumbs pressing lightly through your gown. “If anyone knocks, I shall not answer.”
You smile. “That’s new.”
“It is not new,” he says, leaning down to kiss you. “It is final.” You let him, because you want him, and because the library door is shut, and because you can hear nothing beyond the quiet crackle of the fire. His mouth is warm, insistent, and he kisses you like he’s reclaiming time that has been stolen. When he finally lifts his head, his gaze stays on yours. “Move,” he murmurs, and he nudges you back a step toward the large armchair by the hearth as if he’s already decided the library is not merely for books.
You laugh softly. “Anthony—”
“Do not,” he warns, but there’s humor in it too, the edge of a smile he can’t quite hide. “Just—come here.”
You let him guide you, and his hands move with familiar surety, tugging you close, his mouth finding the skin just beneath your ear. “You are enjoying this,” you whisper.
“I am enjoying you,” he corrects immediately, voice muffled against you. “And I will not be interrupted.”
As if the house has been waiting for that exact sentence, there is a knock at the library door. It’s brisk and insistent, not a servant’s timid tap, a Bridgerton knock. Anthony freezes with the speed of a man who has been shot.
You press your lips together, shoulders lifting with silent laughter. “Oh no.”
The knock comes again, louder. “Anthony!” Benedict calls through the door, sounding entirely too cheerful. “Are you in there?”
Anthony closes his eyes. His hands stay on you, as if letting go would be admitting defeat, but his face tightens with fury. You whisper, delighted, “you said you wouldn’t answer.”
“I will not,” Anthony whispers back, as if saying it will make it true.
Benedict knocks again, then adds, “It is important!”
From the other side of the door comes Eloise’s voice, sharper, impatient. “He is in there, Benedict, I saw him go in. Anthony! I need to speak with you!”
Anthony opens his eyes and stares at the door like he’s imagining ways to remove it from its hinges. You murmur, “this is becoming a pattern.”
“It is becoming a tragedy,” Anthony replies.
Benedict’s voice rises, still maddeningly bright. “Anthony, if you do not open the door, I shall open it myself!”
“You will not,” Anthony calls back, voice tight.
“Oh, I absolutely will,” Benedict replies, sounding pleased with himself. “I only need—where is the key?—Eloise, do you know where he keeps the key?”
Eloise makes an exasperated noise. “Why would he keep a key to his own library door?—Anthony, open it!”
Anthony’s arms tighten around you, and he mutters under his breath, “if he touches this door—”
You tip your head up, eyes glittering with amusement. “Are you going to duel Benedict in the library?”
“I will duel him in the street,” Anthony says, dead serious.
Benedict knocks again, and then you hear the unmistakable rattle of a handle being tested. You put a hand on Anthony’s chest, stopping him from launching himself at the door. “Wait,” you whisper.
Anthony’s gaze snaps to you. “Wait?”
You smile, wicked and fond at once. “If you open it, they win.” His jaw tightens.
Outside, Benedict announces, “I am counting to three!”
Eloise barks, “do not count!”
Benedict ignores her. “One—”
Anthony looks at you, and for a moment you can see him wrestling with the impulse to keep control, to keep dignity, to keep peace, and losing all of it at once. His hands flex at your waist.
“Two—”
You lean in and press a quick kiss to his mouth. “Let them knock,” you murmur. “We can be stubborn too.”
Benedict’s voice rings out, delighted. “Three!”
The handle rattles again, harder, and Anthony’s entire body goes rigid. He takes a sharp breath, then—finally—lets out the sort of sound that isn’t quite a growl but is close enough to make you laugh. He turns, still holding you as if you’re the only steady thing in the house, and calls, “what?”
There’s a pause on the other side of the door, as if Benedict hadn’t expected him to answer without opening it. Then Benedict says, brightly, “ah! Excellent. You’re alive.”
Eloise snaps, “Benedict, do not be insufferable. Anthony, I need you. Immediately.”
Anthony’s eyes squeeze shut again. “For what?”
Eloise replies, clipped, “because Colin has decided to be smug in the drawing room and Mother is planning three separate breakfasts, and I cannot endure it alone!”
Benedict adds, as if this is equally urgent, “also, I believe Colin is about to announce something else, and I would hate for you to miss the look on your face.”
Anthony’s stare goes entirely blank with disbelief. “Nothing else can be announced.”
Benedict’s tone is innocently delighted. “You would be surprised what Colin believes he can announce.”
You cover your mouth to muffle a laugh, shoulders shaking against Anthony’s chest. Anthony looks down at you with a mixture of outrage and reluctant amusement. “This is not important,” Anthony calls through the door, voice dangerously calm.
Eloise replies immediately, “it is important to my sanity!”
Benedict says, “and to mine. Eloise is becoming very loud.”
Eloise retorts, “you are the one counting like a child!”
Benedict responds, “I am attempting to be organized, which you should appreciate.”
Anthony’s hands slide up your back, slow, grounding, as though he’s reminding himself that he still has you even if his siblings are trying to break down the door. He leans closer to your ear. “If they do not leave,” he murmurs, “I will move us to the roof.”
You whisper back, laughing, “do we have a roof schedule as well?”
He pinches your waist, not hard, but enough to make you yelp softly. “Do not.”
Outside, Benedict calls, “Anthony, are you opening the door, or do we continue this ridiculous stand-off?”
Anthony opens his mouth to answer, and you can tell he’s about to declare something dramatic and absolute. The door handle rattles again, and this time it’s accompanied by the unmistakable sound of a key being inserted and the both of you go still. On the other side, Benedict says, sounding pleased, “ah, there it is.”
Anthony’s voice drops into something lethal. “Benedict.”
Benedict pauses. “Yes?” Anthony’s hand leaves your waist. He strides to the door in three steps and yanks it open so hard the hinges complain. Benedict stands there holding a key in one hand, grin already prepared, and Eloise is beside him looking vindicated and irritated at the same time. Benedict takes one look at Anthony’s face and lifts both hands. “All right,” he says quickly. “I see you are in one of your moods.”
“One of my moods,” Anthony repeats, and his tone suggests Benedict should start writing his will.
Eloise peers past Anthony into the room, her eyes flicking toward you. “Oh,” she says. “Hello.”
“Eloise,” Anthony says sharply.
Benedict leans in just slightly, as though he’s inspecting a painting. “Is this a bad time?”
You step forward enough to be seen properly, smoothing your skirts, expression sweet. “A dreadful time.”
Benedict’s grin widens. “My apologies.”
Eloise looks between you and Anthony, then pinches the bridge of her nose like she’s the one being punished. “Colin is insufferable,” she announces, as if that explains everything. “He has been smiling for an hour, Mother is floating, and Penelope… I needed an ally.”
Anthony stares at her. “You broke into the library for an ally.”
“It is not breaking in if Benedict has a key,” Eloise says.
Benedict lifts the key. “It was in Father’s old desk.”
Anthony’s face hardens. “Put it back.”
Benedict nods quickly. “Immediately.”
You can’t help it, you laugh, because the scene is so absurd you might choke if you don’t. Benedict looks relieved you’re amused, and Eloise looks irritated that anyone is capable of amusement at all. Anthony steps out into the hall, lowering his voice. “Whatever you think is happening in the drawing room, it can wait.”
Eloise’s eyes flash. “It cannot. Not if I am to survive.”
Benedict adds, as if offering a compromise, “Anthony, come for five minutes. Five minutes, and then we shall all vanish and never speak of this again.”
Anthony glances back at you, his expression tight, then looks at his siblings again like he wants to throw them down the stairs. You step closer and touch his arm lightly. “Go,” you say, soft enough that only he hears. “If you don’t, they’ll only keep doing it, and I’d prefer not to witness Benedict’s next attempt at burglary.”
Anthony’s nostrils flare. “I will have him arrested.”
“You cannot arrest your brother,” you whisper, laughing.
“I can try,” he mutters.
Benedict, sensing he’s survived another second, brightens. “So! Five minutes?”
Anthony holds Benedict’s gaze with a promise of future violence, then says, clipped, “five minutes.”
Eloise’s shoulders drop in relief like she’s been granted mercy. “Thank you.”
Benedict beams. “Wonderful. Come along.”
Anthony turns back to you before he follows them. His hand catches yours briefly, fingers tightening, and his voice drops low. “Do not move from this room.”
You lift your brows. “Now who’s issuing orders?”
His mouth twitches. “I will return.”
“I’m sure you will,” you say, and you tilt your head. “Unless Colin announces he’s become the Prince Regent.”
Anthony lets out a sound that might be a laugh if he weren’t still furious, then leans in, kisses you once—quick, hot, and full of promise—and follows his siblings down the corridor.
The library door remains open behind him, the fire still crackling, your carefully claimed privacy evaporated like mist. You watch the three of them go, Benedict talking animatedly, Eloise already complaining, Anthony walking in the middle like a man being led to execution. You close the door yourself, calmly, and slide the lock with deliberate precision.
A week after Colin’s announcement, the ton has done what it always does: taken the news, polished it until it gleams, and then used it to bludgeon everyone else with questions. You feel it the moment you step into Lady Danbury’s drawing room for an afternoon call, because the room isn’t loud exactly, but it is alive with attention. Fans flick, bracelets glint, and every conversation seems to pause for the smallest fraction of a second when a Bridgerton enters, as if society is collectively deciding which topic to attack first. Lady Danbury, seated like she owns the entire building, lifts her chin toward you in greeting. “Viscountess,” she says, voice rich with amusement. “You have survived a week of congratulations.”
“Barely,” you reply, taking the seat indicated. “I have heard the word ‘engaged’ so many times I may never recover.”
Lady Danbury’s mouth curves. “Nonsense, it could be worse. It could be the word ‘heir.’”
You give a quiet laugh that turns into something more pointed when you feel Anthony’s presence behind you. He’s just finished greeting someone near the door—one of the endless men who insist on clasping his hand and smiling as if they’re friends—and now he crosses toward you with that controlled ease that makes everyone get out of his way without understanding why they’ve done it.
He sits beside you, close enough that his knee brushes yours, and his hand lands on the arm of the chair in a way that looks casual but feels protective. Lady Danbury’s eyes flick from him to you. “How is our viscount today?”
Anthony’s smile is polite. “Enduring.”
“Ah,” she says, pleased. “Honesty, I applaud it. Now, I have a question, and you may glare all you like, Bridgerton, but I will ask it anyway.”
Before Anthony can respond, a woman in pale blue drifts close, fan raised like a shield. She smiles at you first, then at Anthony, and you recognize her as Lady Smythe’s sister-in-law—one of those people who appears at every gathering and always manages to be within earshot of news. “Viscountess,” she says, overly warm. “How delightful to see you. And you as well, Lord Bridgerton. Such a charming week for your family.”
Anthony’s smile stays fixed. “Indeed.”
The woman’s gaze lingers on you with the sort of curiosity that never feels innocent. “Mr. Bridgerton’s engagement is quite the talk. Penelope Featherington! Who would have guessed?” Lady Danbury snorts softly. The woman pretends not to hear it and continues, lowering her voice as if sharing something intimate. “And of course, it does set one thinking.”
Anthony’s jaw tightens. You can feel it without even looking at him. “Does it?” you ask, letting your tone remain pleasant.
“Oh, yes,” the woman says, eyes bright. “Such a large family, and now another wedding approaching. Lady Bridgerton must be in ecstasies. It makes one wonder which happy announcement will come next.”
Lady Danbury’s brows lift as if she’s about to cut in, but you beat her to it with a smooth smile. “Society wonders about all sorts of things,” you say. “It keeps them occupied.”
The woman laughs lightly, not deterred. “Naturally, naturally. Still—one cannot help but consider how important heirs are, particularly when one’s husband holds a title. Forgive me, I only mean it as… interest.”
Anthony’s hand shifts on the chair arm. His voice is controlled, but there’s an edge to it now. “You need not be interested in matters that do not concern you.”
The woman blinks at him, then laughs again like she’s charmed rather than warned. “Oh, Lord Bridgerton, you are as protective as ever. I only meant that the ton is always so eager—”
“To gossip,” Lady Danbury supplies, dry as dust.
The woman’s smile tightens. “To celebrate,” she corrects quickly.
Anthony turns his head slightly toward you, his expression asking, silently, if you want him to end this conversation with a sentence that will become legend. You answer with a small squeeze to his knee under the edge of your skirt, a reminder that you can handle it too. You tilt your head at the woman. “I appreciate your… celebration,” you say sweetly. “But I must insist you find another subject.”
For the first time, the woman looks properly uncertain, as though she’s only just realized she has stepped too far. “Oh,” she says, blinking. “Of course, I did not mean to offend.”
“Then we are perfectly agreed,” you reply.
She retreats with as much dignity as she can salvage, immediately latching onto someone else across the room, likely to repeat the entire exchange as though it happened to her rather than because of her. Lady Danbury watches her go. “I should like to throw her into the street,” she remarks.
Anthony exhales through his nose. “Lady Danbury.”
“You heard her,” Lady Danbury replies, eyes glittering. “She said the word.”
Anthony’s mouth goes flat. “Yes.”
Lady Danbury leans back. “It is not your fault, you know. People see a title and they begin counting cradles.”
You glance at Anthony, amused by his expression. “Counting cradles.”
He looks pained. “Please do not repeat it.”
Lady Danbury waves a hand again. “Very well, we shall call it what it is. Nosiness.”
A second group approaches before the room has even properly settled. This time it’s two matrons and a younger lady who looks as though she’s been dragged along as decoration. They greet Lady Danbury, then angle toward you and Anthony with bright smiles.
“Viscountess!” one of the matrons says. “Lord Bridgerton, what a pleasure. We were just speaking of your family—how fortunate Lady Bridgerton must feel, to have so many children, and now Mr. Colin’s engagement besides.”
“Fortunate,” Anthony repeats, tone politely dead.
The younger lady tucks her chin, eyes flicking up at you with curiosity. The other matron leans in like she’s about to share a recipe. “Tell me,” she says, “how is married life suiting you, my dear? You look positively radiant.”
Anthony’s gaze snaps to her. You smile. “Thank you.”
The matron continues, undeterred. “And Lord Bridgerton has always been so devoted to his family. I imagine he’s devoted to you as well. It must be such comfort, being Viscountess, knowing you will soon have—”
Anthony cuts in sharply, voice still quiet but unmistakably firm. “That is enough.”
The matron blinks as if she’s been slapped by etiquette. “Pardon?”
Anthony doesn’t raise his voice, he simply looks at her, and the air seems to cool around the edges. “You are speaking to my wife,” he says. “Not to a ledger.”
There’s a beat of silence. The younger lady’s eyes widen. Lady Danbury’s mouth curls with clear approval. The matron’s smile becomes strained. “Of course. I meant nothing improper—”
“Then do not say improper things,” Anthony replies, still controlled, but there is no softness in him now.
The second matron clears her throat and attempts to steer the conversation. “Perhaps we might speak of the weather. Such strange winds lately—”
“Strange,” Lady Danbury echoes, a touch too amused.
You place your hand lightly on Anthony’s forearm, not to stop him entirely, but to settle him, because he looks ready to start banning people from the city. You meet the matron’s gaze with a calm smile. “Lady Danbury was just telling us about a new opera,” you say, offering a safe path out. “Perhaps you have heard of it?”
The matrons seize the topic like a lifeline, and within moments they’re talking about music and gowns and who has the best box at the theatre, as if nothing sharp has just happened. That is society: it presses its thumb into a bruise, then pretends it never saw the mark.
When the group finally drifts away, Lady Danbury makes a pleased sound. “That was satisfying.”
Anthony looks at her. “It was necessary.”
“It was both,” Lady Danbury says, then regards you. “And you, Viscountess, do not let them make you feel as if you are on display. These women have nothing to do but sharpen their tongues.”
You nod once. “I won’t.”
Lady Danbury’s gaze shifts to Anthony again. “And you,” she says, “if you frighten away half the ton, I shall call it a personal favor.”
Anthony’s mouth twitches. “I am not trying to frighten anyone.”
“You are succeeding,” you murmur, just loud enough for him.
He turns his head toward you, and his eyes soften in a way that makes your stomach flip. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” you reply. “Annoyed, but fine. It’s them, not me.”
His thumb brushes once over your hand where it rests on his arm, a quiet gesture that says he heard you and believes you. “Good.”
Lady Danbury stands with her cane, signaling that your visit is at its end. “Go on, then. Escape while you can, before someone else decides to count your cradles aloud.”
You rise as well, smoothing your skirt, and Anthony stands immediately at your side, posture already set for departure. He offers Lady Danbury his thanks with perfect politeness, then guides you toward the door with a hand at your back.
In the carriage on the way home, the city rolls by in neat terraces and busy streets, but inside the cab it’s private enough to breathe again. Anthony sits opposite you, gloves in his hands, jaw still tight from holding himself together. You watch him for a moment. “You nearly bit that woman’s head off.”
“I should have,” he replies.
You laugh, then reach across the small space and tap his knee lightly. “You said I’m not a ledger.”
His gaze lifts to yours. “You are not.”
“I know,” you say. “But you can’t duel every person who asks about children.”
“I can try,” he says immediately.
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “Anthony.”
His expression shifts into something like frustration, but it’s directed outward, not at you. “They speak as if it is a matter of public interest,” he mutters. “As if you are… as if we are…”
“As if we’re a story for them,” you finish, voice steady. “We are. That won’t change.”
Anthony’s shoulders ease a fraction, like he’s letting the truth settle instead of fighting it. “Then we must be more careful.”
You lift your brows. “Careful.”
“Yes,” he says, then adds, very pointedly, “we will not be made ridiculous by an entire room of women with fans.”
You grin. “You mean you won’t.”
