Multi-fandom

“Good morning, darling,” Violet said warmly. “Come and sit.”

Colin slid a plate toward the empty chair beside him. “Quickly. Before Benedict claims them all.”

“That is a vicious misrepresentation,” Benedict replied mildly. “I am the picture of restraint.”

Y/N slipped into the offered seat, grateful for the easy noise of it all. She poured tea carefully. Around her, conversation overlapped in familiar waves — teasing, debating, interrupting without offence.

It wrapped around her like something warm and well-worn.

Benedict leaned forward after a moment, studying her with theatrical suspicion.

“You seem remarkably composed this morning,” he said.

“That sounds like an accusation.”

“It is,” Colin agreed at once. “Anyone this calm has clearly forgotten what day it is.”

Y/N blinked at him. “And what day is it meant to be?”

Benedict spread his hands as though the answer should be obvious. “A day of consequence.”

“Of mild violence,” Colin added.

Daphne glanced up from her tea, eyes bright with amusement. “He means Pall Mall.”

Y/N paused, her hand hovering above the teapot.

“Pall Mall?”

Eloise folded her newspaper with a soft snap. “Mother has granted us the lawn.”

“On the condition that it remains recognisable afterwards,” Violet added calmly.

“We shall exercise restraint,” Benedict said solemnly.

Colin snorted. “That has never once happened.”

The word tugged at something in her chest.

Pall Mall.

Sunlight across the grass. Mallets striking too hard. Arguments over wickets that had never truly been about wickets.

Anthony attempting to enforce rules no one intended to follow.

Colin’s dramatic despair when thwarted.

Daphne’s unnerving focus.

Eloise determinedly refused assistance with a mallet nearly too large for her.

“You still play?” Y/N asked, her smile more genuine now.

“Religiously,” Benedict said at once. “Anthony once tried to suggest we might be getting too old for it.”

“I did not,” Anthony replied evenly, without looking up from his plate. “I suggested we might attempt one year without bodily injury.”

“You suggested we play something civilised,” Eloise corrected. “It was deeply alarming.”

Simon, seated beside Daphne, looked faintly amused. “I have been informed,” he said, “that this afternoon will serve as my initiation.”

Daphne patted his hand with cheerful sympathy. “Your first proper Bridgerton Pall Mall.”

Y/N laughed — and was slightly startled by how easily it came.

“I haven’t played in years,” she admitted.

“That is easily remedied,” Benedict declared. “It’s much like riding a horse.”

“Except the horse occasionally tries to destroy you,” Eloise added.

“You were frighteningly good at it,” Daphne said to Y/N. “You and Eloise together were a menace.”

“They were ruthless,” Anthony corrected.

“Strategic,” Y/N replied automatically.

Anthony glanced down the table at her then — properly — and something flickered across his expression.

“Yes,” Anthony said dryly. “That is the word you preferred when you sent my ball into the flowerbeds and insisted it had ‘wandered’.”

“It had,” Y/N replied primly. “I merely assisted its journey.”

Colin leaned slightly toward her. “Do not mind him. He objects chiefly when he loses.”

“I do not lose,” Anthony said at once.

“Not last summer,” Benedict put in.

Anthony lifted a brow. “That was a statistical anomaly.”

Eloise snorted. “Everything displeasing to you is a statistical anomaly.”

Violet, who had been watching the exchange with quiet fondness, took a measured sip of tea.

“Before you begin drafting declarations of war,” she said gently, “you will eat. No one performs well on an empty stomach.”

“I have never failed to perform,” Anthony replied.

“Graciously?” Colin murmured.

Simon turned slightly toward Y/N, clearly assessing the situation.

“Should I be concerned?”

“That depends,” she said lightly. “How competitive are you?”

Simon considered the question. “Reasonably.”

“Then yes,” she said. “You should be very concerned.”

“You are not helping,” Daphne informed her.

“Stay clear of Daphne’s aim,” Y/N advised Simon. “And under no circumstances allow Eloise to persuade you of any creative interpretations of the rules.”

“I am entirely trustworthy,” Eloise protested.

“No, you are not,” came the immediate chorus. 

Y/N reached for a roll, the simple domesticity of the moment settling somewhere deep in her chest. 

“You will play?” Daphne asked.

Y/N met her gaze.

“Yes,” she said. “I should like to.”

Something in Daphne’s shoulders eased, almost imperceptibly.

“Good,” Daphne said. “The game has been dreadfully unbalanced without you.”

Benedict straightened suddenly. “Speaking of balance — I have taken the liberty of improving the course.”

Anthony didn’t even look up. “No.”

“Merely a small adjustment,” Benedict continued calmly. “A loop near the oak, perhaps a more adventurous turn by the pond—”

“No,” Anthony repeated.

Violet regarded them both over the rim of her teacup. “Let him have his adjustments, Anthony. The gardeners have already accepted their fate.”

Despite the ache that still lingered beneath her ribs, she felt herself slipping back into the shape of this place with surprising ease.

—

The dash to the lawn shed descended into chaos almost immediately.

Anthony had barely finished his coffee when Benedict shoved back his chair with a scrape and announced, “Last one to the shed gets whatever’s left.”

Then he was already halfway out the door.

“You are not starting without me!” Eloise cried, gathering her skirts and racing after him.

Colin followed with a whoop, narrowly missing a footman carrying a breakfast tray in entirely the wrong place at the wrong time.

Daphne rose with considerably more dignity, though she did not linger. Simon followed at her side, looking resigned to whatever madness he had just married into.

Y/N found herself laughing as she was swept along in their wake, the back doors of Aubrey Hall thrown open to bright morning and the wide stretch of lawn beyond.

“You realise,” Anthony said dryly as he fell into step beside her on the terrace, “they become less civilised every year.”

“You’re the eldest,” Y/N replied. “This is technically your fault.”

He gave a short huff that might have been a laugh.

The shed stood at the far edge of the lawn beneath a line of old trees — a neat, weathered structure that had housed the Bridgertons’ sporting equipment for years.

By the time Y/N and Anthony reached it, the others were already crowding around the open doors.

“Back!” Benedict declared dramatically as they approached the rack of mallets. “You’re too late. The finest selections have already been claimed.”

Inside the shed, the familiar rack of mallets hung in orderly rows — the handles worn smooth from years of sun, arguments, and questionable sportsmanship.

Blue for Colin. Green for Eloise, who insisted it was cursed but refused to give it up. Daphne’s yellow one with the chipped handle. Simon had taken the orange one that Theo used to favour. Benedict, naturally, had claimed the red.

And the black one.

Y/N saw it at the same moment Anthony did.

They stepped forward together.

“My mallet.”

They both stopped.

Anthony looked at her slowly. “I beg your pardon?”

Y/N folded her arms. “You heard me.”

“I am fairly certain,” he said with careful patience, “that as host of the game I retain first claim.”

“And I,” she replied sweetly, “retain ancestral rights.”

Colin, halfway to reaching for his own mallet, paused immediately. “Oh, this should be good.”

Anthony’s attention never left her. “Ancestral rights.”