Anthony looks at you with that familiar, dangerous affection. “Do not pretend you were not tempted to tell them something scandalous just to see them choke.”
“I was tempted,” you admit, pleased. “But I behaved.”
Anthony leans forward slightly, voice dropping even in the carriage. “And I did not?”
“You behaved,” you allow, then smirk. “In your own way.”
He exhales, then reaches across and catches your hand, threading his fingers through yours. His thumb strokes once over your knuckles, slow and grounding.
“When we return,” he says, “we will have dinner quickly.”
You tilt your head. “Quickly?”
He gives you a look that makes the word mean something else entirely. “Quickly,” he repeats, then glances out the window as if daring the city to interrupt him. “And then we will retire early.”
You smile, letting your fingers squeeze his. “And if someone knocks?”
Anthony’s gaze returns to you, unwavering. “Then they will learn to regret it.”
You laugh again, warm and genuine, and the carriage turns onto your street while Anthony holds your hand as if it’s the only part of the day he’s been able to keep for himself.
The night of the Queen’s ball arrives dressed in gold and urgency, the sort of evening that makes even Bridgerton House feel like it’s holding its breath. Servants move with an extra sharpness, carrying trays and ribbons and polished shoes, while somewhere down the corridor Violet’s voice floats with last-minute instructions that sound suspiciously like commands issued to a regiment.
You’re in your room with the fire lit low and your gown laid out like an offering, silk the color of pale moonlight with delicate beading that catches when you turn it in your hands. Your maid has done most of the work already, but now she’s tightened the corset ties and stepped back to fetch a pin from the dressing table, leaving you in that in-between state where your hair is half arranged and your shoulders are bare, a ribbon hanging loose at your back like an invitation. You catch sight of yourself in the mirror and huff softly. “If this contraption gets any tighter, I’ll have to breathe in turns.”
Your maid smiles without looking up, carefully selecting a hairpin. “You look very fine, my lady.”
“Fine is not the same as breathing,” you reply, shifting your shoulders to test the stays. “If I faint at the Queen’s feet, I’ll blame you.”
“You will not faint,” she says confidently, then glances toward the door as footsteps approach. “That will be his lordship.”
Before she can say more, the door opens and Anthony steps in without ceremony, as if he belongs in every room you occupy, which, to be fair, he does. He’s already dressed for the ball, hair neat, coat immaculate, the white of his cravat so crisp it looks sharp enough to cut. He pauses the moment he sees you, and the look in his eyes changes from public composure to something warmer, softer, and unmistakably pleased.
Your maid drops into a quick curtsy. “My lord.”
Anthony doesn’t take his eyes off you. “Leave us,” he says, not unkindly. Your maid hesitates, glancing at the half-finished hair and the loose ribbon. Anthony finally looks at her, expression politely firm. “I am perfectly capable of tying a ribbon.”
Your maid’s mouth twitches as if she’s trying not to smile. “Yes, my lord.” She curtsies again and slips out, shutting the door with a careful click that somehow sounds like a blessing.
You turn slightly, smiling at him through the mirror. “You’re perfectly capable?”
Anthony walks closer, slow and certain, stopping behind you. His hands hover for a moment at your shoulders, as if he’s asking permission even after everything. “I can learn,” he says, and the tone makes it clear he’s not talking about ribbons alone.
“Then learn,” you reply, and you tilt your head to give him access as he leans in. His lips brush your shoulder, gentle at first, then lingering, like he’s trying to steal a moment from the night before it’s demanded from you.
You close your eyes briefly. “If you ruin my hair…”
Anthony’s mouth moves against your skin in a way that makes you forget your own warning. “You will survive.”
“Anthony,” you murmur, but you’re smiling, because you can hear the pride in his refusal, the way he likes putting you above everything else even when he’s pretending he doesn’t.
His hands come to the ribbon at the back of your corset and he draws the ends through his fingers, testing the tension with surprising care. “Is it too tight?”
“A little,” you admit, then add, because you can’t resist, “I should like to be able to inhale at the Queen’s leisure.”
Anthony makes a low sound that could be a laugh if he weren’t concentrating. He eases the ribbon just slightly, then starts to tie it properly, his fingers steady. When he finishes, he smooths the fabric at your back as if he’s calming something wild, then leans down again, kissing the curve where your neck meets your shoulder.
“You look…” he begins, then stops, like the rest of the sentence is too exposed.
“Go on,” you say, opening your eyes to meet his gaze in the mirror. “You never stop halfway through an opinion.”
“I do when it is dangerous,” he replies.
You turn your head just enough that your cheek nearly brushes his. “Dangerous to whom?”
His eyes flick to your mouth. “To me.”
That earns a soft laugh from you, pleased and a little breathless. You turn fully then, facing him, and the closeness immediately changes the air. He’s so handsome in evening dress it’s almost unfair, and there’s something about the way he looks at you—like he’s already impatient with the world for taking up so much of your time. “You’re meant to be downstairs,” you say lightly. “Someone will come searching for you.”
“Let them,” Anthony answers, and he takes your hands, drawing you a step closer until your corset brushes his coat. “I have watched you be pestered for a week. I have listened to women speak about you as if you are a subject for discussion. I am allowed a few minutes with my wife.”
You lift your brows at the sharpness of it. “Are you sulking again?”
“I am not sulking,” he says, but his mouth tightens, which is as close as he comes to admitting anything.
You reach up and straighten his lapel, slow, your fingers smoothing the fabric deliberately. “You’re supposed to charm people tonight.”
“I can charm people,” Anthony replies, voice dropping. “I would much rather charm you.”
“You already have,” you say, and you tug him closer by the lapel. “Clearly, because you’re in my room instead of behaving like the Viscount.”
He catches your wrist, turning his head to press a kiss to the inside of it, a gesture so intimate you feel it in your stomach. “I behave when I must.”
“And when you don’t?” you ask softly.
His gaze stays on yours. “Then I do this.” He kisses you, and it starts gentle, like a courtesy, then becomes something warmer, more insistent, the kind of kiss that makes the mirror and the corset and the ball disappear until there’s only him. His hand slides to your waist, holding you steady, and you let yourself lean into him because it’s been days of interruptions and noise and other people’s expectations, and this is yours. When he lifts his mouth, his breath is warm against your lips. “We will leave early,” he murmurs.
You blink, amused. “Will we?”
“We will,” he says with certainty. “I will invent a headache if I must. I will tell my mother you are tired. I will do anything.”
You smile, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “So dramatic.”
“I am serious,” he says, and then he kisses your shoulder again, as if he can’t help himself.
You shiver, laughing quietly. “If you keep doing that, I’ll forget I’m meant to greet royalty.”
Anthony’s mouth pauses against your skin, and he looks up, eyes dark with the satisfaction of having that effect on you. “Perhaps you should forget.”
“Anthony,” you warn, but there’s no real heat in it, only fondness.
He answers by tugging you closer, his lips at your ear now. “After the ball,” he says, voice low enough that it feels like a secret, “we will go upstairs and we will lock the door, and if anyone knocks—”
A sharp rap sounds at the door and Anthony goes still. You stare at the door with immediate, helpless disbelief. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
The knock comes again, harder, urgent in a way that makes your heart drop, because this isn’t Violet’s polite timing or Benedict’s cheerful menace. This is the sound of a servant afraid to deliver news. Anthony’s jaw tightens. “Ignore it.”
The knocking continues, and then a voice—breathless—filters through the wood. “My lord! Lord Bridgerton, forgive me—my lord!”
Anthony’s eyes close briefly, as though he’s bargaining with God. He pulls back just enough to look at you. “If it is my brother—”
“It’s not your brother,” you whisper, and you can hear it in the servant’s tone too, that edge of panic.
Anthony turns sharply and strides to the door, yanking it open. A footman stands there, flushed and wide-eyed, with a sealed note held out as though it might bite. “My lord,” the footman says quickly, “a messenger has arrived. From the palace.”
Anthony’s entire posture changes. “From the palace?”
“Yes, my lord,” the footman says, swallowing. “He says it is immediate.”
You step closer behind Anthony, peering past him. In the corridor, a man in livery waits—distinct from your household, carrying himself with practiced authority, a sealed note in his hand.
Anthony steps into the hall and takes the note without hesitation. He breaks the seal, eyes scanning the contents, and you can see the exact moment his evening is stolen away. His shoulders tighten, and his mouth goes flat. “What is it?” you ask, already knowing you won’t like the answer.
Anthony looks back at you, and the frustration in his eyes is almost comical if it weren’t so real. “The Queen requests our presence,” he says, and his tone makes it sound like an ambush. “Now.”
“Now?” you repeat, incredulous. “We’re already going to the ball.”
“Apparently,” Anthony replies, turning the note slightly as if to confirm it hasn’t changed its mind, “Her Majesty intends to receive the Bridgertons before the main assembly.”
The palace messenger speaks for the first time, polite but unmoving. “My lord, the carriage should depart within the quarter hour.”
Anthony’s eyes flick to the man, then back to you, and for a moment he looks like he wants to argue with the monarchy itself. Instead, he forces the air into his lungs slowly and says through his teeth, “of course.”
The messenger bows and steps back down the corridor, leaving your footman hovering like he expects Anthony to throw something. Anthony closes the door with careful restraint and turns to you, still holding the note. The room feels suddenly smaller, as if the palace has reached in and taken hold of your evening by the throat.
You cross your arms lightly, gaze narrowing. “She couldn’t have waited until we arrived like everyone else?”
Anthony lets out a short breath that is half laugh, half pure irritation. “Apparently not.”
You step closer, reaching for his hand, and his fingers tighten around yours immediately. “All right,” you say, forcing brightness into your tone. “We go. We smile. We do whatever she wants us to do.”
Anthony’s gaze drops to your mouth again, and the look in his eyes turns sharp with promise. “And then we come home.”
“Anthony—” you begin, because you know that look.
He leans in, close enough that his voice is only for you. “I will make it up to you,” he murmurs, each word slow and deliberate. “Tonight.”
You feel the warmth climb your neck, and you can’t help the small breath you take. “You’re threatening me.”
“I am promising you,” he corrects, and his hand slides to your waist as if he’s already imagining you there later, not dressed in silk and stays, but bare of all that restraint.
You swallow, trying to keep your composure. “We’re about to face the Queen.”
Anthony’s mouth curves, just slightly. “Yes.”
“That is not the time to look like you want to—” You stop yourself, because the word is too much in a room full of ribbons and court summons, but your eyes say the rest.
Anthony’s gaze holds yours without apology. “I always look at you like that.”
You let out a soft, helpless laugh and tug him back by his hand. “Then come on,” you say. “Before Her Majesty decides to send someone to drag you by the ear.”
Anthony moves with you, but before you can reach the bell to summon your maid, he catches you and pulls you in for one last quick kiss, sharp and possessive, the kind of kiss that leaves you a little dazed. When he pulls back, his voice is low, meant only for you. “Do not forget what I said,” he murmurs.
You lift your brows, breath unsteady. “As if I could.”
Anthony’s eyes darken with satisfaction, then he straightens with that practiced public composure, the Viscount sliding back over him like armor. He calls for your maid, orders are given, gloves fetched, and within minutes you’re being fastened into the last of your finery while the house scrambles to meet the palace’s demand.
Even as you’re pinned into place and the night’s obligations close in, Anthony’s hand lingers at your back for a heartbeat longer than necessary when he helps you into your cloak, his touch a quiet reminder. The Queen can summon you, the ton can watch you, Bridgerton House can interrupt you, but the promise in his voice follows you out the door and into the carriage like a private heat you can’t shake.
By the time you return from the palace, the house feels quieter, not because it actually is, but because it’s past the hour when polite people pretend not to yawn. Your cloak is shrugged off in the entry, gloves handed away, and the last of the evening’s sound trails behind you as you climb the stairs, the candlelight throwing warm patches on the walls and stretching your shadows long across the carpet.
Anthony walks at your side, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours every so often, as though he’s reminding himself you’re still here after an entire night of being watched. He said very little in the carriage, but not because he had nothing to say. It’s because he has the sort of restraint that looks like calm until it finally cracks.
You reach your door and he opens it before you can touch the handle, ushering you inside with a hand at your back. The room is dim, the fire low, the air still faintly scented with the perfume you dabbed on before you left. The quiet should feel like relief.
Instead, the moment the door shuts, Anthony exhales sharply and throws his gloves onto the table with enough force that they slide. You pause mid-step. “If you’re about to curse the monarchy, I won’t stop you.”
Anthony turns, and his eyes are bright with frustration, his jaw tight in a way you’ve come to recognize as the line between control and anger. “She summoned us before the ball,” he says, voice low. “Before the ball, as though we are footmen waiting for a bell.”
“You didn’t like being told what to do?” you ask, light on purpose.
“I do not like being treated as though I have no choice,” he replies, then rubs a hand over his mouth as if he’s biting back ten sharper sentences.
You move toward the dressing table, beginning to unpin your earrings. “We never have a choice with queens.”
Anthony laughs once, short and humorless. “Apparently not.”
You set the earrings down carefully, then glance at him. “Are you angry about the Queen, or are you angry about the timing?”
Anthony’s gaze flicks to you, then away, then back. “Yes.”
That answer earns a quiet smile from you, but it fades when he comes closer, stopping only a step away. He lifts a hand toward you like he’s going to touch you, then hesitates, as though he’s afraid of turning this into another thing he ruins by being too rough with it. “You promised,” you remind him, voice soft but teasing, trying to pull him back from the edge. “You said you’d make it up to me.”
Anthony’s mouth tightens. “I know what I said.”
“And?” you prompt.
“And I am tired of promises,” he snaps, and then immediately looks as though he regrets the sharpness, because your expression shifts and he can see it. He drags in a breath. “Not to you. I do not mean to you.”
You set your hands on the edge of the table and face him fully. “Then what do you mean?”
Anthony’s gaze drops to the ribbon at your shoulder, the small fastenings of your gown, the pieces of the evening that still cling to you. “I mean,” he says, quieter now, “that every time we attempt to have a moment, there is someone knocking. Someone needing something. Someone dragging us back into the world. And tonight—tonight I could not even get you to the ball without the palace reaching into our carriage.”
You lift a brow. “You sound like you want to fight the Queen.”
“I want to fight the house,” Anthony replies, then shakes his head as if he’s disgusted with himself for even saying it. “It is ridiculous. I am a grown man.”
“You are,” you agree.
“And yet,” he continues, and his voice tightens again, “my siblings behave as though doors are suggestions. My mother behaves as though privacy is a myth. The ton behaves as though your body is a matter for discussion. The Queen behaves as though she owns our time. And I—” He cuts himself off, jaw working.
You step closer, careful. “And you?”
Anthony’s eyes meet yours, and there’s something raw in the way he looks at you now, not romantic and pretty, just honest and frustrated. “And I cannot even do this properly,” he says, gesturing vaguely between you as though this is everything you’ve been trying for. “I cannot even manage to be alone with my own wife without it becoming a farce.”
You blink once, then let your hands settle on his coat, smoothing the fabric over his chest the way you do when you want to bring him back to you. “It’s not a farce.”
“It feels like one,” he says immediately, and the words are too quick, too sharp. “It feels like we keep—” He stops again, then exhales hard through his nose. “It feels like we keep failing.”
You hold his gaze. “We are not failing.”
Anthony’s eyes narrow, stubborn as ever. “We have been trying.”
“We have been interrupted,” you correct. “That isn’t the same thing.” He looks away, jaw clenched. You can tell he wants to argue, wants to insist that if something isn’t going the way he pictured it, it must be his fault, because that’s what he does. He takes responsibility until it becomes a weapon he uses against himself. You move in front of him, blocking his escape, and tilt your head. “Do you want to be angry,” you ask, “or do you want to take off your coat?”
Anthony stares at you for a beat, as if the simplicity of the question has knocked him off balance. “What?”
You reach for the buttons at his coat and start unfastening them yourself, slow and deliberate. “You’ve been wound tight all evening,” you say. “If you want to be angry, be angry. If you want to kiss me, kiss me. But stop standing there looking like you’re about to explode.”
Anthony’s throat works, and his hands finally come to your waist, fingers flexing as if he doesn’t know where to put all that energy. “I do want you,” he says, voice low.
“Then have me,” you reply, meeting his eyes without flinching. “But don’t turn it into a test.”
His brows draw together. “A test.”
“Yes,” you say. “A test where you’re measuring whether you’re doing it right, whether the world is cooperating, whether people are watching, whether you can control everything long enough for—” You stop, because you don’t need to say the rest aloud to make the point.
Anthony’s grip tightens slightly, not painful, just intense. “I am not making it a test.”
“You are,” you tell him, plain and sure. “You’re turning it into something you have to win.”
His eyes flash. “Because I want it.”
“I know you do,” you say, softer now, because you can feel him trembling with it, the want and the frustration and the pressure the ton has layered on top of your bed as if it belongs there. “And I want it too. But I don’t want to dread it. I don’t want every kiss to come with you bracing for a knock.”
Anthony’s gaze drops to your mouth. “Then what do you want?”
You lift your hands to his face, cradling his jaw so he has to look at you. “I want you to stop thinking about everyone else,” you say. “Stop thinking about Violet, and Benedict, and the Queen, and Lady Smythe’s sister-in-law’s opinions. Right now it’s just us, and if nothing happens tonight, it’s still us.”
Anthony swallows, and the muscle in his jaw twitches under your fingers. “Something will happen,” he says, stubborn even now.
You give him a look. “Anthony.”
He holds your gaze, and the anger in him shifts, draining into something quieter. “I do not like,” he says, choosing his words carefully as if he’s afraid of saying the wrong thing, “that they speak about you as though you are… as though you are only—”
“A womb,” you finish, flat and calm.
Anthony’s eyes flare, and he looks like he wants to tear the word out of the air. “Yes.”
You keep your hands on his face, steady. “That’s their vulgarity, not ours.”
His breathing is slow, controlled. “I know.”
“And if it’s become miserable,” you add, “we can stop trying like it’s a project. We can just be together. We can let it happen when it happens.”
Anthony’s gaze searches yours, then he gives a short exhale. “You are too reasonable.”
“That’s why you married me,” you say, and you let a small smile soften the edge of the room.
For the first time since you came in, Anthony’s mouth twitches with something like relief. He leans forward, pressing his forehead briefly to yours, then murmurs, “I married you because you do not let me behave badly without telling me.”
“You behave badly constantly,” you tease, and you stroke your thumbs along his cheekbones. “You just do it with nice coats and a title.”
Anthony lets out a quiet, reluctant laugh, and it breaks something in him. His hands slide up your back, drawing you close, not frantic now, but firm and warm. “All right,” he says, voice rougher. “All right. I will stop.”
“Good,” you whisper. He kisses you then, and it’s slower than earlier kisses, less about proving something and more about settling. You feel his shoulders loosen under your hands as you tug at his coat, pushing it down his arms until it falls to the floor in an unceremonious heap. When you pull back, your mouth is still close to his, your breath mingling. “Better?” you ask.
Anthony’s eyes are dark, but the tightness is gone. “Better,” he says.
“Then help me out of this,” you murmur, tugging lightly at the fabric of your gown. “If I have to sleep in stays, I will start cursing the monarchy myself.”
Anthony’s hands move to the fastenings with careful attention, fingers brushing your skin as he works. He leans in now and then to kiss your shoulder again, softer than before, not trying to start a fire so much as keep the warmth alive.
You let yourself breathe, let yourself feel it without counting outcomes, and Anthony’s mouth finds your ear. “I meant what I said,” he murmurs, voice low and steady. “I will make it up to you.”
You smile into the quiet. “We’ll see.”
His hand slides around your waist, pulling you closer as the last pin comes loose and the gown begins to slip from your shoulders. “You will,” he replies, and the certainty in it is no longer angry. It’s simply him, finally choosing you over the noise outside the door.
It’s late, well past midnight, and Bridgerton House has finally slipped into the kind of hush that feels earned. The last candlelight in the corridor has been lowered, the servants have retreated to their own corners, and even the distant creaks of the building sound sleepy instead of watchful. In your room, the fire has burned down to a soft glow, and the only real light comes from a single lamp near the bed, its flame turned low.
You’re already out of the gown and the stays, skin warm from the heat of the hearth and the blankets. Anthony is beside you, coat gone, cravat discarded somewhere without ceremony, his shirt half unbuttoned as if he didn’t have the patience for knots tonight. He’s stretched out close enough that your legs tangle together, one arm draped around your waist, hand resting there like it belongs.
You turn your head on the pillow to look at him, and his gaze is on you already. “You’re staring,” you whisper.
“I’m looking,” he corrects, as if that distinction matters.
You smile, fingers tracing along his forearm. “Is there a difference?”
“There is when it’s you,” Anthony murmurs, then leans in to kiss your shoulder, slow and unhurried, the way he does when he isn’t trying to race the world. His lips move up the curve toward your neck, and you let out a quiet breath that makes him pause, pleased.
“You’re enjoying yourself,” you accuse softly.
Anthony’s mouth brushes your skin again. “I always enjoy myself.”
“You didn’t sound like you enjoyed yourself at the Queen’s ball,” you tease.
His hand tightens lightly at your waist. “Do not mention the Queen,” he says, voice low. “Do not mention my siblings. Do not mention society. Do not mention anything but—”
“But what?” you prompt, smiling.
Anthony lifts his head, eyes dark and intent. “But you.”
You laugh quietly, then tug him closer by the front of his shirt. “Then stop talking,” you tell him.
He answers by kissing you properly, mouth warm and sure, the kiss slow enough that it makes your chest loosen and your thoughts scatter. His hand slides up your side, thumb pressing lightly as if he’s mapping you, and when you shift closer, he makes a quiet sound against your mouth that is half approval, half need.
“Anthony,” you whisper when he breaks the kiss just long enough to breathe.
“Yes,” he murmurs, lips at the corner of yours. “Yes.”
You catch his face between your hands, holding him still, and your voice turns playful again because you can’t resist. “No knocking.”
His eyes narrow. “No knocking.”
“No sudden announcements,” you add.
“No announcements,” he agrees, and he kisses along your jaw again.
“No urgent messages,” you finish, and your mouth curves when you feel him pause.
Anthony lifts his head just enough to look at you. “If an urgent message appears, I will burn it.”
“Good,” you say, satisfied, and you pull him back down.
For a few minutes, you get exactly what you wanted: the quiet, the warmth, the feeling that the rest of the house has finally left you alone. Anthony’s touches are careful and possessive at once, and he’s smiling into your skin like he can’t believe he’s been allowed to keep you to himself. You’re laughing softly at something he murmurs, his hand slipping under the edge of the sheet, his mouth moving slowly along your throat.
Then it happens—a knock at the door, sharp and urgent, nothing like Violet’s measured politeness. You and Anthony both freeze. You stare at the ceiling as if it might provide an explanation. “You said you’d burn it.”
Anthony’s voice is so quiet it’s almost a hiss. “I will burn the person.”
The knock comes again, followed by a voice you recognize as your housekeeper’s, careful but strained. “My lord? Forgive me—my lord, it is urgent.”
Anthony closes his eyes. His forehead drops briefly to your shoulder like he’s physically holding himself back from shouting. “No,” he says, to no one in particular.
You push yourself up on one elbow, hair falling over your shoulder, and call out, “what is it?”
There’s a pause, and the housekeeper’s reply is lowered, like she knows exactly what she’s interrupting and will never forgive herself. “A messenger has arrived with a note for you, my lady, and for his lordship. It is from Lady Cowper’s house.”
Anthony’s head lifts immediately, expression going hard. “Lady Cowper.”
You blink. “Why would Lady Cowper be sending anything at this hour?”
The housekeeper hesitates again, then says, “it concerns Mr. Colin’s engagement, my lady.”
Anthony’s arm tightens around you as if you might bolt out of the bed and into the street. “Bring it,” he says, clipped.
The door opens only a fraction. Your housekeeper steps in with her eyes very firmly on the carpet, holding out a folded note sealed with wax. She sets it on the table near the lamp as if it might explode, then backs away.
“I am very sorry,” she says quickly. “Very sorry, my lord. My lady.”
Anthony waves a hand without looking at her. “Go.”
She retreats at once, shutting the door behind her with the softest click she can manage, which still sounds like a gunshot in the quiet.
You stare at the note, then look at Anthony. “Lady Cowper.”
Anthony’s mouth is a thin line. “She is not sending congratulations.”
You swing your legs out of bed and snatch up your robe, shrugging into it. “Open it, then.” Anthony sits up too, already reaching for the paper like he means to strangle it. He breaks the seal and scans the contents, eyes moving fast. The longer he reads, the darker his expression becomes. “What does it say?” you ask.
Anthony holds the note out to you without a word. You take it and read, and it’s exactly as you feared: a carefully worded warning dressed up as courtesy, hinting that “certain gossip” has begun to spread about Penelope’s suitability, her family’s “recent embarrassments,” and whispers that Colin has been “ensnared.” There’s a neat little suggestion that the Bridgertons should act quickly to “protect the family” before the rumor becomes impossible to stamp out.
You lower the paper slowly. “That is vile.”
Anthony’s laugh is sharp. “It is calculated.”
You glance at the clock on the mantel. “At this hour?”
“It means she wanted to be first,” Anthony says. “She wanted to feel powerful.”
You fold the note once and set it down with deliberate care. “So what’s the rumor?”
Anthony looks like he’s about to pace a hole into the carpet. “It does not matter.”
“It matters if everyone is repeating it tomorrow,” you point out.
Anthony drags a hand through his hair. “She is implying that Penelope is—” He cuts himself off, jaw working. “She is implying things that will make the matrons clutch their pearls and the men grin.”
You exhale slowly, because you can already imagine it: the looks, the whispers, the cruel delight of people who want to be entertained. “Violet will lose her mind.”
“She will be furious,” Anthony says. “And Colin will be—” He stops again, because whatever Colin will be is probably not fit to say out loud.
You step closer, hand on his shoulder. “We should wake Violet.”
Anthony’s eyes flash. “It is past midnight.”
“And?” you say. “If this is going to spread, she’d rather know now than be blindsided at breakfast.”
Anthony holds your gaze for a beat, then gives a short nod like he’s conceding to a point he hates. “Fine,” he says. “But I will deal with Cowper.”
You lift a brow. “How?”
He looks at you as if the answer is obvious. “With words.” You stare. Anthony sighs. “With words,” he repeats, slower. “I will not start a fight in her drawing room. I will simply make it clear that if she breathes one more hint of this nonsense in public, she will regret it.”
“You’re going to threaten Lady Cowper,” you say, half amused, half genuinely impressed.
“I am going to remind her,” Anthony replies, already swinging his legs over the side of the bed, “that the Bridgertons do not tolerate cruelty dressed as concern.”
You fold your arms over your robe. “And what are you going to do about the rumor itself?”
Anthony pauses, looking up at you, and the anger in his face shifts into something more focused. “I will speak to Colin,” he says. “Tonight. Now. I will have him ready before morning.”
“You’re going to wake Colin,” you repeat.
Anthony’s mouth tightens. “If I do not, my mother will, and she will do it with far less mercy than I possess.”
You let out a short laugh, because you can picture it perfectly. “All right. We wake Violet, we wake Colin, and then you terrify a Cowper.”
Anthony reaches for his discarded shirt and yanks it on, not bothering with buttons properly. “Yes.”
You step in close and fix one button on his shirt because he’s doing it wrong in his fury. “Then come on,” you say, voice gentle but brisk. “Before the sun rises and everyone decides this is their entertainment.”
Anthony catches your wrist, pulling you closer for one brief second, his touch firm and warm. “We are not finished,” he murmurs, voice low enough that it sends a shiver straight down your spine despite everything.
You lift your brows. “Is that a promise?”
“It is a vow,” Anthony replies, and then he kisses you once—quick, heated, full of frustration and intent—before releasing you and striding toward the door like he’s about to declare war on half of Mayfair. You follow, tying your robe tighter as you go, because the night has been stolen again, but not the two of you. Not really, no matter how many times the world tries.
By the time the afternoon drifts toward evening, you’ve already endured Violet’s excited plans for Colin’s wedding breakfast, a visit from Lady Danbury that somehow turned into three separate instructions delivered like favors, and Eloise sweeping through the corridor with the energy of a storm cloud. Even the servants look tired of announcing names.
You’re in your sitting room with the windows open and a plate of fruit you’ve barely touched, trying to convince yourself you’re not still thinking about that horrible note from Lady Cowper. The scandal did not erupt at breakfast the way it threatened to, which means Anthony must have spent the morning terrifying the right people in the right order, but the tension still lingers in the house like smoke after a candle’s been snuffed.
Anthony comes in without knocking, of course, and closes the door behind him with a firmness that makes you glance up immediately. He doesn’t look furious the way he did the night of the message, but he does look set on something, the kind of set that means he’s decided and anyone standing in his way will simply be moved.
He crosses the room and stops in front of you. For a moment he says nothing at all, just reaches down and takes your hand, drawing it into both of his as if he’s checking you’re really here. “Well?” you ask, lifting a brow. “Did you duel Lady Cowper at dawn? Because I didn’t hear the pistols.”
Anthony huffs a short laugh, and his thumbs begin to move over your knuckles in a slow, absent motion that would look almost calm on another man. On Anthony it reads like restraint. “I did not duel anyone,” he says. “I spoke to Cowper’s husband.”
“Oh,” you reply, immediately interested. “And?”
“He blanched,” Anthony says with unmistakable satisfaction. “Which I found encouraging.”
You smile, letting your fingers curl into his. “Encouraging.”
“He understands,” Anthony continues, still rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand as if it’s the only soothing thing in the room. “If anything is said again, there will be consequences.”
“Consequences,” you repeat, amused. “You’re terrifying when you’re polite.”
“I was not polite,” he says, and there’s a flicker in his eyes that suggests he enjoyed not being polite.
You squeeze his hand. “And Colin?”
Anthony’s jaw tightens again, but less sharply than before. “Colin is determined to be happy,” he says, as if this is a crime. “He has decided the world may do what it likes, he will marry Penelope regardless.”
“That’s the point,” you say, reaching up with your free hand to straighten his lapel. “And Penelope?”
Anthony’s expression shifts into something more measured. “She looked as if she might bolt when I asked her if she was all right,” he admits. “But she did not bolt, she said she is fine.”
“Good,” you say simply.
Anthony’s gaze stays on you, and his thumb keeps moving, a steady stroke over your knuckles that feels oddly intimate in the middle of all this. “You were right,” he says.
You blink. “About what?”
“About waking everyone,” he replies, and you can hear the reluctance in it like a man swallowing vinegar. “About handling it before morning.”
You smile, pleased, and tilt your head. “Careful, Anthony. Compliments are dangerous.”
He gives you a look that suggests he’d like to place you directly on his lap and remind you what he thinks is dangerous. Instead he breathes out slowly, still holding your hand like he’s decided not to let go, and says, “We are leaving.”
You pause. “Leaving?”
“Yes,” Anthony repeats, and this time his thumb stops for a beat, then resumes, slower, as if he’s calming himself with the decision. “Today. Tonight. Now, if you are ready.”
You search his face, then glance toward the door as if you expect Benedict to burst in and announce he’s found another key. “Where are we going?”
“The Half Moon Street house,” he says. “The one no one thinks of because it is not full of Bridgertons. The one that is quiet.”
You lean back slightly, studying him. “You’re serious.”
“I am always serious,” Anthony says, then softens it by adding, “yes. I am serious.”
“And what do we tell your mother?” you ask, because you know that Violet does not accept vague answers as a rule.
Anthony’s mouth twists. “We tell her we are tired.”
“She will know you’re lying.”
Anthony’s eyes narrow. “We tell her you are tired.”
You laugh, and it makes his grip tighten on your hand like he’s pleased he can still make you laugh even when the house is trying to eat you both alive. “She will know you’re lying,” you repeat.
Anthony leans closer, lowering his voice. “Then she may know,” he says. “I do not care. She has had eight children. She can survive the knowledge that her eldest son is attempting to have one.”
You cover your mouth, shoulders shaking. “Anthony.”
“I am not joking,” he insists, though his eyes glint as if he’s enjoying your reaction. “I will not spend another evening listening to my brother being congratulated while my sister argues with a footman about pamphlets and strangers stare at you as if you’re a topic. We are going.”
You glance down at your joined hands, then back up. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?” he asks, immediately suspicious.
“The thing where you declare war on the entire world,” you say, and you nudge his chest lightly. “It’s charming, but you’re doing it.”
Anthony’s thumb strokes your knuckles again, slower now, and he looks at you with that steady, direct expression that makes most people fall into line without understanding why. “Do you want to go?” he asks.
The question is simple, but there’s something careful about it, like he’s making sure you’re choosing it too and not just being carried along by his stubbornness. “Yes,” you answer without hesitation.
Anthony’s shoulders loosen so slightly you might have missed it if you didn’t know him. “Good,” he says, and brings your hand to his mouth, kissing your knuckles once, unhurried. “Then go and dress. I will order the carriage and tell the household we are not receiving anyone.”
“You’re going to tell the household,” you repeat. “Not your mother.”
Anthony’s gaze flicks toward the corridor like he can already hear Violet’s footsteps. “I will tell my mother,” he says, and the grimness in his tone makes you grin. “Briefly.”
You stand, still not letting go of his hand. “If you say ‘we’re tired’ she’ll laugh in your face.”
Anthony looks down at your intertwined fingers, then back up at you. “Then I will accept her laughter,” he says, and his thumb traces your knuckles again, almost tender. “I will accept anything if it means you and I are not interrupted.”
“And if we are interrupted?” you ask, teasing even though you know he’ll take it seriously.
Anthony’s mouth curves, sharp and pleased. “Then I will buy the street.”
You laugh properly at that, then give his hand a final squeeze before letting go. “All right,” you say. “Half Moon Street.”
Anthony watches you as you move toward your chamber, and you can feel his gaze on the back of your neck like a touch. “Do not take long,” he calls after you.
“You’re in a hurry,” you call back.
“I am efficient,” he replies, which is exactly the wrong answer and makes you laugh again as you disappear down the corridor.
When you return a short time later, dressed in something simple enough for travel and warm enough for the evening air, the house is already in motion. A footman hurries past with a cloak. Another servant carries a small case. Somewhere down the hall Violet’s voice rises with curiosity, and then, unmistakably, with delighted disbelief.
You reach the landing just in time to see Anthony in the corridor outside Violet’s sitting room, looking as if he has just survived a conversation he did not enjoy. Violet stands in her doorway, eyes bright, trying very hard not to smile too widely. “You are leaving,” Violet says, as if confirming what she’s already heard from every servant in the house.
“Yes,” Anthony replies, clipped.
Violet’s gaze flicks to you and softens. “How lovely,” she says, and the warmth in it is genuine. “A little privacy will do you both good.”
Anthony’s ears go faintly red. You step closer, smiling sweetly. “Thank you, Lady Bridgerton.”
Violet’s smile turns sly. “Do lock the door,” she adds, as if she cannot help herself.
“Mother,” Anthony says, pained.
Violet only laughs, and waves a hand as if she’s dismissed the entire matter. “Go on,” she says. “Before one of your brothers discovers you are escaping and decides to follow.”