“Yes,” Y/N said. “I named it.”

“You named it.”

“The mallet of death,” she clarified, nodding toward the black handle. “Which gives me precedence.”

“That is not how precedence works.”

“It does here,” Daphne said mildly from behind them.

Anthony exhaled slowly. “This is unnecessary.”

“Oh, no,” Y/N said brightly. “It is entirely necessary. You nearly lost your head.”

“That is an outrageous exaggeration.”

“Theo nearly lost your head,” she corrected. “You merely lost your dignity.”

Simon made a noise. “Now that I would like to hear.”

Anthony shot Y/N a warning look.

She ignored it.

“It was summer,” she said, gesturing vaguely. “Anthony was being insufferable about the rules.”

“I was maintaining order.”

“You were shouting,” Eloise said.

“Theo insisted the black mallet was perfectly balanced. You insisted it was unsuitable. There was a great deal of posturing.”

“And wagering,” Colin admitted cheerfully.

Y/N grinned. “Theo swung with all his strength. Missed the ball entirely. The mallet left his hands and—”

“It did not leave his hands,” Anthony cut in.

“It achieved independence,” she corrected. “And passed your head by an inch.”

“You made a noise,” Eloise added helpfully.

“I did not.”

“You did,” Colin said.

Y/N’s eyes sparkled. “You squeaked.”

Anthony stared at her. “I did not squeak.”

“You absolutely did.”

Benedict sighed happily. “A proud family memory.”

Anthony reached for the black mallet.

“Touching,” he said. “None of which establishes ownership. That was ten years ago.”

“And legends do not expire,” Y/N replied.

She stepped forward.

Their hands landed on the handle at the same time.

His eyes flicked to hers.

They stood like that for a breath too long, shoulders nearly touching, neither willing to yield.

Colin clapped his hands once, sharp and decisive. “Right. Before this turns violent — tie-breaker.”

Anthony exhaled slowly. “We are not fourteen.”

“Yes, we are,” Eloise said calmly. “Proceed, Colin.”

Colin straightened, clearly delighted with the authority. “Thank you. We require something impartial.”

“A coin toss?” Simon suggested.

“Dreadfully dull,” Benedict said.

“A question, then,” Colin declared. “First correct answer wins the mallet.”

“That is hardly equitable—” Anthony began.

“Yes,” Y/N said at once.

Anthony turned his head slowly toward her. “You do not even know the question.”

“I trust Colin,” she replied serenely.

“There’s your first mistake,” Anthony muttered.

Colin cleared his throat. “Very well. Question: Who convinced half the household staff that there was a ghost in the west corridor when they were eight?”

“Daphne and I,” Y/N said immediately.

Colin pointed triumphantly at her. “Correct answer. The mallet is hers.”

“That is absurd,” Anthony said. “You asked a question designed for her.”

“You agreed to the terms,” Colin replied cheerfully.

Benedict, enjoying himself entirely too much, lifted the black mallet from its peg.

“With appropriate ceremony,” he announced, “I present the mallet of death to its rightful sovereign.”

He placed it in Y/N’s hands.

Her fingers closed around the worn handle instinctively. It felt familiar — weighted just so, balanced in a way she remembered without thinking.

For a moment, something inside her steadied.

“Thank you,” she said lightly.

She looked up at Anthony.

“No resentment?”

He held her gaze.

“None whatsoever,” he replied, entirely composed.

She tilted the mallet in a small salute.

“Try to duck this time.”

“Play,” he said, stepping back. “Before I reconsider the legality of this process.”

He stepped past her into the shed, surveyed the remaining options, and reached for the lone pink-handled mallet hanging at the end of the row.

Colin let out a delighted noise. “Oh, excellent.”

“This is beneath me,” Anthony said.

Eloise tilted her head. “I think it brings out the warmth in your disposition.”

Y/N bit her lip, unsuccessfully smothering a smile. “It’s very flattering,” she said. “Quite striking, in fact.”

He turned the mallet in his hand, eyeing the pastel handle as though it had personally offended him. When he looked back at her, there was the faintest betraying twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Enjoy your victory,” he said quietly.

“Oh, I intend to,” she replied.

Daphne clapped her hands once. “Very well. We have mallets. Now all we need is a course.”

“Benedict’s devised something unnecessarily elaborate,” Colin said, eyeing the lawn. “We should stop him before anyone gets injured.”

“You will not stop me,” Benedict replied, already striding ahead. “Opposition only strengthens my resolve.”

They spilled out of the shed in a loose, laughing cluster, mallets over shoulders and arguments already beginning.

Y/N lingered a moment behind them.

Anthony slowed beside her.

“You do realise,” he said without looking at her, “that if you win now, I shall never hear the end of it.”

She glanced up at him, that strange little flutter in her chest returning before she could quite suppress it.

“Anthony,” she said lightly, “if I win, I fully intend to make certain you never do.”

He huffed out a breath that sounded suspiciously close to a laugh.

“We shall see,” he said.

And together they followed the others onto the lawn.

The course, as it turned out, was chaos.

Not that anyone expected anything less.

Benedict had insisted on designing it himself, which meant the hoops were arranged in a pattern that could only be described as “malicious.” One stood at an angle near the ha-ha, another half-hidden behind a shrub, two positioned so close together that any attempt at precision was doomed from the start.

This is not a course,” Anthony said, surveying Benedict’s handiwork with restrained despair. He planted the end of his (deeply unfortunate) pink mallet into the grass. “It is architectural distress.”

“It is inspired,” Benedict corrected. “The oak creates narrative tension.”

“You placed a hoop in Mother’s flowerbed,” Eloise said flatly.

“It encourages precision.”

From his pocket, Benedict produced a fistful of ribbons.

“Order of play,” he announced. “Longest ribbon goes first.”

Eloise eyed him suspiciously. “Why do you already have those?”

“Preparation.”

“Suspicious preparation.”

“Draw, or continue insulting my organisational skills.”

They each reached forward.

Colin pulled the first ribbon and held it up beside the others with great ceremony. Daphne followed, then Simon, then Eloise. Anthony selected one with mild impatience.

Y/N reached last.

Colin gathered the ribbons and compared their lengths carefully, stretching them between his hands like a tailor judging fabric.

“Well,” he said at last, consulting the small line of ribbons now arranged on the grass. “Longest ribbon goes to Daphne.”

Daphne smiled serenely.

“Of course it does,” Anthony muttered.

Colin pointed to the next ribbon. “Anthony.”

Anthony accepted this as his due.

“Third,” Colin continued, lifting another strip, “Y/N.”

She raised a brow. “I see fortune is on my side.”

“Fourth, Eloise, then myself, Benedict, and finally Simon,” Colin finished, scribbling the order quickly on the back of an envelope.

Simon studied the ribbons still lying on the grass. “I feel I’ve been disadvantaged.”

“You married into the family,” Colin said. “Disadvantage was inevitable.”

Daphne stepped neatly to the starting peg and placed her ball before it.