Anthony’s eyes narrow like he’s imagining someone clinging to the back of the carriage. “If they do, I will throw them out.” Violet laughs again, and retreats into her room with a final, satisfied look. Anthony turns toward you, and the moment he’s facing you, his expression changes—still intense, still determined, but softer around the eyes. “You are ready,” he says, as if this is a triumph.
“I’m ready,” you reply. “Are you?”
Anthony steps close and takes your hand again, immediately, like he’s been missing it for the entire ten seconds you weren’t attached. His thumb starts that slow stroke over your knuckles again, and he leans in just enough that his voice is only for you. “I have been ready,” he murmurs, “for days.”
Your breath catches, and you tilt your head, letting your smile turn wicked. “Then we should go before your sister starts another argument about pamphlets.”
Anthony’s mouth curves, and he tugs you forward. “Exactly,” he says, guiding you down the stairs as the house swirls around you with its usual chaos.
Somewhere behind you, a door opens, and Benedict’s voice rings out, cheerful and suspicious. “Anthony? Why are the horses being harnessed—”
Anthony doesn’t even look back. He just tightens his grip on your hand and keeps walking, hauling you toward the front doors like a man who has finally learned the value of leaving before someone can knock.
The Half Moon Street house smells different the moment you step inside, as though it’s been holding its breath for weeks and only just remembered how to be lived in. The entry is quieter, the air cooler, and there’s none of Bridgerton House’s constant undercurrent of footsteps and voices and doors opening for no reason at all. A single footman takes your cloaks with the brisk efficiency of someone who has been instructed not to ask questions, then disappears as if he knows his continued existence depends on it.
Anthony doesn’t wait for you to cross the hall before he’s reaching for the latch, turning it, and shutting the front door with a finality that makes the sound echo. He stands there for a beat with his hand still on the brass, shoulders squared, as if he’s daring the world to knock anyway. You glance around, taking in the dim glow of candlelight, the neat furniture shrouded in linen, the faint scent of beeswax and polished wood. “It’s almost unsettling,” you say.
Anthony turns his head toward you. “What is?”
“The quiet,” you answer, and you can’t help smiling at him. “No one is yelling your name, no one is counting to three outside a door, no one is attempting to hand you a note like it’s a live grenade.”
His mouth tightens like he’s trying not to smile, which never works for long with you. “Do not tempt it.”
“Oh, now you believe in tempting fate?” you tease, stepping closer, letting your voice drop just a little. “That’s new.”
Anthony’s gaze flicks over you in a slow sweep that makes your skin warm under your travel cloak. “It is not new,” he says, voice low. “I have simply learned what happens when I declare myself safe.”
You slip your cloak from your shoulders and hand it to him because you can. He takes it automatically, but his fingers linger at your wrist as he does, thumb stroking once like he’s checking you’re real. The touch is small, but it makes your belly tighten with that familiar anticipation you’ve been denied for days.
“Well,” you say, tilting your head, “are we going to stand in the entry all night? Or have you brought me here for a reason, my lord?”
Anthony’s eyes darken at the title. He shifts your cloak over his arm without looking away from you, then offers his hand as if you’re stepping into a ballroom rather than a quiet townhouse meant for escape. “Come upstairs,” he says.
The stairs creak softly under your steps, old wood complaining in a way that feels almost conspiratorial. There are fewer portraits here, fewer signs of family, fewer reminders that the house belongs to a dynasty rather than two people. Anthony leads you down a corridor to a bedchamber that’s been prepared—fire laid and lit, curtains drawn, candles set low as if someone knew exactly what sort of privacy you were coming here to claim.
He closes that door too, and this time he turns the key in the lock; the click is sharp in the quiet. He pulls the key free and sets it on the mantel, deliberately out of reach of any hypothetical sibling who might have followed you like a stray. You watch him do it, lips quirking. “Dramatic.”
“Prudent,” he corrects, and then he’s crossing the room toward you with the kind of controlled speed that tells you he’s been holding himself back for hours.
You stand near the foot of the bed, hands folded loosely in front of you, pretending you’re calm while your pulse beats too fast. “If you say ‘efficient,’ I’m leaving.”
Anthony’s hand comes up to your chin, tilting your face toward his. “You are not leaving,” he says, and the way he says it is half command, half promise.
You let yourself smile. “Good. Because I didn’t come here to be polite.”
That earns you the smallest flash of teeth, satisfaction sharp in his expression. “Neither did I.” He kisses you, and it’s immediate—no cautious testing, no gentle courtesy, just his mouth on yours like he’s been owed this and refuses to let it slip away again. His hand at your chin slides to the back of your neck, holding you close, and you grip the front of his coat, dragging him nearer because you want him close enough that there’s no room for anything else. When he breaks the kiss, his breath is warm against your lips. “No one will interrupt,” he murmurs.
You tip your head back slightly, letting him see the way you’re smiling. “If they do, I’ll throw them into the street.”
Anthony makes a low sound that might have been a laugh if it weren’t edged with hunger. “I married a woman with sense.”
You reach up and tug his coat open, fingers finding the buttons with unnecessary impatience. “Take it off.”
His eyes hold yours as he obeys, shrugging out of the coat and letting it fall over a chair. He loosens his cravat next, hands practiced, movements brisk, but he never fully looks away from you, as if he thinks the second he does you’ll vanish and he’ll be back in Bridgerton House listening to Eloise complain.
“You’re staring again,” you say, breathless now that he’s undone.
“I am looking,” he repeats, and then he steps behind you.
The shift makes your spine prickle. You feel him there—heat at your back, his chest close enough that if you lean back an inch you’ll touch him. His hands hover at your shoulders, then settle, light but sure, fingertips brushing the top of your arms. His mouth finds the side of your neck, a slow kiss just beneath your ear that makes you inhale sharply.
“Anthony,” you warn softly, even though you don’t mean stop, not really.
“Quiet,” he murmurs against your skin, and his voice is almost a caress. “Let me.”
His fingers move to the fastenings of your gown, working them open from behind with a patience that feels like torture. Each small undoing is accompanied by the faint brush of his knuckles down the line of your spine, as if he can’t resist touching you even while he’s taking you apart layer by layer.
You lift your hands and brace them on the dresser in front of you, partly for balance and partly because it feels wicked to stand there and let him do it. “You’re taking your time,” you say, trying for teasing, failing when his teeth graze your shoulder in a way that makes your knees soften.
“I have waited long enough,” he replies, and then he kisses the spot again, softer, as if to apologize for the bite. “But I am not rushing.”
His hands slide the fabric off your shoulders, easing the gown down your arms. The cool air kisses your skin where it’s newly bared, then his palms follow, warm and possessive, smoothing over you as if he’s claiming every inch that’s been hidden from him in public.
You glance up at your reflection, catching his eyes in the mirror. The look on his face is reverent in the most dangerous way—like he’s worshiping you, but he’s also starving. “Turn,” he says.
You turn slowly, and he’s right there, close enough that your breasts press against his shirtfront and you can feel his heartbeat through the linen. His hands go to your waist, thumbs digging in just slightly as if he needs something to hold onto. “You’re going to crease your shirt,” you whisper.
“I do not care,” he replies, and then he kisses you again, deep and unhurried, while his hands keep working at you. He draws the gown down and away, leaving you in your petticoat and stays and chemise, the layers that are meant to keep the world at a distance.
He breaks the kiss and lets his mouth trail down your throat to your collarbone, and you tilt your head to give him room. His hands slip behind you, finding the laces of your stays. He loosens them slowly, not because he’s reluctant, but because he’s enjoying the way your breath changes, the way you squirm when the pressure eases.
“You’re making that face,” you manage, voice a little unsteady.
“What face?” he asks, mouth brushing your skin.
“The one you make when you think you’re being clever,” you say.
Anthony’s hands pause for half a heartbeat, then continue. “I am clever.”
“You’re smug,” you correct.
He hums against you, amused, and then his fingers pull the stays looser, looser, until he can slide his hands beneath the fabric and feel you properly. His palms cup you through the thin chemise, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they harden, and you gasp, head falling back. “There,” he murmurs, pleased with the sound he pulls from you. “That is what I wanted.”
You grab his shoulders for balance, nails pressing through fabric. “If you keep doing that, I won’t make it to the bed.”
Anthony’s breath warms your ear. “We are not required to.”
You move slightly, and he shifts with you, one hand still on you, the other tugging the stays down and away. The chemise is all that’s left between his hands and your skin now, and he doesn’t waste the advantage. He pushes it down far enough to bare your breasts and immediately bows his head to them, mouth closing around one nipple, tongue slow and insistent. You make a sound you don’t bother swallowing, fingers tangling in his hair. “Anthony—”
He pulls back just enough to look up at you, lips wet, eyes dark. “Do you want me to stop?” he asks, and the question is quiet but real, because he always asks in the moments that matter.
Your laugh comes out shaky. “Don’t you dare.”
That earns you a sharp, satisfied smile. He releases you and straightens, hands moving to the ties of your petticoat. He draws it down over your hips slowly, knuckles grazing your skin, and then drops to his knees in front of you like it’s nothing, like kneeling is simply another natural order.
Your breath catches hard at the sight. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” he cuts in, looking up at you with something almost fierce. “I have wanted to.”
His hands slide up your thighs, thumbs pressing lightly as he spreads you just enough for him to fit between. The chemise is bunched at your hips, the last flimsy barrier, and he hooks his fingers under it and lifts it without taking his eyes off yours.
You’re already slick, and he sees it. His expression shifts—satisfaction, hunger, something possessive that makes your stomach clench. “God,” he mutters, voice rough.
“Don’t start praying now,” you manage, trying to keep your tone light even as your body betrays you.
Anthony’s mouth curves. “I’m not praying.”
He leans in and drags his tongue through you slowly, tasting you with a deliberate patience that makes you jolt. You grip the edge of the dresser behind you, knuckles whitening as he does it again, deeper this time, tongue flattening and pressing right where you need it.
Your legs tremble, and he steadies you with his hands, thumbs digging into your thighs. “Hold still,” he murmurs, and the command lands like a spark.
You try, you really do, but when he sucks gently on your clit you can’t help it—you let out a sharp, helpless sound and your hips jerk forward. Anthony’s hands tighten, pinning you in place with careful strength, and he looks up again, watching your face as if it’s the only entertainment he needs.
“That’s it,” he says, almost smug. “Let me.”
He works you with his mouth until you’re shaking, until your breaths come in broken little pulls, until you’re whining his name like you’re not even trying to be dignified. When he slides two fingers inside you, curling them just right while his tongue keeps circling your clit, your vision goes hazy at the edges.
“Anthony—please,” you gasp, and it isn’t even a proper sentence, just need spilling out of you.
He pulls back, lips shining, and his voice is low and steady. “On the bed,” he says. “Now.”
You don’t argue, you stumble backward, dragging him up with you by his shirt, and he follows with the kind of hungry purpose that makes you feel hunted in the best way. You sit on the edge of the bed, chemise still bunched, and Anthony stands in front of you, hands moving quickly now as he undoes his trousers.
“You’re suddenly very efficient,” you manage, breath still unsteady.
Anthony gives you a look that’s almost a snarl. “Say it again and I will slow down out of spite.”
You reach for him, fingers hooking at his waistband, helping because you can’t not. When he finally frees himself, he’s hard and thick, the sight making your mouth go dry. He steps closer, and you lean forward and kiss him again—tasting yourself on his mouth when he meets you, the intimacy of it turning your stomach hot.
He breaks the kiss and nudges you backward onto the bed. “Open your legs,” he says, voice rough. You do, and he settles between your thighs, one hand stroking along you, gathering slickness as if to make it easier. He positions himself at your entrance and pauses just a beat, eyes locked on yours. “Tell me,” he says.
“Yes,” you breathe, already arching toward him. “Yes, Anthony.”
That’s all he needs, he pushes into you slowly, stretching you, filling you inch by inch until you’re gasping and gripping the sheets. He’s big enough that it’s almost too much for a moment, the pressure sharp and hot, but he holds still, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he breathes through it with you. “Look at me,” he murmurs.
You do, blinking up at him, and his expression softens just slightly when he sees you’re with him, not afraid, not hurt—just full. “All right?” he asks, quieter.
“Don’t you dare stop,” you whisper.
Anthony’s mouth curves, and then he starts to move, slow at first, pulling out and pressing back in with a steady rhythm that makes the bed creak softly beneath you. He kisses your throat, your jaw, your mouth, as if he can’t decide where he wants to be and chooses all of it. You wrap your legs around him, dragging him closer, and he makes a low sound that turns into a half laugh when you squeeze him. “Greedy,” he mutters against your lips.
“You started it,” you shoot back, and your voice breaks when he thrusts deeper, hitting a spot that makes your whole body jolt.
Anthony’s hands slide under you, lifting your hips slightly to angle you better. “There?” he asks, and the satisfaction in his tone is unmistakable.
“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes—like that.”
He obeys like it’s his religion, driving into you with more force now, the pace building, each thrust wet and hard, the sound of skin and breath filling the room. Your nails dig into his shoulders as you cling to him, and he groans your name like it’s the only word he knows.
“No ton,” he mutters, breath ragged. “No family. No knocking.”
You laugh, half delirious, half desperate. “Keep going.”
Anthony’s mouth finds your nipple again, sucking hard enough to make you cry out, and the combination sends heat spiraling through you. Your thighs tighten around him, your body clenching, chasing the edge.
“Anthony—” you gasp, and you can’t even finish.
He lifts his head, eyes blazing. “Come for me,” he orders, and the command snaps something loose in you.
You do, shattering around him with a sharp, breathless cry, your whole body trembling as you clamp down. Anthony swears under his breath, thrusting through it, chasing his own release with quick, brutal strokes that make the bed judder.
“Fuck,” he groans, voice wrecked, and then he comes hard, spilling inside you with a strained sound that’s half pleasure, half relief, like he’s been holding back the entire season and finally let go.
He stays there for a moment, pressed deep, forehead against yours, both of you breathing like you’ve run a race. His arms are braced on either side of you, caging you in without trapping you, the perfect balance of strength and care. When he finally pulls back slightly, he looks down at you with a slow, satisfied smile. “No interruption,” he says, as if he can’t quite believe it.
You reach up and brush your thumb along his cheek. “Imagine that,” you murmur. “All it took was fleeing your own house.”
Anthony huffs a laugh, then kisses you softly, a completely different kiss than the ones before—gentle, lingering, almost domestic. “We should do it more often.”
“Run away?” you ask, amused.
His hand slides down your side, possessive and warm. “Both,” he says, and the way he says it makes it clear he means it.
Outside the locked door, the house remains silent, obedient at last, and Anthony stays close enough that you can feel his heartbeat slow against your palm while the fire crackles and the night finally gives you what it’s been refusing: a room with no one else in it but the two of you.
notes: obviously, it's not exact to season 3 (since i didn't rewatch it or look anything up) but i'm like... 90% sure that lady cowper helped cressida write lady whistledown after cressida "revealed" herself to be whistledown... at least i think i'm right. oh well, it wasn't meant to be completely exact
Summary: Anthony gets overprotective when there is an injury
Warnings: None... just fluffy fluff.
Word Count: 1.5k
Authors Note: This is an anon request fill (request: could you do a fluffy one-shot where the reader is injured in a minor way and benedict or Anthony takes care of her?). I went with Anthony for this one. I hope you enjoy Nonny, and sorry it took so long to respond <3 Many thanks as ever to my lovely beta @makaylan :)
The gardens of Aubrey Hall are so beautiful you take every opportunity to spend time in them during your stay. It’s early on a warm sunny morning, and you are delighting in the thick borders of lilacs and roses, breathing deep to enjoy the floral scents, picking your way through the winding flagstone paths, the wondrous riots of colour.
You stoop to smell a beautiful yellow rose when you hear a thunder of hooves and the call of a masculine voice.
“Woahh, boy,” he signals to his horse as they come to a stop.
There he is. The viscount, Anthony Bridgerton. Owner of this magnificent estate. You cannot help but stare at his handsome face, jaw thrown into relief by the sharp angle of the morning sun. You find yourself drawn towards the sight, akin to a moth to a flame. Not paying attention to where you are walking, you don’t even see the small flight of steps at the gentle elevation change in the garden.
Before you have your bearings, you feel a pain bloom in your ankle, and the next thing you know, you are staring at fluffy clouds passing over an azure sky. It appears you have fallen down the steps and landed rather inelegantly in the soft grass beside.
Hoping the embarrassing moment has not been seen, the bright sunlight is suddenly shaded by the looming concerned expression of the aforementioned Viscount. No such luck.
“Miss y/l/n!” His voice exclaims, filled with apprehension, “are you quite alright? Did you hit your head? Can you hear me?”
“I am fine, my lord,” you assure, going to sit up.
“No, no!” he argues, “do not sit up! You could be injured. Let me assist you.”
“Honestly, I believe I'm alright. Just my ankle.”
Before you can argue, he swiftly picks you up and carries you towards the house. You feel his body flex against you as he effortlessly strides across the lawns; you blush at where some of your thoughts slide when he is being nothing but an exemplary gentleman.
“My lord, please do not inconvenience yourself like this!” You try to argue.
But he will hear none of it and will not let you to your feet to test out the ankle.
“I witnessed the fall. I need to confirm you are not injured before I can allow such a chance,” he frets as he enters the house.
“Jenkins, please send someone to fetch the local doctor with haste!” he instructs. “Miss y/l/n took a tumble in the gardens, and I’m concerned she has broken her ankle.”
“My lord, it is not broken,” you protest.
“Let the medical professional decide that, please,” he responds, a tick of annoyance on his face.
You cease your complaints and allow him to carry you up the stairs and through the hallway to your guest room. You are somewhat taken aback that he knows the room you are staying in without asking; it seems like a detail a lord would not trouble themselves with knowing.
He settles you upon your bed and starts to bark orders at the assembling staff that have followed in your wake - to bring blankets, extra pillows, tea and biscuits and cake, lots of cake.
You lay there, mostly bemused by his overreaction. Yes, your ankle is slightly swollen, and it throbs a little, but nothing that couldn’t be cured by a touch of rest, a cold compress and maybe some brandy.
He drags a chair to your bedside and insists on staying until the doctor gives his opinion. Taking tea with you and attempting, though somewhat stifled in his delivery, to read to you from a novel on your bedside table. You are touched by his caring nature but slightly confused by his continued presence.
“Lord Bridgerton, I am sure there are many pressing requests upon your time’” you begin carefully, “I’m quite certain the staff can see to my needs, and you can return to more important pursuits.”
“Nonsense. The health and welfare of my friends and family are of utmost importance to me; this takes precedence.” he dismisses. “Are you sure your pillows are adequately placed for comfort? Would you like a fire built?”
“I’m quite fine,” you chuckle, and he nods but does not move.
“I shall leave when the doctor provides his diagnosis,” he assures for your mother’s benefit. She has taken to hovering in the room, which he likely interprets as her concern for your injury and, indeed, the appropriateness of his presence in your bedroom. However, you are sure her enthusiasm for an eligible bachelor in your room far outweighs any concern for your injury or even your reputation; she is very keen to have you married off soon.
“Doctor Samuels,” Anthony's greeting is flooded with relief as a kindly gentleman walks in. “My good friend Miss y/l/n has injured her ankle, and I fear it’s broken.”
“Let me be the judge of that, please, Lord Bridgerton,” the doctor bustles and starts his examination.
He moves your leg gently around and checks a few movements with your ankle.
“Any pain when I do this?” He queries as he manoeuvres your foot.
“No, doctor,” you answer honestly.
“Well, it’s not broken. It appears to be a twisted ankle. I recommend resting for a day, and the swelling should reduce.” He opines, reaching into his bag. “I shall bandage it to provide support, but you should be able to remove it in a few days.”
“Thank you, doctor,” your reply is in unison with Anthony.
Your eyes meet, and you both chuckle, your cheeks blushing.
“Yes, well, I can assure you, doctor, she will be nursed for with the utmost care,” Anthony says solemnly.
Dr Samuels frowns, bemused, as he finishes bandaging. “It is not a serious injury Lord Bridgerton; you needn’t fuss.”
Just then, some kitchen staff walk in, laden with platters of what looks like freshly baked cakes.
“I tried telling him that doctor, and look where it got me,” you jest lightly, nodding at the cake.
Anthony rolls his eyes as Dr Samuels laughs and bids you farewell.
“I will see the good doctor out. Please rest,” Anthony implores and gives a respectful bow.
“Please don’t….” you raise your hand as you see your mother’s mouth open. “I assure you, mother, he is just being a good host and gentleman. Please do not make more of this than it is.”
She pouts and goes to leave the room as well. “Darling daughter, I must disagree; I would wager your pin money that man asks for your hand before the week is through.”
You just shake your head and motion her away—what a ridiculous notion.
——
A few hours later, you are happily engrossed in a book when there is a knock on your door.
“How’s my favourite patient?” Anthony asks brightly, clutching a bundle of yellow roses, your favourite.
“Well, thank you,” you answer with a smile, smoothing down your bedding. “You really didn’t have to go to such trouble. Also, that was far too much cake.”
“It’s no trouble,” he assures, placing the flowers on your bedside table, “and I’m sure I’ve heard eating cake assists with healing,” he adds, a small teasing smile tugging at his handsome features.
You laugh. “Then I’ll be right as rain in no time, my lord.”
“You’d better be; your presence has been much missed,” he opines quietly, the sincerity making your heart skip a beat.
“It’s only been four hours since my injury,” you tease.
“And I’ve had to endure a luncheon without your sparkling wit; believe me, time is immaterial in such matters,”
You giggle but quieten as his hand covers yours gently.
“You will rest, won’t you? For me?”
“Yes, my lord, I’ll be fine very soon, I’m sure.”
“Good, because our annual country ball is in three days, and I was rather hoping to be the first on your dance card,” a grin twitching at the corner of his mouth.
“Of course, Lord Bridgerton, it would be an honour” you smile demurely, knowing even if you’re still in pain, you’ll endure it for a dance with him.
“I may also have a very important question for you to answer,” he said lightly but with a lingering look that causes butterflies in your ribcage.
“What sort of question, my lord?” your voice sounds breathy even to your own ears.
“The very best kind,” his answer and smile being somewhat cryptic.
“Will you not give me a clue?” You ask cheekily.
“How attached are you to your last name, Miss y/l/n? Because my question might change it,” he breezes with a wink.
You gasp loudly and place the hand not under his over your heart on instinct. He wants to marry you.
“I… I…” you falter, then plum for the best option you can think of, to sum up your thoughts. “Thank you, Lord Bridgerton. For everything.” You don’t know what else to say.
“It is nothing. As I said earlier, albeit in different words,” his voice crackles with a quiet intensity, “I will always, always protect those I love.”
Your heart soars as he raises your hand in his and your last fleeting thought before his warm lips brush against your knuckles is, strangely, of your mother and how you have just lost your pin money wager. But it appears you may be gaining a husband—what compensation!
Anthony Bridgerton x gn!Reader
Modern AU
Rated/warnings: T - language, robbery, gun use, blood
Word count: 3k
Summary: You and Anthony find yourselves in the middle of a bank robbery on an ill-fated day.
Author's Note: This is a belated birthday gift prompted by the fabulous and talented @broooookiecrisp and a game of prompt roulette that gave me: sad, Anthony, "take me instead". I hope you enjoy my dear 💙 Kudos also to @sorryallonsy who found the perfect header image!
This wasn’t supposed to happen. This was something you saw in movies, not something that happened in real life, and certainly not to you. When the doors to the bank were pulled shut by three men who then dropped to their knees and started opening their duffel bags, your immediate thought was that they must be maintenance workers of some kind. Then when the sound of a gunshot tore through the marble lobby you froze with panic, unable to react at all. But you didn’t need to because Anthony instantly wrapped himself around you and pulled you to the floor as other patrons started to scream.
“Stay down,” he urged, his voice the only steady thing within the chaos. Though he was curled over you, you could both look around to see what was happening. The men at the door had risen wearing ski masks and holding assault rifles. A fourth man, the source of the fired shot, held a pistol in the air at the teller window. There were ten or so people in the lobby, all of them instinctively cowering. All the staff of the bank seemed to have disappeared and you guessed were hidden in their own corners. Directly across from you a woman huddled under a counter clutching a boy who looked about nine years old. He was still but his eyes darted wildly.
At the shouted insistence from the four imposing men everyone fell into an ominous silence. You realized you were trembling with fear and adrenaline only when your husband squeezed you tighter. The warm weight of him against your back felt like the only thing keeping you from flailing with panic.
“It’s going to be alright,” he whispered into your hair, his voice tight. You gave some semblance of a nod. You needed to stay focused in the moment, to do what he told you, to think of a way out, to at least get descriptions of the criminals. But all your mind would do was berate you for ending up in this situation. What were the odds that you would be in this bank at this precise moment? You and Anthony had been downtown, due to meet his brother for lunch at the cafe across the street when you remembered you still had money in your bag from your recent trip abroad. You were just there for a quick exchange, likely the first time Anthony had ever set foot in a bank for a purpose other than closing a multimillion dollar transaction. But he had tagged along, playfully pawing at you while you waited in the queue. Then hell broke loose and now that chance errand may have rerouted the course of your lives. It lit a spark of anger within your fear.
“Where’s the manager?” barked the man at the window. Unlike his companions he wasn’t compelled to hide his face. Red-haired with a scarred and stubbled face and broad build, he seemed to be the leader.
Everyone stayed silent. No one moved.
He seethed as he surveyed everyone lying on the floor. Then in a few brisk steps he was hauling the little boy out of the woman’s arms as they both screamed. He brandished the gun to make her let go, then held the boy in front of him with the weapon angled to make his intentions clear. “Where’s the fucking manager?”
Before you could react, Anthony pulled away and started to rise to his feet, moving toward them. “Hey, hey! Let him go.”
“Shut the fuck up!” So focused on the scene in front of you, neither of you had noticed one of the other men moving up behind, but he suddenly appeared beside your husband, flipped his gun and cracked him in the jaw with the butt of it. You bit your tongue to keep from screaming as Anthony staggered and fell back to one knee. “Stay down!” The man struck him again on the shoulder so that Anthony pitched to the floor, lying perpendicular between you and the robbers, just out of your reach.
You watched him spit a patch of blood onto the marble then wipe the crimson from his split lip with a swipe of his thumb. Your brain was static, a roar of furious and terrified cries that you were just managing to keep at bay. He turned to you, his deep eyes reading yours and you knew he could tell. He gave the barest hint of a nod. Reassurance. Strength. Insistence. You needed to stay quiet. You treasured the fact that you were able to read each other’s thoughts through your eyes alone, but you could never imagine that facet of your love would prove so vital.
The leader chuckled then continued to wave his pistol threateningly toward the boy who had gone pale, looking desperately back at his mother. “I’m going to need someone to help us into the vault or else things are going to go poorly. Do you understand?”
Across from you the mother crouched, looking ready to pounce at a moment’s notice but emitting a stream of quiet whimpers. She never blinked as she watched her son.
Footsteps broke the horrible silence and all eyes turned to a small middle-aged woman who appeared in the doorway of a side office. She walked forward slowly, hands raised in the air and shaking, but she spoke clearly.
“I’m the manager. I’ll take you to the vault. What…what do you want?”
She halted feet away from the men and the leader lowered his gun but never let go of the child. “We want access to the deposit box for one Jack Featherington.”
Your blood ran cold. Featherington? You knew the family. Longtime neighbors and friends of the Bridgertons. But you didn’t know a Jack. The chances of multiple unrelated Featherington families seemed slim. Who was he and what could he have that they wanted?
“You can’t…you can’t open it without his key. That’s how it’s designed.” The manager explained, tremulous.
The leader smirked. “Oh, we are well aware of that. Jackie boy has been evading us and we need some leverage to rat him out.”
Just then the wail of sirens could be heard narrowing in around the building and you felt a fraction of relief. Someone had managed to ring a silent alarm, or make a call, or someone outside had heard the commotion. Help was just beyond the doors.
“Right on schedule.” The leader smiled, dragging the boy to walk with him as he moved to the center of the lobby, explaining his plans with all the fanfare of a carnival barker. “Alright ladies and gents, here’s the good news. We aren’t interested in hurting anyone.” You heard Anthony snicker as he licked his lip. “We’re going to let you go.” A low murmur of surprise rippled across the floor. “All you need to do is tell all the news cameras and the good officers of the law outside that we need their help finding the lying Lord Jack Featherington and his keyring. Understood?”
You were breathing fast, trying to process what he said. You would be let go. This was just a spectacle, a bargaining chip in some grander criminal scheme. You weren’t targets, you were useful collateral. Maybe you could even help the police by contacting the Featheringtons. It would be over soon.
The leader moved back to the manager. “Okay, you’re staying to let us in and…” He paused, thinking as he looked across the lobby once more. “Well, we need an insurance policy so I think you’ll stay too.” He wrapped an arm around the boy’s neck, grabbed the manager with his other hand and began to pull them both toward the back hall. For the first time the boy screamed, kicking his feet as he struggled against his captor. His mother wailed.
“Let the boy go!” Anthony roared, rising to his knees.
The second man snapped to face him. “What did I tell you?” You barely saw the slight tilt of his weapon, barely heard the high pitched pop, but then Anthony fell back clutching his side and your lungs knew before your brain did that he had been shot. You screamed and the sentiment was echoed by the other hostages. As you crawled to your husband’s side you were deaf to the fact that the leader was shouting furiously at his colleague. All you could see was the stunned look on Anthony’s face as he sat up and pressed a hand just above his left hip, bringing it away bloody.
Your heart beat double time, every sense heightened as you took his hand in yours and saw the light reflecting off the wet smear on his palm the same way it glinted off your wedding rings. You sat next to him, hands roving aimlessly, clueless as to what you should do. “Oh my god, Anthony… no…”
“It’s alright,” he said quietly. “It just grazed me, I’ll be alright.” He tried to flash you a winning smile but you saw the grimace underneath it. You weren’t a doctor but judging by how fast the dark stain was spreading across his shirt, you knew he was lying about being grazed.
Seeing him wounded somehow organized the panic in your brain. You were still frantic but you were going to make a plan. You were going to get him out alive. “We have to leave,” you whispered urgently. “They’ll let us go. We have to get you to a hospital. I won’t let you die…”
His brows darted up with concern and he leveled his eyes on you. “Hey, hey, look at me. I’m not going to die. We’re going to get out of this and it will be the maddest story we ever tell. You understand?”
You saw how the love still overcame the pain in his features and hot tears started to mount in your eyes. You would find a way out together. Of course you would. You nodded, chin trembling.
The felons seemed to resolve their spat and the leader turned back to address the room again. “Now that we’ve got that settled, you lot stay down. We’re headed to the vault and taking these two with us. They get released when we get Featherington’s keys. You tell them that, yeah?” Once again he started to drag the manager and the boy down the hall.
“Stop!” Anthony shouted, pressing a hand tight to his wound.
The man who had shot him rounded on him for the final time, growling. “You motherf…”
“Take me instead.”
His words hung in the air for a moment. So simple. Spoken so calmly. Everything within you sank. “Anthony, what?! No…” You whispered frantically, gripping his arm.
“Oh, fuck off.” the man scoffed, moving to tower over you both with the gleaming metal of his weapon hanging inches above your head.
Anthony looked up at him with steely resolve, undaunted. “Take me. I’m worth more than every other person in this building combined.” His eyes flicked to the side then he added quietly, “No offense.”
The thug snorted. “What are you, Duke of Sussex?”
“Viscount. And I run a company. A large company. Look.” Hissing in pain as he moved, he reached into his blazer and produced his card, handing it up with bloodied fingers.
At the back of the room the leader had paused, watching curiously. “What’s it say?”
“Anthony Bridgerton. CEO, Bridgerton House Enterprises.”
The way the leader’s eyebrows raised, you knew he recognized the family name and the pit of dread burrowed deeper into your stomach. “Fucking hell, looks like we bagged a silver tuna.” A smile broke out across his face to rival a cheshire cat.
Now Anthony was removing his watch, gasping as he struggled with even the smallest movements. He held it out to his attacker, further incentive to accept his offer. It was his Omega De Ville, an obscene six-figure wedding gift from his friend Simon. “Here, take this,” he rasped. “You could buy a bloody house with that. Take me and let everyone else go safely.”
“No!” You pleaded aloud, holding tight to his arm. You didn’t care anymore if you upset the man floating a rifle over you both. You’d rather be killed or dragged away with your husband than have him do this. Even though you knew he was right. Even though you knew he was doing this to save an innocent child, to save you, to save everyone. Your heart wouldn’t accept it.
“Yes.” Anthony affirmed, not even looking back at you. He still addressed the criminals. “I won’t struggle. I can’t struggle now that you’ve fucking shot me. And if you wanted national attention… Taking me will get you global. All the bargaining power you could ask for. Whatever you’re getting out of Featherington, you could double it with the ransom my company will pay.” He was using that tone, that suave confidence that wooed all his business partners and had wooed you. You of all people knew how irresistible it was. You loved and hated him equally in that moment.
The gunman stared, dumbstruck. He turned the watch over in his hand, seemingly impressed, then called over his shoulder. “Boss?”
It didn’t matter how many prayers raced silently through your heart, you already knew how this was going to play out.
“Grab him.”
You sprang forward, flinging your arms around him and finally allowing yourself to weep. “Anthony…no…” He had only been yours for a year. One year as your husband. One year of a life he filled with bliss. It was not enough. You couldn’t let it end now, and not in this way. You would offer yourself in his place except no one had the leverage he did and that was precisely why he was doing this.
He pulled back and brought a hand to your cheek. You could feel the warmth of his blood streaking your skin. “I will see you again, do you understand?” His voice was low and you could hear the slightest tremor in it, a fear he would expose only to you. “This is just temporary. The police know what to do and we’ll both be alright.”
“I can’t leave you,” you insisted, tears running down your face. But you knew you were overruled so you tried to memorize everything about him in that moment. The precise shade of his brown eyes, the callused tips of his fingers as they brushed your skin, the warmth of his breath, the flecks of grey in his beard. An enduring memory that would be replaced when you held him again.
“Stay with my family,” he choked. “I will see you again. I love you.”
“Alright, alright…” The robber rolled his eyes then clapped a hand on Anthony’s shoulder, gripping into his clothes and starting to drag him back toward the leader. He gasped and fumbled to stand as he was pulled along but always ended up falling back, clutching at his side. The red-headed man shoved the boy toward his mother who threw herself around him and sobbed. It was as if the ability to cry was predicated on having your loved one in your arms because as soon as Anthony left your grasp you went silent, keeping your eyes on him as steadfastly as his were on you. The leader seemed pleased with the trade off and ushered the quivering bank manager to walk in front of him down the hall, keeping his gun pointed at her back while his cohort dragged Anthony at the rear. A parade of fear headed toward an uncertain end.
They rounded a corner and were out of sight, leaving a trail of blood behind them. You were frozen, blank, your body refusing to leave even though your mind knew you should. But once again someone came to your aid. The mother, one arm locked around her son, wrapped the other around you and dragged you to your feet. You knew she was whispering gratitude and reassurances but you had fallen deaf. The remaining two men with guns herded your band of hostages out the front doors and quickly locked them behind you. You vaguely registered the crowd gathered around the building - a police barricade, ambulances, news vans, a sea of onlookers. After stumbling down the steps with the woman and her son you were swarmed by people in uniform. Someone draped a blanket over your shoulders while an EMT began wiping the blood from your hands and face.