Simon lingered just behind her, hands loosely clasped, looking both impressed and slightly wary.

“Ready?” Y/N asked lightly.

Daphne nodded once and struck.

The contact was clean. The ball rolled smoothly through the first hoop.

Because she cleared it, she earned another stroke.

“Infuriating,” Colin muttered.

Daphne advanced calmly, lining up her second shot toward the next hoop. The angle required her to curve around a shrub Benedict had declared “symbolic.”

She missed by inches.

Colin glanced at his scribbled list. “Anthony.”

Anthony approached with quiet confidence. He placed his ball at the peg, adjusted his stance, and struck.

The ball rolled neatly through the first hoop.

Naturally.

He took his second stroke immediately, sending it forward with careful control so it stopped a few feet short of the next hoop.

“Show-off,” Eloise said.

“Preparation,” he replied.

Colin checked the order again. “Y/N.”

She stepped forward, the black mallet resting comfortably in her grip.

For a moment, the chatter behind her softened.

She set her ball at the peg and swung.

The strike was crisp. The ball passed cleanly through the first hoop and rolled on — just a little farther than Anthony’s.

She earned her second stroke.

Anthony watched.

She studied the field, measuring the angle toward the next hoop — and the convenient position of his ball nearby.

She could attempt a roquet.

Instead, she played it safer.

For now.

Her second stroke carried the ball forward with quiet precision, stopping just to the right of the next hoop.

Benedict let out a pleased hum.

“Oh,” he said. “She’s back.”

“Eloise,” Colin called, glancing down at the ribbon order.

Eloise approached as though marching into battle.

She set her ball at the peg, took a brisk swing, and sent it flying.

The ball veered wildly off course and clipped Benedict squarely on the ankle.

He yelped and hopped back. “Good God, woman.”

“Testing the perimeter,” Eloise said calmly, retrieving her mallet.

“Perimeter?” Benedict said. “You nearly took my foot.”

Colin stepped forward next.

His stroke had far more enthusiasm than calculation, but the ball bounced obligingly through the first hoop.

“Ha!” he declared, as though this had been entirely intentional.

Benedict followed, giving a theatrical flourish before striking. His ball skimmed past the hoop, forcing him to scramble after it with a quick recovery.

“Bold,” Eloise commented.

Simon approached last with careful composure.

His shot was cautious and steady — not quite through the hoop, but moving steadily toward it.

Daphne smiled encouragingly. “There is promise.”

“Forward motion is commendable,” Eloise added.

With the first round complete, the field began to spread.

Daphne was already advancing toward the second hoop. Colin and Benedict drifted off to one side, immediately discussing strategies that were almost certainly illegal.

“You are not permitted to form alliances,” Anthony said without looking up.

“It is not an alliance,” Colin replied. “It is a shared understanding.”

“That is worse.”

Y/N stepped into position for her next stroke.

Anthony’s ball sat temptingly close.

She studied the angle for a moment.

“You wouldn’t,” Anthony said quietly.

She glanced up at him and smiled.

Then she swung.

The ball struck his cleanly — a perfect roquet.

A collective breath drew in behind them.

Y/N stepped forward, placed her ball beside Anthony’s, and took her two extra strokes. The first sent his ball drifting slightly off-line. The second drove her own neatly through the next hoop.

Benedict let out an appreciative whistle.

“Oh, that is ruthless.”

Anthony looked down at where his ball had ended up.

Then back at her.

The game, it seemed, had properly begun.

The game quickly settled into its own particular rhythm.

Daphne played as she did most things — efficiently. Never excessive force, never wasted motion. If she cleared a hoop, she placed herself neatly for the next.

Colin, by contrast, played as though Pall Mall were a contact sport. His strokes were enthusiastic, occasionally effective, and frequently catastrophic. If his ball happened to pass through a hoop in the process, he treated it as a triumph.

Eloise adopted a simpler strategy: destabilisation. Any ball that appeared too comfortable in its position was immediately in danger.

Benedict alternated between moments of alarming competence and spectacular miscalculation, usually accompanied by commentary about the “artistry” of the course.

Simon improved steadily with each turn. He watched the others, adjusted his angles, and began to anticipate the ground.

“You said this was cruel,” he remarked mildly after sending his ball cleanly through the third hoop.

“It is,” Daphne replied. “You simply haven’t offended anyone yet.”

Anthony played exactly as one might expect — precise, deliberate, faintly irritated whenever another player interfered with his carefully arranged plans.

Y/N, to her quiet surprise, found herself forgetting everything else once the rhythm of the game took hold.

There was something grounding in it — the solid knock of mallet against ball, the sharp clack of contact when one player’s strategy collided with another’s, the chorus of groans or cheers that followed.

Ten years ago, she would have played cautiously, guarding her position and avoiding confrontation.

Now she took risks.

Her ball skimmed past Anthony’s with infuriating precision, then clipped Daphne’s forward with a murmured apology that fooled absolutely no one.

They were halfway through the course now.

The next hoop sat near the crest of a gentle incline that sloped down toward the far hedgerow. Too much force and the ball would run far beyond the hoop. Too little and it would stall halfway up the rise.

Y/N’s ball rested just short of the hoop.

Anthony’s lay a few feet beyond it, slightly to the right — close enough to be a temptation.

Colin and Eloise lingered several yards behind, watching with open interest.

Benedict wandered closer, surveying the arrangement with theatrical contemplation.

“It would be a terrible shame,” he said thoughtfully, “if some unpredictable element were to disturb this delicate balance.”

Anthony did not even look at him.

“If you touch my ball,” he said calmly, “I will have you disinherited.”

Benedict considered this.

“You cannot disinherit me,” he replied. “You do not sign the papers.”

Anthony’s expression did not change.

“I can influence them.”

Two hoops stood on a shallow incline — one aligned cleanly along the safer route, the other angled sharply to offer a shorter but precarious advance. The ground there was uneven, threaded with shallow roots and subtle dips that punished hesitation.

Anthony surveyed it with visible disapproval.

“You are not taking the angled hoop,” he said to Y/N.

“So that you may?” she replied.

“I am being sensible.”

“You are being cautious,” she corrected.

“That,” he said evenly, “is what sensible is.”

She studied the incline.

The angled hoop was undeniably the wrong choice.

Which made it irresistible.

Without further debate, she lined up her shot.

Anthony exhaled slowly. “You are impossible.”

She swung.

The ball drove up the incline, slightly overcommitted. It grazed the outer edge of the hoop, rebounded sharply off an exposed tree root, and skidded sideways several yards before slowing — but crucially, it remained beyond the hoop line and in play.

There was a beat of silence.

Y/N blinked at where it had landed.

“Yes,” she said calmly. “Precisely as intended.”

Colin applauded enthusiastically. “I will accept that version of events.”

As they advanced toward the penultimate hoop, something suspiciously like alliances began to form.

“I am not saying I will assist you,” Colin murmured to Y/N as they crossed the grass, “but if Anthony’s ball were to encounter unforeseen hardship, I would not mourn.”

“Colin,” Anthony called without turning, “your conspiracies carry.”