“It’s not my blood,” you insisted, finding your voice again as your senses slowly returned. “They shot him. They shot my husband.” You grabbed the nearest police officer and turned them to face you. “Please, he’s in there now. You have to help him! At the very least ask if you can send in medical help. He’s bleeding and…”
Then you heard someone shouting your name. Frantically, repeatedly, growing closer. You spun to see a man struggling and held back by a pair of officers. Benedict. He had been waiting for you both across the street and had no doubt seen the chaos erupt. You ran to them, hastily explaining he was your brother-in-law. The officers relented and you rushed into his arms, the two of you clinging together so tightly it was hard to breathe. He felt like an anchor to your sanity, a reminder that not everything in the world had gone unrecognizably sideways. Anthony’s words echoed in your mind, “stay with my family”, and you knew it was the only way you would have the strength to face this trial - together.
You leaned against Benedict as officers and EMTs circled you, taking your story, bombarding you with questions and confirming the details over and over. They promised they would get Anthony back. They promised he would be alright. They promised they would work to end this soon. But their promises held little weight next to the one that would haunt your every moment until it was fulfilled. If Anthony had promised you would see each other again, you were going to hold him to his word. He had kept every promise he had ever made to you. All you could do was trust he would keep this one too.
No tags for prompt roulette, just for dedications and co-conspirators 😜
A/n: Here is that anthony fic I promised that took me ten fucking years to post.
The Bridgerton house was unusually quiet for the middle of the afternoon.
Which was suspicious.
Anthony Bridgerton sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly disheveled, surrounded by ledgers and correspondence. The viscount had been working for hours, shoulders tight, jaw clenched, muttering under his breath every few minutes while scratching notes into the margins of documents like the fate of the entire estate rested on his penmanship.
Which...unfortunately..it often did.
Across the room, leaning against the wall like a man who had absolutely no responsibilities whatsoever, stood Benedict Bridgerton.
Watching.
Waiting.
Holding a teacup.
In the hallway just outside the office door, a tiny pair of shoes shuffled excitedly.Benedict glanced toward the door.The door opened a crack.
Two large curious eyes peeked through.
His three-year-old niece, Anthony and your daughter, pressed her little nose against the wood.
“Is he still grumpy?” she whispered.
Benedict crouched down and whispered back conspiratorially. “Oh, extremely.”
The toddler gasped softly, scandalized. “He needs the funny tea.”
Benedict nodded gravely. “You are absolutely correct.”
Inside the office, Anthony sighed heavily and rubbed his temples.
“Benedict, if you are going to hover like an ominous cloud, you may as well explain why.”
Benedict straightened immediately and strolled forward, placing the teacup onto the desk.
“Tea.”
Anthony eyed it suspiciously. “…Why.”
“Because,” Benedict said calmly, folding his arms, “you look like you might burst into flames from stress.”
Anthony leaned back in his chair, staring at his brother with all the patience of a man hanging by a thread. "I do not need tea.”
From the hallway the toddler whispered loudly, tiny feet by the door. "The sleepy time tea!"
Anthony’s head slowly turned toward the door narrowing his eyes. "....Why is my daughter endorsing your tea.”
Benedict waved a dismissive hand. “She has excellent instincts.”
Anthony stared at the cup again.
Then back at Benedict.
Then back at the cup.
“Fine.”
He grabbed it.
Benedict watched him with anticipation. "Good.”
Anthony took a long drink.Benedict smiled pleasantly.Anthony took another.Benedict folded his hands behind his back.
Anthony finished the entire cup in one irritated gulp and slammed it down. “There. Are you satisfied?”
Benedict nodded. “Extremely.”
For a few seconds nothing happened.Anthony picked up his quill again.
He blinked.
Then blinked again then rolled his neck.The room seemed… warmer.
Anthony frowned as he peered at the letters and how they suddenly formed together. "…Why are the letters moving.”
Benedict’s smile widened.Anthony slowly lifted his head.
His eyes narrowed. “You drugged me.”
Benedict lifted a finger. “Technically—”
“You drugged me.”
“You looked like you needed to relax.” Benedict took a slow step back.
Anthony pushed himself out of his chair, dizzy. "You drugged me because my toddler asked you to.”
From the hallway came an excited whisper.“He said it!”
Benedict glanced at the door and stage-whispered back. “Go tell Mama it’s working.”
Tiny footsteps ran down the hallway.
Anthony pointed a very accusatory finger. “I am going to kill you.”
“Now brother—”
Anthony took two very determined steps forward.
“—let’s not do anything rash—”
“I am going to kill you before this drug kicks in.” He took one more step until his foot caught the rug and Anthony Bridgerton, Viscount of one of the most powerful families in England, face planted directly into the carpet.
The room went quiet.
Benedict stared down at his brother, then around the room. “…Well.”
Anthony groaned into the rug. “You… absolute traitor.”
He slumped back into the carpet.“…I hate you.” His voice muffled.
Benedict bent down and patted his shoulder. “No you don’t.”
Anthony squinted up at him, eyes glassy.“…Why are their two Benedicts.”
“…There are not two of me.”
Anthony pointed. “There are.” He squinted harder, finger waving around. .“…Three.” His voice slurred.
Benedict crossed his arms over his chest, laughing and from the hallway came the sound of the front door opening.
Your voice carried through the house. “I’m home—!”
Tiny feet raced toward you. “MAMA! UNCLE BENNY GAVE DADDY THE FUNNY TEA!”
Benedict winced. "I...forgot about that."
Anthony lifted his head weakly from the carpet, a groan leaving him. "Love~."
Benedict looked down at him. “I think she'll be pleased with this.”
Anthony groaned.
Moments later you appeared in the doorway.
You stopped.
Looked at Benedict.
Looked at your husband sprawled face-first on the carpet.
Looked back at Benedict.
Anthony lifted a finger from the floor. “…My own brother.”
You crossed your arms slowly. “Benedict.”
Benedict raised both hands. "In my defense—”
Anthony mumbled into the carpet. “He drugged me.”
Your daughter tugged on your skirt. “He’s funny now.”
Anthony turned his head slightly. “…I can hear all of you....I can hear sounds."
Your daughter crouched beside him and poked his cheek.
Anthony blinked slowly at her. “…You are very small.”
She gasped happily. "He IS funny!”
Benedict collapsed against the wall laughing.
Anthony groaned. “…I will remember this betrayal.”
The Bridgerton house had returned to its usual rhythm the next morning.
Sunlight spilled through the tall windows of your bedroom, warm and golden across the carpets and the large bed where you and Anthony were slowly waking to the quiet hum of the household beginning its day.
Anthony, unlike yesterday, was completely right of mind, which of course meant he remembered everything.
Every single humiliating detail.
Benedict’s “relaxation tea.”
The carpet incident.
Your daughter poking his face.
His dramatic declarations of vengeance and how he may have rambled into your neck begging for more children.
Anthony stood at the bedroom window now, already dressed for the day, arms crossed as he looked out across the gardens with the air of a man contemplating justice.
You watched him from the bed, chin resting on your palm. “You’re plotting.”
Anthony didn’t turn.“I am considering consequences.”
“For your brother.?”
“For treason.”
You laughed softly.“He made you take a very deserved nap.”
“He drugged a viscount.”
“Technically you drank it willingly.”
Anthony turned slowly, giving you a look.“You are supposed to be on my side.”
“I am.”
He walked back toward the bed, sitting down beside you. His hand brushed along your arm absentmindedly. “You found the tea funny.”
“It was funny.”
Anthony exhaled through his nose, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “You were laughing.”
“You face-planted into the carpet, Anthony.”
“It attacked me.”
You grinned.
He looked down at you, and just like the night before, his expression softened.Only this time there was no haze of tea behind it.
Just warmth.
And something thoughtful.
“You know,” he said slowly.
You raised an eyebrow. “That tone worries me.”
“I meant what I said.”
“…About killing Benedict?”
“That remains under consideration.”
You smacked his arm lightly. “Anthony.”
He caught your hand before you could pull it away bringing it to his lips. “I meant about wanting more children.”
You blinked. “You were drugged.”
“Yes.”
“That does not count.”
Anthony leaned back slightly against the headboard, still holding your hand. “I am sober now.”
“And?”
“And I still want more children.”
You stared at him. “You’re serious.”
“Very.”
You searched his face for teasing.There wasn’t any of course.
Anthony Bridgerton, Viscount of the household, father, stubborn man that he was, looked completely sincere.
“We have four,” you said.
“Of course.”
“And you think adding a sixth would good”
Anthony’s eyes softened at the mention of the other children. "They are perfect.”
“Our youngest is also currently teaching the footman how to bark like a dog.”
Anthony rubbed his face. “That is temporary.”
You laughed quietly.Then the two of you heard something.
A muffled thump.
You both paused.
Anthony looked toward the hallway.
Another sound followed.This one more… muffled.
“…What was that,” you asked slowly.
Anthony looked completely innocent.
You narrowed your eyes. “Anthony.”
“Yes?.”
“…Why do I hear someone struggling.”
Anthony stood up quickly. “Probably nothing.”
You immediately slid off the bed. “Oh no.” You walked past him toward the hallway.
Anthony attempted to intercept you.“My love—”
Too late...
You had already followed the noise down the corridor. It was coming from the storage closet, a muffled protest behind the door.
You slowly opened it and inside the closet sat Benedict Bridgerton.
Tied to a chair.
Arms secured.
Mouth covered with tape.
Hair slightly disheveled.
He looked up at you with the most dramatic expression imaginable.
“MMPH!”
You blinked, slowly.Then looked over your shoulder at your husband.
Anthony stood a few feet away, arms folded.
Completely calm.
And of course Benedict made an outraged muffled sound. “MMPHHH!”
You sighed.
Long and tired.
Then looked back at Benedict.
Then at Anthony.
Then back at Benedict again.
You reached forward.
Closed the closet door.
Benedict’s muffled yelling was immediately muted again.
You leaned your head briefly against the wood fighting back a groan. “…I am not asking.”
Anthony said nothing.
You turned slowly. Your husband stood there with the expression of a man who had solved a problem.
You stared at him for a long moment as you sighed again shaking your head. “Well.”
Anthony raised an eyebrow. “Well?”
You crossed your arms. “If Benedict is… occupied.”
Anthony looked intrigued. “And?”
You stepped closer to him. “I suppose we should start on those children.”
Anthony froze for half a second.Then a slow grin spread across his face.The kind that meant you had just made a very dangerous promise. Anthony puffing out his chest far too pleased.
From inside the closet came a furious muffled shout.
“MMPH!”
Anthony glanced at the door.
Then back at you.
“Excellent timing.”
You shook your head, already laughing. “Anthony Bridgerton.”
“Yes, my love.”
“You are impossible.”
Anthony leaned down and kissed your forehead.
“But effective.”
From the closet came another loud thump.
Anthony casually reached over and slid the bolt lock into place.
Just in case.
Then he took your hand, leading you back toward the bedroom with unmistakable enthusiasm.
Behind the door, Benedict continued his muffled protests.
~After Y/N has tripped over for the third time in an evening~
Y/N: Oh dear, it appears my feet and the floor have entered into a rather vicious feud this evening.
Anthony: This is unacceptable. The floor is clearly uneven. The lighting is treacherous. Your slippers, were they made by a reputable cobbler? I shall have a word with the hostess. And the cobbler. And perhaps the man who polished the floors. You will not be subjected to such perilous conditions again.
Y/N: My love, I am simply clumsy.
Anthony: Nonsense. You are perfection. The world is simply not constructed to a high enough standard to accommodate you. I shall see to it.
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pairing : anthony bridgerton x fem!reader
synopsis : your morning as a viscountess, wife, and mother—featuring your dear son and beloved husband.
warnings : fluffy, but extremely cliché. established baby name already as a nod to canon.
author’s note : took inspiration from the very minimal screen time between kate and anthony and their baby. was super in love with the scene and decided to play around with his character in this piece. furthermore, forgive me if there are any mistakes; this piece was drafted, edited, and posted on mobile—which is arguably more difficult as opposed to the same process done on laptop. but anyway, happy reading !
Mornings, for you and Anthony, started early.
Often, he rose first. The sun was still down, but it was bright enough for the chamber surroundings’ visibility. Anthony’s the first to rise, making a beeline to his son’s crib. Edmund, you’ve both decided to name, was often already half-awake. Solely because your son never slept continuously, save for when he was extremely tired from being paraded around the estate by his father and cooed at by you.
“Oh, hello,” Anthony cooed, before his son could even fully process the vision of his father leaning down into his crib. “Hello there, you.”
Edmund’s eyes flutter open, his body stretching. Anthony picked him up, Edmund falling limp for a moment before beginning to wiggle in excitement. “You’re awake now, aren’t you?” Anthony’s nose nudges against Edmund’s chubby cheek, before melting into a kiss. Edmund squealed happily as a response.
For Anthony, mornings had never felt so soft. It’s been about seven months since you’ve had Edmund, and this child was oh so very loved. So loved by his father, by you, his grandmother, his aunts and uncles.
This had been the routine as of late: Anthony wakes, comes to check on Edmund—if Edmund was fussing, then he ought to fix it; if Edmund was asleep, then he was to be left alone; if Edmund was awake, then he’d be picked up—and the day starts from there.
However, you woke at a later time. Around half an hour, you stirred awake without the feeling of Anthony beside you. Sometimes, he stayed in bed with you until you woke, but since Edmund’s been prone to fuss these days, he’s been checking up on the baby more frequently.
You made your way to the crib, finding Anthony already cradling a small bundle in his arms. “Anthony, darling,” you spoke, a rasp in your voice having just woken up. “It’s still early.” You halted behind him, chin resting on his shoulder.
He sighed, dreamy. “Oh, I know, I know,” he rocked Edmund in his arms. “But he was fussing.” He reasoned, keeping his glistening eyes on the baby. A moment passed and only then did he glance over his shoulder at you, pressing a kiss to your temple.
You both stood there for a moment, letting Edmund babble and gurgle—that was the only sound constant in the room for about five minutes. “Aren’t you just the most adorable?” you cooed, your hand brushing his hair back. Edmund, in response, excitedly squealed.
Anthony huffed a quiet laugh. “You encourage him,” he murmured, though there was no real reprimand in his tone. “He believes himself terribly amusing.”
“He is terribly amusing,” you countered, leaning around his shoulder so Edmund could see you properly. The moment your son’s gaze found yours, his entire face transformed—eyes widening, lips parting in a gummy, triumphant grin.
There it is, you thought. The look.
The one that reduced the Viscount Bridgerton into something entirely undone. Anthony’s breath caught audibly. “He reserves that smile for you,” he accused softly.
“Oh?” you teased. “And what do you suppose that says about you, my dear?”
“That I am grievously outmatched.” He countered.
Edmund babbled again, a stream of nonsensical syllables that Anthony received as though they were a speech delivered in Parliament. He nodded solemnly at his son.
“Yes, quite right,” he agreed. “I share your concerns entirely.”
You laughed, the sound still laced with sleep. “What grave matters is he discussing at this ungodly hour?”
Anthony adjusted Edmund higher against his shoulder. “He informs me that he has been awake for centuries and that his parents are grossly neglectful.”
You played into it, “How dreadful of us.” Though your smile never faltered. It didn’t dare to, not when your chest warmed and your heart threatened to burst.
“Indeed. We must do better.” He solemnly nodded.
You slipped your arms around Anthony’s waist from behind, pressing your cheek against his back. The warmth of both of them seeped into you—your husband solid and steady, your son soft and impossibly small. This, you thought, must be what contentment feels like. Not grand balls or perfect dinner parties or managing accounts and tenants.
This.
“Shall we?” you asked gently.
Anthony nodded, and together you moved back toward the bed. He sat first, carefully settling Edmund between you both, propped safely against pillows. The morning light had grown warmer now, spilling across the floor in pale gold streaks.
Edmund immediately grabbed for Anthony’s night shirt. “Ah,” Anthony sighed, already resigned. “I see my efforts in presentation are futile.”
You gently pried Edmund’s fist away before he succeeded in strangling his father with cotton. “He simply has expensive taste.”
Anthony raised a brow. “Is that what we are calling destruction now?”
Your son squealed again, arms flailing as though thrilled by the chaos he created. You leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “You must not terrorize your father so early,” you whispered.
“He is already conspiring,” Anthony said gravely. “I can see it in his eyes.”
“Anthony,” you chided, though fondly. “He is seven months old.”
“And already formidable.” Edmund chose that exact moment to smack his palm squarely against Anthony’s cheek.
You gasped. Anthony blinked slowly. Then, after a pause, he smiled. “I stand corrected.”
You dissolved into laughter, leaning against Anthony’s shoulder now. He turned his head slightly, brushing his lips against your hair. There were moments—small, fleeting ones—when you caught him staring at Edmund with something deeper than amusement. Something softer. Almost reverent.
“Anthony,” you murmured quietly.
He hummed in response, still tracing absent patterns along Edmund’s back.
“You are thinking too loudly.” You glanced at his face—closely, clearly.
He exhaled through his nose. “Am I?”
“You are.” You confirmed.
He hesitated only briefly before admitting, “I was thinking how extraordinary it is. That he is ours. That we… made him.”
You smiled gently. “I do recall being present.”
Anthony shot you a look. “You know what I mean.”
His hand cupped Edmund’s head, thumb brushing carefully through the soft curls beginning to form. “I spent so many years believing that love was something that must be endured. Managed. Survived.” His gaze flicked to you. “And now I wake before the sun because I cannot bear the thought of missing even a moment of this.”
Your throat tightened.
“Of him,” he clarified, then softer, “of you.”
You reached for his hand, intertwining your fingers with his. “You do not have to endure love anymore, Anthony.”
He pressed your joined hands briefly to his lips.
Edmund, feeling momentarily excluded, let out a loud indignant squawk. “Oh,” Anthony said at once, shifting his attention entirely. “Forgive me. You are, of course, the center of all things.”
“Clearly,” you agreed.
A knock sounded lightly at the chamber door—your lady’s maid, no doubt, awaiting instruction for the day. The household would begin stirring soon. Duties would call. Estate matters would require Anthony’s presence. Correspondence would stack upon your desk.
But for now, you leaned your head against Anthony’s shoulder once more. Edmund nestled between you, warm and wiggly and content.
“Dearest,” Anthony said suddenly, lowering his voice as though confiding in the child. “Do you suppose she will allow us to remain here forever?”
You smiled against his shoulder. “If you both behave.”
Anthony considered this gravely. “That may prove difficult.” Edmund gurgled, as if in agreement. The sun climbed higher, painting your little family in light. And for a Viscountess, a wife, and a mother—
Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI. Kink content. Dom/sub dynamics. Power imbalance (housemaid!reader). Free use reader. No romance. No foreplay. No aftercare. No use of “y/n”. Period typical attitudes. Sex with another person in the room, vaginal sex, sensation play (quill), temporary body marking/branding, anal sex.
Word Count: 2.2k
Author’s Note: Here’s the last planned standalone fic in this series for our delicious Viscount. Thanks, as ever, to my awesome beta @colettebronte. Enjoy! <3
As you walk into his office, having been summoned mid-afternoon, Viscount Bridgerton is working with his trusty valet.
“Smith, would you mind sitting behind that screen?” Anthony interrupts his own flow, not even acknowledging your presence as he gestures toward an ornate chinoiserie room divider on the far side of his office. “You will find a comfortable chair there.”
A brief frown of confusion flits over Smith’s face, before he does as bidden, shooting you a polite nod of greeting in the process.
No sooner is the valet concealed than strong hands grab you, and you smile to yourself as you are pushed face-first onto his desk without a word. Your hands worm down your sides to yank your maid's uniform up over your hips without even needing prompting, his knuckles brushing your bare bottom as he unbuttons his britches just enough to release himself.
The force of his thrust, cleaving you open, propels you onto tiptoe. That wondrous stretch his cock provides has you whimpering softly into the scattered pile of important-looking paperwork strewn across his sturdy desk.
Then you have to swallow a giggle when, after a muffled groan and momentary pause, Anthony picks up exactly where he had left off. Dictating correspondence to Smith, who you can only assume is still dutifully noting it down. After that party a couple of weeks ago, when he took you in front of a large crowd of other men, part of you is surprised Anthony has sent Smith behind a privacy screen, but then friends are a little different from staff, you suppose.
His hands clamp around your waist as he immediately begins to set a sturdy rhythm, taking you hard, your hips bumping the desk with each thrust he takes. His words become a touch staccato as his breath quickens, but impressively, he continues on topic. Something about crop yields that you could care two hoots about, especially not when his cock is driving so deep into your pussy you have to huff little pants of air, eyes rolling at how good it feels.
Fresh ink smears wet over your forehead and chin, but he does not appear to care a jot about the now unusable pages, so you pay them no heed either.
After a few more thrusts, he seems to finish the letter, rounding off with a ‘Yours sincerely’ as he ploughs deep then stills, holding you down, knowing you can feel every ridge and vein of his cock pushing into your walls. Indeed, you discern his change of angle deep inside as he tilts over your back to grab something from near your shoulder, his tip nudging your hilt. Your hands move to clutch the far side of the desk, and he chuckles at your initiative.
“Good idea, Doe,” he murmurs into your hair at a volume you know cannot be heard by Smith over the crack and hiss of the fire.
“Will that be all, sir?” A hesitant voice calls out politely from beyond the screen. “I can leave, should you wish to attend to… other matters?”
Well, now you are certain Smith knows what is going on. But then you also suspect he may be one of the few people aware of the agreement you have signed. The one that means both the Viscount and the second son can have you any way they see fit, at any time. Including, it seems, while they conduct business.
“We are not done,” Anthony grits out as he tips back upright behind you, the words appropriate to you both. “I have another letter that needs taking down,” he adds, not pausing before he launches into another correspondence to some Baron or other.
He starts to move again as the sound of seams tearing fills the air, followed by a warm waft of air from the nearby roaring fire settling over your bare flesh—yet another of your outfits consigned to the dustbin at your master's hands. At this point, he and his brother have ripped so many uniforms from your body, you have lost count.
What's new is a scratchy sensation down your spine. You twist to look over your shoulder and spy that Anthony has picked up a spare quill and is now running it over your body. It's an odd sensation, but not an unpleasant one; in fact, it makes your muscles ripple as he passes the nib over your ribs, seeming to trace words you cannot quite decipher. There appears to be no ink, for there is no feeling of wetness left in its wake, just a dragging itch where the tip scrapes over your flesh.
Anthony’s thrusts become more languid as his attention is now divided three ways, continuing to dictate the letter to Smith as he fucks you slowly, swirling large looping patterns over your skin. You know he is leaving marks, nothing permanent, but they will be evident for at least a few hours hence. That tingle is also a lightning rod right to your core, your pussy now pulsing with each new flick of his quill as it changes direction, him groaning his words every time you clamp upon him.
“A moment, Smith,” Anthony counsels loudly, pausing in his speech, before looming over your spine again. “Is there nothing that does not arouse you, you perfect little doxy?” He growls quietly, in a tone entirely complimentary.
You know the question is rhetorical; your desire patently evident. So in response, you merely rock backwards, impaling yourself further onto his cock, shooting a brief pleading look over your shoulder, clit now swollen and throbbing. Just a little more friction, and you will be able to come, should he feel so inclined to allow it. You are hopeful he will. After all, he said earlier today that you were a very obedient little thing for him. When you were on your knees under the breakfast table, his cock plugging your throat.
“Yes, you may,” he chuckles smugly in your ear, seeming to predict where your thoughts have run. Although it likely is obvious, fluttering around him as you are, knowing the insistent tug his sizeable cock provides.
Then his fingers curl around the flare of your hips, digging in, you having to bite down on a scrunched-up piece of paper under your chin to keep quiet. He takes you without mercy, hard and deep, curled over your back, his wool jacket chafing the scratches he has left across your flesh. All the while, his voice becomes a harsh pant as he barks the rest of the letter out to Smith, his words increasingly desperate as you are nothing but a writhing, convulsing mass under and around him.
As he signs off the letter, one of his hands slips between your legs. One brush over your clit and you are gone, flung almost violently into that blissful abyss, your toes scrunching hard into your slip-on shoes as he keeps going, driving into your rippling cunt as you cry out into the wadded paper, the taste of ink acrid on your tongue, as you slump over, ecstasy firing in every cell.
There’s a trickle of juices down your inner thigh as he withdraws, resting his warm, soaked cock upon your tailbone. Dimly, you realise he has not yet come.
“All of your body is mine to do as I wish,” he reminds sotto voce with a foreboding cadence.
Then there is a faint tink of glass—a vial being opened. You obediently stay still, face down on Anthony’s desk, eyes closed, mind still floating from your orgasm, but your breath quickening as he gently kicks your feet out wider.
You jerk a touch at the sensation of cool oil being poured between your bottom cheeks, a flutter behind your ribs as you realise what he is about to do. You feel him oiling his cock too, taking deep breaths as you prepare yourself for a new sensation. As he said he would on that very first night, he is going to take your bottom.
“You know of this arrangement, do you not, Smith?” Anthony speaks casually as his fingers swirl over your puckered opening, coating it liberally.
“Yes, of course, sir,” Smith responds politely from behind the screen, a faint cough of embarrassment.
“Then could you please read back to me the last two letters? Slowly. I need to ensure such delightful distractions have not adversely impacted my ability to conduct business.”
You could laugh at that—he could easily have conducted said business when not fucking you, sought you out afterwards—but the thought scatters as one of his fingers pushes through your tight ring of muscle, breaching you. You inhale sharply as he swirls his digit, preparing you for him, the sensation entirely new and surprisingly pleasant in a completely different way.
You moan as his finger slips from your body, the unseen Smith beginning to slowly parrot Anthony’s words back to him as he shuffles behind you, taking his cock in hand and rubbing his tip over your bottom.
You are on tenterhooks, excitement and apprehension building again as more oil is poured onto your hole before you feel a blunt pressure. You exhale deeply, relaxing yourself, then you squeak as Anthony’s tip breaches your body, a feeling of fullness unlike any other.
“That’s it, Doe,” he groans, inching deeper, hands now pressing upon your lumbar spine.
You lie panting, Smith droning on in the background as Anthony slowly bottoms out inside you, your knuckles raised as you cling to the other side of his desk with all your might, your pussy still leaking tackily onto his balls as he plugs your bottom. He withdraws slowly, then pushes back in, and both of you moan in unison. You doubt even Anthony is listening to Smith as he dutifully continues to read the first letter aloud.
Slowly, he builds a pace, and it feels good, not the same as your pussy, but pleasant, a solid weight inside, the angle he takes mashing your swollen clit into the table edge. There is a shudder in his being, a twitching of his hips, and you sense he will not last long, the novelty of this exhilarating him as much as you.
You realise this will allow him to come inside you without concern for consequence, and something about that has you excited, your pussy clenching around nothing, and he groans, can feel the contraction of all your muscles in your pelvis.
“Dear god, Doe, I am never letting you go,” he grits out, his fingers sliding to grasp the dip of your waist almost punishingly, blunt fingernails curling into your flesh.
You just moan softly, turning your head to one side to watch him askance, his eyes glassy and unfocused, his strong jawline even more pronounced as he grits his teeth, a bead of sweat running down his temple. His thrusts build until they become almost desperate. The sensation is a pleasant one, something you would happily repeat over and over again, a part of you curious to know how it may feel if both brothers were inside you at once, one in your bottom, one in your pussy. It makes you clench hard again, and that seems to tip him over the edge.
This is usually when he rapidly withdraws from your body and paints your skin with his seed. But now he does not, there is one more jerking thrust, then he stills deep in your bottom, and you feel him coming—his balls tightening against your labia, and then a guttural groan as he empties into you, pumping his hips softly as he collapses over your back.
“Good fucking girl…” he groans, rocking deeper, pushing his seed further into your bottom.
It's a wondrous feeling, and a part of you wants him never to come anywhere but inside you ever again. A dark recess of your brain wanting it, him, his seed, to paint every part of your insides. For your pussy to be bred by him.
“Smith, you can stop now,” Anthony calls out, lips on the nape of your neck, still not withdrawing as you notice the valet is indeed still dutifully reading aloud from behind the screen. “In all honesty, I have not listened to a damn word you have said….” he admits over a carefree laugh.
You cannot help but giggle too, earning you an affectionate ruffle of your hair before Anthony pulls out and dismisses you promptly, handing you a silk robe from the back of his office door, which smells like him, his spicy amber cologne and something that is all Anthony.
And when you return to your room, you beam at the traces of ink smeared upon your face reflected in the mirror. But then pull down that luxurious robe and turn your back to the mirror, the late-afternoon sun glowing on your skin. There, scraped lightly into your flesh, on a much larger scale, is that same elegant handwriting which drew up the agreement you signed.
Property of A & B Bridgerton
As you twist & turn to admire his handwriting, which will likely be faded by tomorrow, a large part of you wishes it were a permanent tattoo.
masterlist • wips • taglist (must follow this blog to be tagged)
in which you avoid your desperately confused and in love husband
PAIRINGS: anthony bridgerton x fem!reader, anthony bridgerton x wife!reader
WARNINGS: flirty af, yearning af, pregnancy, meddling bridgerton siblings (specifically b,e, g, and h), angst, miscommunication, fluff sprinkled in, they love each other so much it makes me nauseous, fluffy ending
WORD COUNT: 4.1k
🎶 : would that i - hozier
AN: 🩵♥️💗 - god this one was so fun to write- it hurt me, but it was fun. please please please enjoy - and get hype for season four!!
Your laughter radiated off the pale blue walls as your husband, the lovesick fool that he was (his words, not yours) attacked you mercilessly with his kisses. His affection often kept you from starting your day, and this morning was no exception. “Anthony-”
“Yes?”
“We must-” Your breath hitched when his horribly handsome eyes met yours. “We must go downstairs. Your family-”
“Our family.” His lips caressed your skin as he whispered. “You are my wife. They are just as much your family as mine.”
“Fine.” You shook your head endearingly. “Our family-” He hummed. “Will be hungry. We should break fast.”
“They can wait and allow me a moment to admire the stunning woman before me.”
“Anthony-” You giggled. “You must contain yourself, or we shall never leave this bed.”
He smirked, looking up from your clavicle, a horribly mischievous look in his eye. “Would that be so terrible?”
You gasped, shoving him away and making your escape. Anthony couldn’t help but admire you as you pulled the duvet off the bed and wrapped yourself with it. Propping himself up on his elbows, his eyes filled with tenderness at the sight. He couldn’t help but adore how you made such a plain blanket look beautiful, an outfit made for a queen.
Donning your dressing gown and slippers behind your folding screen, you waltzed out from behind it, curtsying extravagantly to the man who still lay on your shared bed. “I shall see you downstairs, my lord.”
“Yes, yes.” He groaned, falling against the mattress, a lingering smile still etched on his lips.
Your dressing room laid in your chambers, on the other side of the estate that you were supposed to be residing in. Your mother, the stickler for tradition that she was, was positively shocked when you told her you had no intention of staying in any room that your husband did not also reside in.
A love match was the best way to describe you and Anthony, because that is what it was. You had grown up around each other, had always known each other, and one day, when your eyes caught from across the ball room, you realized that perhaps you wanted to know him.
The rest of your sordid love affair was history.
You smiled kindly at the footman who opened your door, skirting past him to sit down in front of your vanity. “Good morning, Emma.”
“Good morning, my lady.” Your lady’s maid smiled. “What shall I do today?”
“Something simple ple-” Your stomach lurched, and Emma frowned. “I-”
“My lady? Is something amiss?”
“I do not-” The lurch soon grew to a low grumble, your hands growing sweaty as realization fell over you. “I- I need to-” Emma’s hands hooked under your arms, helping you out of your chair and ushering you to the chamber pot as you prepared for the inevitable. Bile rose into your throat, and your eyes squeezed shut, waiting for it to cease.
“It is alright, my lady.” Emma held your hair back, rubbing a comforting hand on your back.
You sat back, breathing hard. “I- I do not know what came over me.”
“You must have eaten something that disagreed with you.”
“Perhaps.” Your heart skipped, hand falling down to your stomach. “But I have not eaten today.”
“Then perhaps you have-”
“Emma.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“I have not had my course in some time.”
“Oh, my lady.” Emma grinned. “That would be wonderful, truly wonderful.”
“Yes.” You nodded, suddenly feeling nauseous all over again at the mere thought. “Quite wonderful.”
You took a deep breath, hands clenching your gown in an effort to calm yourself before you rounded the corner, walking into the dining room. Your husband, seated at the head of the table, ceased talking to his brother, grinning brightly. “How good of you to join us, darling.”
You smiled lightly, sitting to his right, across from Benedict. “It takes effort to look like this, my dear husband.”
“You look just as beautiful as you did when you woke, I assure you.” Anthony’s words had a horrible effect on you. His warm smile and his handsome eyes combined with his compliments were enough to reduce you to mush.
“If you say so.” The food before you, which normally made your mouth salivate, now made your stomach twist with distaste. You hand clenched once more. Anthony placed a cup of tea before you, no doubt made just the way you liked it.
“You look as if you’re going to be sick.” Your husband murmured, reaching out to hold your clenched fist.
Benedict, who had the hearing of an owl, scoffed. “One second, you compliment her, the next you insult her. You are quite the juxtaposition, brother.”
Hyacinth laughed, leaning forward in her seat. “I must confess, brother, I am quite confused. You say that you are a gentleman, and then you proceed to call your wife ghastly.” She frowned. “It is quite rude.”
Anthony huffed. “I never said-”
“I must agree with Hyacinth, however much it pains me to do so.” Gregory smirked. “That is a rather ungentlemanly thing to-”
“Shut it, all of you.” The viscount hissed. “My love?”
His touch brought you back to life, the nausea subsiding as he rubbed your now relaxed hand. “I am fine.”
“Are you quite sure-”
“Anthony.” You smiled. “Believe me when I say that it is nothing.”
“They’re despicable.” Anthony shook his head at his siblings. “Little hellions, the lot of them.”
You simply nodded, taking a small sip of your tea.
“Let us be glad then, that it is just us.” He squeezed your hand reassuringly. The action was nice, the statement however, caused anxiety to roll over you in waves, your mind going to dangerous places. Anthony had not wanted children right away, of course he hadn’t. Now here you were, most likely with child, about to ruin his peace.
It was then that you decided you would not tell your husband the news just yet. He already had so much to tend to, why add another issue to the docket?
The rest of the week had been notably uneventful, leaving you to spend your time worrying about Anthony’s reaction. Emma, in her wisdom, had called a doctor for you, reassuring you that he was very discreet.
And so there you waited, grateful that Anthony had been out on business. He would lose his head if he saw a doctor in his home, his mind instantly going to horrible places. If he were to learn that the doctor was there to see his wife, who knew what he would do?
It was not worth telling him on the small chance that you were in fact with child. Then, not only would you worry him, you would also disappoint him in one fell swoop. “My lady-” Emma’s voice rang out from the hall. “He is here. Shall I send him in?”