Eloise fell into step on Y/N’s other side. “If his ball were to find the hedgerow, I would consider it a civic improvement.”

“Must treason be declared so openly?” Anthony asked.

“Yes,” Eloise and Colin answered in unison.

The second-to-last hoop stood near a cluster of low shrubs. The ground sloped gently toward the orchard wall — deceptively mild, but enough that a heavy stroke would run too far, and a timid one would stall awkwardly.

Daphne approached first.

Her ball passed through with maddening smoothness and came to rest in an enviable position.

“Predictable,” Benedict sighed.

“I have discipline,” Daphne replied.

Anthony followed.

He measured the ground carefully — angle, incline, interference. His stroke was controlled. The ball cleared the hoop and settled cleanly beyond it.

Y/N stepped up next.

The hum of commentary softened slightly behind her.

“Miss, and we immortalise it,” Colin warned.

She adjusted her stance and struck.

Her ball ran cleanly through the hoop.

She earned her continuation stroke.

Before she could take it, Anthony moved.

With infuriating calm, he positioned his ball — already favourably placed — and struck.

His ball cannoned into hers and sent it careening off the line of play and down the gentle slope toward the far hedgerow.

There was a collective intake of breath.

“Oh!” Eloise gasped, delighted. “Well done.”

“Anthony!” Y/N exclaimed, half appalled, half indignant.

Her ball rolled… and rolled… and continued to roll, picking up speed just enough to be inconvenient before finally settling in the rough grass near the distant boundary — uncomfortably close to the orchard path.

Anthony watched its progress with satisfaction.

It stopped.

Still on the field.

“Playable,” he said calmly.

“That was unnecessary,” Y/N said, staring toward the hedgerow where her ball now languished.

“It was entirely necessary,” Anthony replied. “You would have shown me no mercy.”

“I would not have exiled you.”

He gave her a look.

She hesitated.

“All right,” she admitted. “Perhaps only partially exiled.”

“You absolutely would have done worse,” he said.

Daphne, serene as ever, folded her arms. “You did deserve some consequence.”

Colin clutched his chest. “We have entered a new realm of familial cruelty.”

“We have not yet peaked,” Benedict said ominously. “Observe.”

“None of you,” Simon said firmly, “are ever to be left alone with my children and sporting equipment.”

“Next year,” Daphne said brightly, “we’ll give them miniature mallets.”

Simon closed his eyes briefly. “I have misjudged this family.”

Daphne stepped forward for her continuation stroke.

“You would not dare,” Anthony warned.

“Oh?” she said lightly.

She aligned her shot and struck.

Her ball cleared the hoop with infuriating neatness.

Because she had run the hoop, she retained control for her next stroke.

And she used it.

With exquisite calculation, she positioned her ball just behind Anthony’s and struck again — a textbook cannon.

Anthony’s pink ball shot forward, gathering speed down the gentle incline.

It rolled.

And rolled.

And then, guided by the slope of the lawn, followed Y/N’s earlier path toward the far edge of the grounds.

“Daphne,” Anthony said, scandalised.

“Still on the field,” she replied sweetly. “Playable.”

Colin doubled over. “Justice is a beautiful thing.”

“It seemed equitable,” Daphne added. “You did send her rather far afield.”

Simon shook his head slowly, gaze following the twin trajectories across the grass.

The symmetry was almost insulting.

“Well,” Colin said brightly. “How efficient. You needn’t walk separately.”

Y/N turned toward Anthony, unable to suppress her grin.

“It appears,” she said lightly, “that we’ve been paired.”

“We should continue,” Benedict declared. “The tournament cannot be suspended because the Viscount miscalculated.”

“Miscalculated?” Anthony repeated.

“You did begin the escalation,” Y/N pointed out, failing to suppress her smile.

Anthony glanced toward the far hedgerow where their exile awaited. “It appears,” he said evenly, “that we are mutually afflicted.”

She adjusted her grip on the black mallet.

Together — not quite side by side, not quite apart — they began the descent down the slope toward the rough edge of the grounds where their balls had come to rest.

From the upper lawn, the others’ laughter drifted faintly. Down here, the air felt cooler. The grass grew thicker. The earth softened underfoot.

The incline was steeper than it had appeared from above.

Y/N glanced sideways. “You realise this is entirely your doing.”

Anthony did not break stride. “Your ball struck mine first.”

They reached the slight hollow near the hedgerow and saw them — two balls nestled stubbornly in uneven grass. Hers sat slightly farther from the clean line of play. His, naturally, had found marginally better footing.

“Of course,” she muttered. “Yours looks almost comfortable.”

“You remain in bounds,” he said. “That is more than can be said for some.”

“I may as well be in York.”

“You prefer challenge,” he replied. “You’ve secured it.”

She stepped down into the rough, skirts brushing the tops of the grass. The neat geometry of the lawn faded here, replaced by subtle dips and roots that would punish misjudged force.

Anthony rested the mallet against his shoulder and turned slightly toward her.

“After you.”

“How noble,” she said.

She placed her ball carefully, testing the ground with the toe of her shoe. From here, she would need to drive it up the incline toward the previous line of play without overshooting and risking a further roll back down.

“You might consider allowing me a courtesy stroke,” she said lightly, aligning her mallet.

“That would undermine the integrity of the game.”

“It would display generosity.”

“It would display condescension.”

She paused, then looked up at him.

“You’re right,” she said. “I would detest that.”

He inclined his head, just slightly.

She drew back and struck.

The ball drove upward through the rough, slowed by the thicker grass but carried just far enough to crest the incline and settle within reach of the next angle toward the hoop.

Not ideal.

But recoverable.

Anthony studied it.

He stepped forward to take his own shot. His position allowed a cleaner line, but the uneven ground required restraint. Too much force and he would overrun into another awkward dip.

He struck with controlled precision.

His ball cleared the incline and rolled into a near-perfect alignment toward the hoop.

She watched it settle.

She lifted her chin. “You’ll find I recover beautifully.”

He met her gaze.

“I’m counting on it.”

She drew back and swung. The ball leapt forward, climbing the incline with decent enthusiasm, then hit a tuft of thicker grass and lost heart, stopping well short of where she’d hoped.

Y/N made a face. “Brilliant.”

“It wasn’t bad,” Anthony said.

“It wasn’t good.”

“Progress,” he said. “You’ll have another chance.”

She stood back, dusting a stray bit of grass from her glove. “Your turn, my lord.”

He moved past her, and she caught the faintest trace of sandalwood and starch. 

“Try not to send yours into Scotland,” she said.

“I’ll keep England in mind,” he replied.

He took his shot. His ball climbed the slope with infuriating composure, hit the same patch of rough that had betrayed hers—and rolled over it anyway, settling neatly closer to the course.

She sighed. “Of course it did.”

They began walking after their wayward pieces again, the slope gentler now but still enough to make the journey feel longer than strictly necessary.

From up on the main lawn, Eloise’s voice carried faintly on the breeze: something about injustice and Daphne cheating. Colin’s laughter followed.

Y/N glanced sideways at Anthony, then looked away again.

“Was it deliberate?” she asked.

He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “The shot on your ball?”

“Yes.”

“Entirely,” he said. “You have been insufferably competent this morning.”

“That’s rich,” she said.

“I couldn’t let you sail past me unmolested.”

“Ah,” she said. “So this is pride.”

“It’s Pall Mall,” he corrected. “There are rules.”

“Are there?” she asked. “I’ve yet to see anyone follow them.”

She could feel his gaze flick toward her, brief and sharp, before returning forward.

They walked a few more paces in silence.

Then, without really planning to, she said, “Were you going to do it here?”

He slowed.

“Do what?” he asked.

She kept her eyes on the grass. “Propose.”

The word hung there between them, startlingly bold now that she’d let it go.

Anthony’s jaw tightened just a fraction. He stopped fully, turning to look at her. “That is a direct question.”

“Yes,” she said. “I rather thought it was.”

The breeze tugged lightly at the loose curls near her temple. Somewhere behind them, a bird called from the edge of the wood.

He looked away, out across the lawn toward the house, then back to her.

“Yes,” he said finally. “I intended to.”

Her fingers tightened on the mallet’s handle.

“I thought it appropriate,” he said. “Our families have history here. You are comfortable here.” A pause. “It would be efficient.”

“Efficient,” she echoed, amused despite herself. “Such romance.”

His mouth twitched. “I did not promise romance.”

“No,” she said quietly. “You promised practicality.”

“That was the agreement,” he replied.

“And you still mean to keep it?” she asked.

He studied her face as though trying to take a measurement he had never had cause to take before.

“Has something changed for you?” he asked carefully.

She thought of Daphne in the moonlit garden. Of Vienna. Of Theo. Of Leopold. Of the way her chest had ached last night and the way it had eased, just slightly, this morning among the Bridgertons’ voices.

“I’m not sure,” she said honestly. “I know I still need what we agreed.” Her gaze dropped briefly to the grass, then lifted. “And I know you do too.”

He inclined his head once. “Then nothing has changed.”

They reached her ball again. It looked marginally less hopeless than it had a few minutes prior.

He stopped beside her, eyes tracking the uneven lie of the ground with quiet focus.

“May I?” he asked.

She blinked, momentarily wrong-footed. “May you…?”

“Help,” he clarified. “You’re fighting the slope. Adjust your stance.”

There it was again — that small, treacherous flutter low in her chest.

Worse now.

Closer.

She adjusted her stance, more to give herself something to do than because it needed correcting. Anything to avoid turning toward him.

Anthony stepped in behind her.

Not touching.

But near enough that the absence of contact felt deliberate.

She could feel the heat of him at her back, the quiet steadiness of his presence, the faint shift of air as he moved. The space between them narrowed.

“Your weight is too far forward,” he said softly.

His voice was lower now.

“You’re compensating.”

She exhaled slowly, though she hadn’t realised she’d been holding her breath.

“I am not—”

“You are,” he said.

And then—

Closer.

His hand lifted, hovering near hers on the mallet, not correcting. Not yet — close enough that she could feel the warmth of it, the suggestion of contact.

“Loosen,” he murmured.

Her fingers tightened instinctively before she forced them to ease.

“Let it move,” he added, quieter still.

She swallowed.

Aware — acutely, painfully aware — of everything.

Her hands.

His hand, still hovering.

The line of him just behind her.

The way her back felt too close to his chest.

“Are you always this exacting?” she managed, her voice not quite as steady as she intended.

A pause.

Then, softer — nearer:

“If I were exacting…”

His breath brushed just beside her ear.

“…I’d tell you your backswing is too high.”

Her pulse stuttered.

“And that you lean left,” he continued, “when you’re about to do something reckless.”

She let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh.

“I do not—”

“You did,” he said quietly. “On the shortcut.”

Another inch closer.

“Right before you pretended you meant it.”

She turned her head slightly — just enough to glance back at him.

Too close.

Much too close.

“You saw that?”

“I see more than people think.”

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Not forward.

Not back.

Her gaze caught his — properly this time.

Held.

There was something there — something unguarded, something searching — and it lasted just long enough to make her forget entirely what she had been about to do.

Or say.

Or avoid.

“Try again,” he said.

But impossibly softer now.

She turned back slowly, though the awareness of him did not lessen. If anything, it sharpened — every movement measured, every breath deliberate.

She drew the mallet back.

The space behind her felt impossibly small.

Careful.

She swung.

The ball climbed the incline cleanly this time, clearing the rough and settling into a far better position.

Neither of them spoke.

“Better,” he said at last.

She didn’t move right away.

Then, slowly, she turned her head again — just enough that if either of them leaned even a fraction further—

“Satisfied?” she asked.

“For the moment.”

Her lips curved. “You make an excellent instructor.”

“I doubt my siblings would agree.”

“They never listened,” she said. “That was their mistake.”

“You didn’t listen either.”

“No,” she admitted softly. “But I remembered.”

For a heartbeat — only one — his gaze caught hers.

Something unspoken passed between them, charged and unfinished.

“You always did,” he said.

The words were simple. Unremarkable on the surface.

They landed like a touch.

She looked away first, clearing her throat, grounding herself in motion. “Come, then,” she said, forcing lightness back into her voice. “Before Colin declares victory by default.”

“Over my dead body,” Anthony replied.

She was painfully aware of that fact all the way back up the slope.

Theodore, meanwhile, had started hauling their things up the staircase two at a time, still in good spirits.

“I’ve taken the front room,” Theodore called over his shoulder as he disappeared down the corridor. “The one with the balcony. I felt it was only fair someone should suffer the draft heroically.”

Y/N followed more slowly, arms full of dresses and books balanced precariously against her bodice.

He glanced back at her and stopped short. “Good God. Did you bring your entire wardrobe?”

“Only the necessary half,” she said mildly.

“And by necessary, you mean every novel ever printed and at least six gowns too many.”

“I refuse to be underprepared in a foreign city.”

He laughed and stepped forward, pushing open the door to her room with his shoulder so she wouldn’t have to juggle the handle. “Underprepared? Y/N, we are in Vienna for six months, not embarking on a pilgrimage.”

He relieved her of the stack in her arms and deposited everything onto the settee with exaggerated care.

“There,” he said grandly. “Saved from certain tragedy.”

She was already at the bed, carefully smoothing one of her gowns over the coverlet. “I’m trying to keep the creases out.”

“Oh, forgive me,” he replied, stepping around a trunk. “Heaven forbid your petticoats wrinkle before you dazzle the entirety of Austria.”

She gave him a look over her shoulder. “I have no intention of dazzling anyone.”

“Of course not,” he said solemnly. “You’ll simply stand in a corner, looking devastatingly composed, and men will faint quietly at your feet.”

Despite herself, her mouth twitched.

He dropped into the armchair near the hearth with a satisfied sigh, stretching his legs out lazily — perfectly at ease.

And then his gaze shifted.

“Ah,” he said lightly. “You did bring them.”