“Yes, please.” You straightened your posture, trying to calm your thoughts while you braced yourself for news. Whether that would be good or bad news was yet to be determined.
“It is wonderful news, my lady.” The doctor smiled.
You gulped, your voice weak as you spoke. “Wonderful?”
“Yes, my lady.” He stood, dusting off his coat. “You are with child.”
“Ah.” You nodded slowly, taking it all in. “How wonderful.”
Emma stepped forward, walking the doctor toward the door. “My lady thanks you for your assistance, sir.”
“Of course, anything for the Bridgertons.”
God help you. It seemed as if time itself stood still as you sat there, pondering your future. You were with child, Anthony’s child.
“My love!”
Your eyes widened, standing quickly. “Anthony.”
“Is something amiss?” He tilted his head, and you tried your best to play ignorant.
“Not at all.”
“Ah.” Anthony opted not to tell you he had seen the doctor leave the house just as he had arrived. “How was your day?”
“Wonderful.” The word had lost its meaning to you now, its repetition dulling its desired effect. “It was wonderful.”
You hadn’t meant to avoid him. Initially, that is.
Really, it had come naturally, given your far-off state. You’d accidentally sat just far enough away from him that he could not touch you, hold you, or slip his arm through yours. Then, you’d realize that if you kept it up, he would not find out about the child, and you would have more time to plan the announcement.
Anthony had noticed your cold shoulder almost immediately. Of course he had, there was nary a moment the two of you were not attached in some manner. When you attended balls, he was either holding your arm or the fabric of your dress. When you were with the family, playing games or simply enjoying each other’s company, he was either whispering sweet nothings in your ear or placing his arm around your waist.
Today, however, you sat at such a distance that if he had tried his normal behavior, it would have looked odd and highly awkward.
So of course he had noticed.
The family, however, was oblivious to the separation of the couple.
He’d tried to reach out, smiling ever so sweetly. Your eyes had simply flitted over, so quickly dismissed he’d hardly even realized.
Then you’d gone to dinner, and you’d sat beside him, but you had not reached out for him, you had not laughed at any of his quips, and you had not looked at him, truly looked at him, the way that made his heart sore with adoration.
He tried to reason with himself that perhaps you were in a sour mood, that you felt unwell.
Then the family decided to play a game, and you paired with his mother. That was the final straw. Not once in the entirety of your courtship, engagement, or marriage had you and his mother paired together for a game. Heavens, you’d even partnered with Eloise and Benedict on occasion, but never the dowager Viscountess.
And so, as he miserably watched you from afar, he decided he had to ask what it was he had done to make you pull away in such a manner.
You’d gotten ready for bed in silence, neither of you willing to break the peace, if you could call it that. Anthony sat against the headstand, watching you closely as if that would somehow show him the answer, and you sat in front of your vanity, brushing your hair to distract from the inevitable.
“May I ask what has happened?”
Your heart skipped, setting the brush down gently. The brush, you remembered, had been a gift from Anthony. One of many during your courtship. “What are you on about?”
“You know what I mean.”
You scoffed, pushing out of your chair to face him. “Well, it would seem that I haven’t the faintest-”
“You have been distant. Do not try to deny it.” He crossed his arms, and while his face might have been stern, his eyes were anything but. They were desperate for answers, desperate to put an end to this so you could both return to how it had been, how it should be. “Why?” His voice broke.
“Anthony-”
“What have I done, truly?” He stood, walking toward you slowly as if you were a wild animal, skittish and afraid of being backed into a corner. In a way, you were. “Tell me, my love, and I swear to you, I will fix it.”
“My lord-”
He felt as if he was floating, outside of his body, unable to avoid the disaster before it erupted. Unable to understand you for the first time. “Please, do not call me that.” He begged, hands now reaching out for yours. You had never in the entirety of your time together, called him that without a teasing smile on your lips.
You stepped back, eyes to the ground. “I wish to-” A small sliver of hope grew in his chest. “I believe that I would like to sleep in my chambers tonight.”
“You believe?”
“Yes.”
“But these are your chambers.”
You shook your head. “My chambers, my lord. On the east wing.”
He had to have been in a nightmare, fully pinching himself as if that would bring him out of it. It did not, making him all the more horrified. “I-” He realized, as he stared at you with heartbreak etched on his face, that there would be no solving this tonight, no understanding it while you were in this state. While he was in this state. “If that is what you wish.”
You hadn’t even addressed him, stalking toward the door and slamming it behind you.
It was a perfect day, the sky void of clouds as far as the eye could see, the slight breeze causing the flowers to rustle lightly. Their perfume danced through the air, and you couldn’t help but let out a content sigh, leaning your head back to bask in the sun. “I could sit and lounge here for hours.”
“Yes.” Violet smiled, humming as she embroidered yet another handkerchief for you. “The gardens have always offered me comfort. I am glad to see you have followed suit.”
“Did you spend much time out here whilst the children were little?”
“Oh yes.” The Dowager Viscountess smiled warmly. “Edmund and I spent much time out here with the eldest, in particular. Anthony and Benedict always managed to dirty their clothes in minutes.”
“He never told me.” You frowned.
“Yes well,” Violet’s voice softened. “He has always had a hard time reliving the past.”
“Speaking of my dear repressed brother-” Eloise looked up from her novel. “Where is he?”
You shrugged, ignoring the jolt of melancholy that shot through your heart. “I do not know.”
“You do not know?” The younger girl shut her book, sitting forward in her seat. “Do you mean to tell me you have no idea of his daily schedule?” You nodded slowly. “Are you two not attached at the hip?”
“Eloise-” Violet let out a warning murmur. “She cannot keep track of your brother’s whereabouts at all times.”
The horrible thing you realized as the two continued to quarrel, was that Eloise was right. Since your argument only four days ago, you and Anthony had yet to have a conversation beyond simple greetings. It brought about a whole other wave of sadness, thinking of how your fear to disappoint him had driven him away, how you had driven him away. Your heart pounded, eyes watering as you clenched your skirts tightly, hoping they would bring you out of your mind.
Eloise groaned, her face animated as she argued. “I am simply asking-”
You stood up quickly, your head light from the sudden movement. “I think I shall go inside.”
“Are you quite well-” Eloise’s voice softened, reaching out as if to steady you.
“I’m fine.” You spat out. “I shall see you both at dinner.”
She watched you walk away with a frown, waiting until you’d turned the corner to question her mother. “Was it something I said?”
“What truly troubles you?”
You jumped, whipping around to face your mother in law. “Violet, forgive me, I hadn’t noticed you.”
“Do not apologize.” She sat beside you, your swings swaying in tandem. “Something is troubling you, and I assume it did not begin with Eloise’s comment.”
“I-”
“You know you can tell me anything.”
“Violet, I-” Your hand instinctively fell to your stomach, rubbing it gently. “I am with child.”
“That is wonderful-”
“Anthony does not want it.” You looked up, Violet’s face now pale. “I know he does not-”
“And how do you know that, my darling?”
“He said so. At breakfast just the other day, he said he was glad that it was just the two of us. And I-” You swallowed. “I agree, but now that I am-” A tear fell down your cheek. “I’m scared that he will not be pleased, and so I have been-” You sobbed into your hands, hiccuping. “I have been pushing him away.”
“Oh my dear girl.” Violet caressed your back gently. “You must tell him.”
“I know.” You nodded, sitting up. “I know I must, but I am horrified by it. Of the thought of telling him the truth. He will- he will be so terribly angry.”
“He will not be angry.” Her voice was still soft, but firm, confident in her son and the way she had raised him. “He loves you, he could never truly be upset with you.”
“But he said-”
“He said that he liked it was just the two of you, I know.” She smiled, pushing a stray hair behind your ear. “My darling girl, he will be elated when he learns of this precious news.” You nodded, knowing that what Violet said was the truth. “I understand the hesitancy, and you must know that I will support you, whatever you decide to do.”
“Thank you-”
“But, you must also know that my son loves you terribly.” She squeezed your hands gently. “And he will be so very excited to learn of the news.”
“My love.” Anthony’s voice, wavering from fear of your avoidance, caused chills to run down your spine. Not just your spine, you lamented, but your arms, your very soul. “You look stunning.”
You smiled kindly, the wall you had so meticulously built crumbling to ash the longer you went about not confessing. “Thank you, Anthony.”
“Anthony, eh?” He smiled, stepping closer so his siblings would not barge their way into your conversation. “I have missed your voice.”
Your smile grew, reaching out to grab his hand. “I have missed-”
“Bridgerton!” Basset’s voice echoed through the entryway. “It’s wonderful to see you.”
Anthony almost looked dejected as he turned to his friend, bowing ever so slightly. “Basset. It’s been too long.”
You curtsied, hugging your sister in law tightly. “Daphne, you look well.”
“I am well.” Daphne’s smile illuminated the whole of Grosvenor Square as her hand drifted down to her stomach. “Very well, indeed.”
Your eyes widened, and you couldn’t help but wish and celebrate along with her. “Are you quite sure?”
“Very.” The Duchess leaned into her husband’s side. “I do hope it is a boy.”
“As long as the babe is healthy, I do mind what it is.” Basset looked down at Daphne like she was the center of his universe, like there was no one else. “You are glowing, my darling.”
Anthony’s hand to reach out and hold your hand in his. “Congratulations, sister.” Your eyes drifted over, taking in his expression, happy, but almost empty. Like something was missing, and you couldn’t help but think that perhaps he would benefit from learning the news of his own wife being pregnant with his first child.
You slipped your arm through his, leading the way to the dining room. “Anthony.”
“Yes, my darling?”
You swallowed, willing yourself to be brave. “There is something that I wish to-”
“Sister!” The dining room burst into utter chaos, all the siblings jumping out of their seats to hug Daphne and the Duke.
“Perhaps-” You frowned. “Perhaps another time then.”
Anthony frowned along with you, an uneasy sort of knot twisting tight in his stomach. “Another time.”
The carriage ride was smooth, the car itself silent as you and your husband waited to arrive at the Hastings Ball. Daphne and Simon, while attending dinner just three nights ago, announced that they were hosting a ball to not only declare the imminent arrival of their third child but also to celebrate a last hurrah before they retreated to the country for some respite. Very last minute, but they knew their estate would still be filled to the brim with the eager-minded mamas and their ever more eager-minded daughters.
You had decided that tonight would be the night you confessed the truth to Anthony, the night you would finally conquer your fear of him being less than enthused. If he reacted the way you had had nightmares about, at least you would have a good support system in his family.
But, you told yourself as you admired his handsome face, you knew that would not be the case. “Anthony?”
“Yes?” His voice was tight, strained.
“I must tell you something rather delicate-”
“Stop.” He stared at the ground. “Please don’t.”
Your heart stopped. “Sorry?”
“I know.”
You raised a tentative brow. “You do.”
“I had a suspicion.”
“Ah.” You nodded slowly. “What gave it away?”
“Well,” He dared to look up from the floor of the carriage car, eyes full of fear, of heartbreak. You were entirely confused as you watched his hands tremble. “It began when you confined yourself to the opposite side of the estate.”
“Yes.” You nodded slowly. “I am sorry about that-”
“May I ask you one thing?”
“Anything.” You muttered much too fast. “Anything at all, you know that.”
“How long?” His voice broke as he stared into your very being. “How long have you been in love with another man?”
“What?” Your voice grew an octave higher. “I’m sorry?”
“I swear to you-” You had never seen the man you loved become such a shell of himself. “I will not be angry. I am difficult to deal with, I know. If you-” His eyes began to water as he fell to his knees in front of you, as if he were begging for you to stay. “If you have fallen out of love with me, it is alright-”
“Stop talking this instant.” You gasped. “Anthony Bridgerton, I am not-”
“I still love you.” He cried out, on the verge of tears. “I love you desperately, you are all I breathe for, all I live for. I fear I cannot let you go, cannot let you leave. I will-” Your breath stopped as he straightened his posture, his lips just below yours. “I will fight for you to stay with all I have. And soon-”
“Anthony, I am with child.” You slapped a hand over your mouth, shocked at the sudden nature in which you’d confessed the happy news. “I am with your child.” He was horribly still, eyes wide. You took your hand away from your mouth, caressing his cheek gently. “Are you quite alright?”
In an instant, he leaped forward, pinning you against the wall of the carriage. You gasped, moaning into his kiss, your body melting in his touch. “Anthony-”
“How long?” He’d been peppering your entire face with kisses when he’d asked. “How long have you known?”
“Only two weeks.” You replied in between his attacks of passionate, breath stealing, kisses. “But I am almost three months along.”
“Three months?” He grinned. “This is wonderful, simply wonderful.”
“You are pleased, then?” You whispered. “I so hoped you would be-”
“How could I not?” He pulled away, and you found yourself almost following after him. He was grinning, eyes now bright. “The love of my life is pregnant with our first child. I am overjoyed, truly.”
“I am glad.” His hands loosened their grip on your wrists. “I am so sorry, Anthony.”
“Is this the reason, then?” He almost laughed. “Is this why you have been avoiding me as of late?”
You felt so foolish, twiddling your thumbs to distract from the shame. “It is.”
“My darling girl-” He held your hands tightly in his, leaning his forehead against yours. “Please do not ever think that I would be disappointed by this news. I can’t bear to think that you thought I would be displeased.”
“Anthony-” You couldn’t help but sob. “I have been so inconceivably horrible to you.”
“No-” He shook his head. “Do not say that-”
“I have.” You continued on, fighting the urge to fall into his hold. “Anthony, you must know that I was so scared. So terribly scared.”
“Do you know-” He kissed your lips so gently you’d hardly felt it. “Do you truly know how maddening it has been not to touch you?” Another soft kiss, this time, on the corner of your mouth. “To kiss you, to hold you, and admire you for hours and hours on end?”
“Anthony-”
“My beautiful, beautiful girl-” His hands drifted up, cupping your face in his hands. “I love you desperately, and I cannot wait for this child.”
“I love you too.” You sobbed. “It hurt me to be away from you.”
“It hurt me much more, my darling.” He laughed. “I do not think my heart could take it, being apart from you.”
“I promise I will never do this again.” You whispered, leaning forward so your lips grazed against his as you spoke. “I shall never ever-”
“You will not be able to.” He whispered back. “Because I will not let you go.”
After a talk with your mama, you are nervous about about the wedding night with Anthony.
CW: mentions of readers mother being assaulted (a brief line). Reader is scared of being hurt during sex due to her mother's experience.
Anthony Bridgerton x Reader. Prompt: Sharing a Bed @fluffuary
Masterlist
Your stomach was all a flutter in the carriage, the wedding had been beautiful and you had never felt happier then when you were saying your vows.
But then it was soon over and you were leaving the church with a pit of dread in your stomach.
Your mothers words kept ringing out in your head.
"They might claim love, and act kind, but men are brutal and will take what they want no matter what you say and even if it hurts you. Brace yourself."
You had not realised you were picking at the threads on your dress until Anthony's hand reached over to cover yours, stopping you in the process.
Was this him caring? Or him asserting control? You could not be certain anymore... after all your mother had never been wrong, or at least as far as you knew.
"Are you alright? You look very pale" His grip on your hand tightened, as he looked extremely concerned.
"Fine, just fine" you offer him a weak smile, which from the look on his face he did not believe.
"It's not a great start to this marriage if you are already lying to me."
You averted your eyes, taking your hand back and fidgeting with your fingers.
"Its just... nerves. About what comes next."
You could feel him deflate a bit next to you, he was glad to know it was simply wedding night nerves.
"Oh, that. Perfectly normal, I don't think there's any bride who is not nervous for what comes next. But you'll be alright, I promise, I'll be gentle."
You cringed slightly, after all... isn't that what they all promise?
"You don't believe me?" He sounded hurt, like he could read every thought in your head.
"It's just, my mama said..." you trailed off, scrunching the skirts of your dress.
He stared at you, simultaneously patient and the most impatient, in a way that only he could manage.
"She warned me that it would hurt and how rough men were and it's made me a bit apprehensive... I know it is not meant to be pleasurable for a woman and that it is not really up to me-"
He took your hands again, stilling them and looking into your eyes.
"You surely know I would never hurt you right? It can hurt but... but it's only the first time, and there are ways of lessening it. I promise, you will be safe in my hands." He brought yours to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to them.
Though this gesture did nothing for your nerves.
"Maybe... maybe not. Mama said men will promise all sorts in order for it to happen. I trust you not to hurt me but I trust her just as much... it's all getting tangled in my head."
He sighed, looking away for a moment to collect his thoughts.
"It... it sounds like your mother had a rough marriage. But that will not be ours, okay? I- I won't force you into anything, but when you are ready... I promise to be gentle, I promise to take care of you."
"You... you won't force me?" You asked tentatively.
He looked absolutely horrified by that question.
"Christ... No, I'm not a monster. Do you truly think so little of me?" He seemed hurt, and you felt a little guilty.
"No! No! It's just- she said- and I love and trust you both... so it's hard to know what to believe. I mean supposedly my father told her he loved her and would never hurt her and then he-"
He caressed your face gently.
"I am not your father... and there is no rush. We have the rest of our lives." He reassured you.
You frowned, not quite believing that.
"Well... we have to make an heir..."
He shrugged.
"A privilege of having younger brothers, I can always fall back on them to keep the line going." He gave you a slight smile.
It was enough to make you relax, you leaned your head on his shoulder, he tilted your head to press a gentle kiss to your lips, one that you quickly made more passionate before he pulled away.
"Not unless your ready. And don't tell me you are because nobody turns around so quickly."
That surprised you, but also pushed away any doubts your mama had put in your head.
"...tommorow?" You asked, a slight smile on your face.
"Tommorow" he agreed, before pressing a gentle kiss to your head.
And suddenly your stomach was filled with a new kind of butterflies.