She stilled.

The slim brown ledger sat half-tucked beneath a folded shawl on the bedside table. It had travelled everywhere with her for three years.

Theodore leaned his head back against the chair. “I should have known. Vienna may have music and wine and art, but none of it compares to the sweet allure of quarterly accounts.”

She didn’t respond.

“Tell me, do you bring them to bed with you? Whisper sweet nothings to the quarterly balance?—” 

“You think it’s funny,” she said, voice quiet. He blinked. 

“Well—yes, that’s rather the point.” 

She turned slowly, jaw clenched. 

“You think it’s funny that I had to sell off Mother’s diamonds. That I had to let go of half the staff before we even announced Father’s death publicly. You think it’s amusing that I’ve spent every week since you were off riding and charming and drinking trying to make sure we still had a roof over our heads.” 

The smile on Theodore’s face vanished. “Y/N…” 

“No,” she snapped, heat rising in her chest like steam. “Don’t Y/N me. You don’t get to tease me about ledgers when you haven’t opened one in three years.” 

He stood, brow creased. “I didn’t mean—” 

“You never mean anything. That’s the trouble, Theo. You laugh, and you joke, and you call me sensible and overworked and say I need to live more—because you never had to do it. You never had to watch what Father left behind and try to fix it before the creditors started circling.” 

He stepped forward, reaching for her elbow, his voice soft. “I didn’t know how bad it was—” 

“You didn’t ask,” she said, yanking her arm back. Her voice cracked at the edge. “You didn’t want to know.” Silence filled the room, stretching far too wide. 

Theodore looked stricken, his hand still half-raised. 

“I didn’t realise,” he murmured. “Truly.” 

Y/N swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as she turned back to the bed. Her voice, when it came, was paper-thin. “It doesn’t matter.” 

“Of course it does—” 

“I don’t want to fight, Theo,” she said, carefully folding the last of her gloves. “I’m tired.” 

He hesitated, still watching her. “…Let me take you to the gallery tomorrow,” he said, quietly. “There’s a new collection coming in from the north. You always loved those strange Dutch landscapes.”

She nodded. Barely.

But didn’t look at him again.

And Theodore left, the door clicking softly behind him.

—

Late afternoon sun spilled through tall arched windows, gilding the picture frames and throwing soft reflections across the polished parquet floors. Everything glowed—the paintings, the marble busts, the rich velvet sashes tied back from the windows.

Y/N wandered slowly between the canvases, hands folded before her, trying to lose herself in the stillness.

She needed stillness.

Theo had been hovering again.

She loved him, but he had barely let her breathe since their arrival. If he wasn’t teasing, he was glancing over at her like she might explode at any moment.

“Will you go find me a refreshment?” She asked in the most honey sweet voice she could muster. She needed him to leave her alone for five minutes. 

Theodore paused for a moment, before nodding curtly and stepping into the crowd. 

She sighed deeply, finally able breathe.

She paused in front of a dramatic landscape. One of those towering oil works with storm-drenched cliffs and pale shepherds clinging to a crag. She tilted her head, studying the brushstrokes, letting her shoulders fall.

“You’ve been staring at that for a full five minutes,” a voice said lightly to her left. “I’m trying to decide whether that means you admire it… or you’re attempting to solve it.”

Y/N blinked and turned slightly.

He stood a respectful distance away, hands loosely clasped behind his back. Dark hair. Impeccably dressed. His posture was relaxed, but there was awareness in him. 

“Perhaps I’m doing both,” she replied.

His mouth curved faintly. “Then I envy the painting. It has clearly earned your full consideration.”

That made her smile.

“It’s a rather dramatic piece,” she said, gesturing toward the canvas. “All movement and shadow. It feels… unsettled.”

“Unsettled,” he repeated thoughtfully, studying it. “I had thought it merely loud. But unsettled is kinder.”

“You disagree with me?”

“I rarely disagree with a lady on first acquaintance,” he said smoothly. “It suggests poor strategy.”

She laughed.

“I’m Leopold,” he added, inclining his head. “Leopold Voss.”

“Lady Y/N Ashbourne.”

“I thought so.”

She lifted a brow. “Did you?”

“Vienna has developed an extraordinary talent for discussing the Ashbournes in the last forty-eight hours.”

“And you believe everything Vienna tells you?”

“Only when it sounds interesting.” He turned back to the painting. “You see restlessness in it.”

“Yes.”

“And what would calm it?”

The question caught her slightly off guard.

“I don’t think it wants to be calmed,” she said after a moment. “I think it wants to be allowed to feel large.”

“That is a very generous interpretation,” he said quietly.

She felt the warmth rise to her cheeks, but she did not look away.

“I used to sketch,” she added, almost without meaning to. “Landscapes mostly. I thought I might travel and fill volumes with them.”

“And now?”

“Now,” she said carefully, “I travel for rather different reasons.”

He did not ask what they were.

“Vienna is an excellent city for unfinished ambitions,” he said. “It forgives delay.”

She tilted her head. “Does it?”

“I believe it rewards those who return to what they love.”

There was something in the way he said it. 

She had grown accustomed to being overlooked these past years. To being the quiet one. The responsible one. The sensible daughter.

Leopold Voss looked at her as though none of that diminished her.

As though it made her more interesting.

It wasn’t flirtation. Not really.

But she liked it.

Before she could think of what to say next, she heard a familiar footstep behind her.

Theodore.

He appeared at her side, glass in hand, brow already furrowing as he took in the scene.

“I found cordial,” he said, tone even.

“Perfect timing,” Y/N replied lightly, taking the glass with a smile. “Leopold, this is my brother—Theodore.”

Leopold offered his hand. “A pleasure.”

“Theo Ashbourne,” her brother replied, shaking it with slightly more firmness than required.

“Lady Y/N was just enlightening me on the finer points of storm-swept landscapes,” Leopold said cheerfully, gesturing to the painting.

Y/N cleared her throat. “Thank you for the drink, Theo.”

“Of course.”

Leopold, sensing the shift, offered one last warm glance her way. “I do hope we meet again, Lady Ashbourne.”

“I suspect we will,” she said.

He bowed, excused himself with perfect poise, and disappeared down the hall.

The gallery felt dimmer without him.

Theo said nothing, but she felt his eyes on her back as she walked away.

For the rest of the day, her thoughts kept circling back to a smile in a sunlit room.

And for the first time in years… she wanted to be noticed.

–

The markets of Vienna were a kaleidoscope of colour and sound.

Fruit vendors called out in lilting accents, waving plums and pomegranates from shaded stalls. A harpist played softly at the edge of the square, and children chased pigeons beneath the towering statues of emperors long dead.

Y/N tried not to be charmed.

But it was hard not to be, with the sunshine warming her bonnet and the light glancing off the cobblestones, and her mother beaming beside her as though the very air had revived her soul.

“This city is alive,” Lady Ashbourne breathed, adjusting the ribbon of her parasol as they meandered through the floral stalls. “Don’t you think so, darling? So much brighter than dreary old Belgrave Square.”

Y/N smiled faintly. “It certainly smells better.”

She was half-listening to a debate over carnations when a familiar voice spoke over her shoulder.

“I’m relieved to see Vienna hasn’t dulled your eye for trouble, Lady Ashbourne.”

Y/N turned at the sound of his voice.

Leopold stood just beyond a low display of lilacs, as though he had simply paused mid-stroll and happened upon her. He wore a deep navy coat that caught the morning light, dove-grey gloves folded neatly in one hand, a slim volume tucked beneath his arm. 

He looked entirely at ease.

“Mr Voss,” she said, unable to keep the surprise from her expression.

He smiled. “Leopold, if you please. We’ve already debated the structural integrity of a painting together. I believe that permits informality.”

She felt her mouth curve despite herself. “Have we?”

“I’m quite certain we have.”

Beside her, Lady Ashbourne’s attention sharpened instantly.

“Ah,” her mother said, eyes bright with interest. “This must be the gentleman from the gallery.”

“Mama—” Y/N began, in a low tone.

Leopold inclined his head politely. “I fear I may be guilty of that introduction, yes.”

“My daughter spoke very highly of your… artistic insight,” Lady Ashbourne continued smoothly.

Y/N closed her eyes for half a second.

Leopold, to his credit, did not seize the advantage. He merely bowed slightly.

“Then I am fortunate indeed,” he said. “Lady Ashbourne, may I say it is a pleasure. Vienna benefits from a measure of English composure.”

Her mother smiled, clearly pleased but not foolish. “You are kind to say so.”

“And what brings you here this morning?” Y/N interjected gently, rescuing them both before her mother could inquire further.

“A matter of duty,” he replied with mild theatrical resignation. “I am meant to be reviewing arrangements for next week’s civic reception at the Belvedere.”

Her mother’s brows lifted. “You are attached to the diplomatic service?”

“I am,” he confirmed. “Vienna is my current assignment. It has proven… educational.”

“In what respect?” Y/N asked.

“In that the Austrian court prides itself on restraint,” he said thoughtfully, “while privately indulging in spectacle. It is a fascinating contradiction.”

“Then you must feel quite at home,” she said lightly, before she could stop herself.

His gaze returned to her — amused, not offended.

“I shall choose to hear that as admiration.”

“You may choose what you like,” she replied.

Lady Ashbourne made a soft sound of approval at the exchange.

“Do you attend the Philharmonic’s evenings, Mr—Leopold?” her mother asked. “I am told the upcoming one will be particularly grand.”

“I do, on occasion,” he said. “Though I confess I prefer gatherings that allow one to speak as well as listen.”

“And are there many such gatherings?” Y/N asked.

“A few,” he said, as though considering the matter. “As it happens, I have several invitations for a private gallery viewing this Saturday. Officially diplomatic. Unofficially far more pleasant than that suggests.”

He looked at her then, not pressing, merely offering.

“I believe you would enjoy it.”

There was no assumption in the statement.

Y/N hesitated for the briefest moment — not out of reluctance, but awareness. 

“Yes,” she said at last. “I believe I would.”

“Excellent.”

“And my son?” Lady Ashbourne asked delicately.

Leopold nodded at once. “Naturally. Lord Ashbourne would be most welcome. It is precisely the sort of evening one attends with family.”

He stepped back slightly then, giving them space rather than claiming it.

“I shall not interrupt your morning further,” he said. “Vienna’s flowers are far more compelling company.”

“I doubt that,” Lady Ashbourne replied warmly.

His eyes flicked to Y/N one last time.

“Until Saturday.”

And then he was gone simply folding back into the rhythm of the street as though he had always belonged there.

Y/N found herself staring after him longer than was strictly proper.

Her mother’s voice came gently at her side.

“He is very well-mannered.”

“Yes,” Y/N said, smoothing her gloves. “He is.”

Y/N let out a slow breath.

“I would be shocked if that man were not in love with you already.”

“Mama, he’s being polite.”

“He’s being intentional,” Lady Ashbourne corrected, eyes glinting. “And I daresay he wouldn’t go to such trouble for just anyone.”

Y/N didn’t answer.

Her gaze drifted toward the direction he had vanished, her fingers absently brushing over the lilacs as they passed.

She had never been the kind of girl men noticed.

But here… in Vienna… perhaps she could be someone new.

—

The salon was bathed in golden light, the chandeliers overhead glinting off crystal decanters and polished silver. Tall windows stood open to the spring night, the curtains fluttering gently as music drifted in from an adjoining room where a quartet played softly. The assembled guests spoke in low, refined tones.

Y/N stood between her mother and brother, hands folded neatly before her, posture impeccable. The heat of the fire was balanced by the cool air wafting from the terrace, and yet she found herself slightly flushed—whether from the crowd or her nerves, she wasn’t certain.

“Everyone I speak to holds him in the highest regard,” Lady Ashbourne murmured, leaning slightly toward her daughter as her fan moved in an idle, graceful rhythm. “His manners. His education. His prospects. He is received personally by the Emperor, I am told.”

Y/N kept her expression composed. “You have been thorough, Mama.”

“One certainly does not bring an unmarried daughter without observing the landscape.”

Theodore, standing at Y/N’s other side, gave a faint huff of amusement, though his gaze continued to survey the room.

“You might allow the man to form his own conclusions,” he said quietly.

“Oh, I shall,” Lady Ashbourne replied smoothly. “I merely intend to ensure he has every opportunity.”

They moved through the reception at an unhurried pace, exchanging pleasantries, pausing for introductions. The room shimmered with candlelight, silk and polished marble, German and French blending into a low, cultured hum.

Y/N smiled when required. Listened when appropriate.

But beneath the poise, her thoughts continued their habitual circling — figures, obligations, what must be secured before London. Vienna was beautiful, yes. But beauty did not erase arithmetic.

“Lady Ashbourne.”

The voice cut cleanly through the murmur of the room — warm, assured.

Y/N turned.

Leopold approached with easy composure, dressed in a midnight-blue coat that caught the candlelight just so. Pearl buttons. Immaculate tailoring. A small arrangement of violets and myrtle rested against his lapel.

He bowed first to her mother.

“Mr. Voss,” Lady Ashbourne greeted, pleased but not effusive. “You are most welcome.”

“I would hardly miss such an evening,” he replied, before his gaze shifted.

“Lady Y/N.”

She curtsied properly. “Mr. Voss.”

His smile was measured, not theatrical. “I find Vienna quite transformed this evening.”

“Oh?” she asked lightly.

“Yes,” he said. “It appears brighter.”

She felt warmth rise to her cheeks but held her composure. “Vienna rarely lacks for spectacle.”

“True,” he agreed. “Though some additions are more welcome than others.”

Lady Ashbourne gave the faintest clearing of her throat.

“I hear the Emperor himself may attend tomorrow’s exhibition,” she said. “Is that mere gossip?”

Leopold’s attention returned respectfully to her. “There is some truth to it. Though His Majesty’s attendance is often less predictable than the rumours suggest.”

“And you will be there, I assume?” Theodore asked evenly.

“I shall,” Leopold replied, meeting his gaze without hesitation. “I would be honoured if the Ashbournes would permit me to escort them.”

Lady Ashbourne smiled. “That would be most agreeable.”

Y/N opened her mouth to speak, but her mother had already secured the arrangement.

Leopold inclined his head toward Theodore. “Lord Ashbourne, I trust that meets with your approval.”

There was a brief pause.

Theodore gave a short nod. “We look forward to it.”

Y/N felt something in her chest loosen.

“Excellent,” Leopold said softly.

“Until tomorrow, Lady Y/N.”

“Until tomorrow,” she echoed.

He bowed once more — to all of them — and withdrew into the current of the crowd with unstudied grace.

Lady Ashbourne exhaled in quiet satisfaction.

“Well,” she said, “that was promising.”

Theodore’s tone was mild. “He is certainly polished.”

“Yes,” her mother agreed.

Y/N kept her eyes on the room ahead, though she was acutely aware of the space Leopold had just vacated.

“Such confidence,” she murmured, adjusting her gloves. “And so respectful. You see how he sought your brother’s approval? He’s a gentleman. I can always tell.”

Y/N glanced sideways at Theodore, who had fallen quiet. She couldn’t tell whether his silence was approval or unease. But he gave her a small, sidelong smile, as if to say no fights tonight.

She returned it, more grateful than he likely knew.

And somewhere deep in her chest, beneath the responsibility and exhaustion and all the calculations that governed her every step—there was a flicker of something she hadn’t felt in a long while.

Hope.

—

The maid announced him just after four.

“Mr. Leopold Voss.”

Y/N’s heart betrayed her immediately.

She had known he might call — after all, he had mentioned it at the gallery — but knowing and hearing it aloud were entirely different things. She rose from the settee before she meant to, smoothing her skirts as though she had been expecting him all along.

Lady Ashbourne brightened.

“Show him in.”

Leopold entered with the composed ease of a man accustomed to drawing rooms. He bowed first to her mother, then to Y/N — his gaze lingering just long enough to make her pulse flutter.

“Lady Ashbourne. Lady Y/N.”

“And Lord Ashbourne,” Theodore added mildly from near the hearth.

Leopold turned at once, inclining his head with deliberate respect. “My lord.”

There was no hesitation in it. No trace of condescension. If anything, the acknowledgement felt intentional.

“I hope I am not intruding,” Leopold continued, though the ease in his expression suggested he would not have come without confidence in his welcome.

“Not in the least,” Lady Ashbourne replied. “We were engaged in a most serious debate about Viennese tailoring.”

“Then I am fortunate,” Leopold said lightly, brushing a hand down the front of his coat. “I would hate to disappoint.”

Y/N laughed before she could stop herself.

Theodore noticed.

He did not comment.

Tea was brought. Poured properly. Conversation remained civil and balanced — the Emperor’s recent reception, a concert at the Musikverein, the peculiarities of Austrian court etiquette.

Theodore did not withdraw.

If anything, he leaned in slightly when Leopold spoke.

After a time, Leopold set down his cup.

“I wonder,” he said politely, “whether Lady Y/N might care to take a brief turn about the terrace. The camellias are in their last bloom. Vienna is at its most generous in the early evening.”

The request was phrased with care.

Before Y/N could answer, Theodore rose as well.

“I’ll join you,” he said, tone even. Pleasant.

Leopold did not falter. “I would expect nothing less.”

The terrace was modest but well kept — iron railings framing the city beyond, pale blossoms catching the fading light. The air held the faint chill of approaching evening.

They stepped outside together.

Y/N found herself walking between them — Leopold to her right, Theodore to her left. It might have been absurd if it weren’t so perfectly proper.

For a few moments, they spoke of the view — of Vienna’s rooftops, of the Danube beyond, of how different it looked from London’s slate-grey horizon.

Then Leopold’s voice shifted slightly.

“Vienna agrees with you,” he said.

She glanced at him. “In what way?”

“You seem more at ease here.”

She hesitated. “Perhaps distance is a comfort.”

“Distance can be useful,” he said. “It clarifies.”

Theodore gave a quiet exhale that might have been amusement. “Diplomatic philosophy?”

“Experience,” Leopold replied lightly. “One learns to read rooms. And occasionally, the people in them.”

There was no edge in it.

Y/N studied him briefly, searching for irony.

There was none.

“I did not realise I appeared so decipherable,” she said.

“Everyone is, in certain lights,” he answered. “Vienna casts a flattering one.”

She found herself smiling.

They continued along the terrace, the gravel crunching softly beneath their shoes.

“You mentioned once,” Leopold said after a moment, “that you used to sketch.”

She looked at him properly then. “You remember that?”

“Of course.”

He said it without emphasis, as though remembering her words required no effort at all.

“I have not done so in years,” she admitted.

“Then perhaps the city is owed one,” he replied. “I would be curious to see Vienna as you interpret it.”

The phrasing struck her — not to see her, but to see through her perspective.

Theodore glanced at her briefly, and she felt the weight of that glance.

“You make it sound very simple,” she said.

“Most worthwhile things are,” Leopold answered. “One merely has to begin.”

The evening light caught against the ironwork, casting delicate shadows across the terrace floor.

She felt seen. Not as the girl who managed accounts. Not as the daughter in mourning.

As herself.

Theo watched the exchange carefully.

“You always had a good eye,” Theodore said, almost absently. “Even when you were small.”

Y/N glanced at him, surprised by the softness in his tone.

It had been years since he’d spoken like that.

Leopold noticed the exchange. His gaze moved between them. Whatever he saw there he did not attempt to interrupt it.

“You are fortunate,” Leopold said after a moment, addressing Theodore directly. “A sister who sees the world so clearly is no small blessing.”

Theodore regarded him steadily.

Then, quietly, “Yes. I am.”

They turned back toward the terrace doors together, the late light fading behind them.

Something in the air had shifted between Y/N and her brother these past weeks felt thinner somehow. Less barbed.

Inside, Lady Ashbourne looked up at their return with unmistakable satisfaction.

Leopold did not linger unnecessarily. Conversation resumed briefly, polite and balanced, before he rose at precisely the right moment — neither abrupt nor indulgent.

“I should not monopolise the evening,” he said. “I hope I may call again.”

“You may,” Theodore replied evenly, before Y/N could speak.

There was the briefest pause.

Leopold’s gaze flicked to him.

Theodore set his cup aside and rose as well.

“You conduct yourself well, Voss,” he said. “My sister deserves that.”

“I would not presume otherwise,” he replied calmly.

Theodore studied him a moment longer — then, almost as if testing the weight of it:

“You would suit this family.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

Theo did not look at her.

He kept his attention on Leopold, tone still mild.

“If matters continue in this direction.”

It was not a jest.

Leopold understood that.

He did not smile broadly. Did not seize the implication.

He inclined his head.

“I would consider that a great honour,” he said simply.

The restraint in his response — the absence of triumph — did not go unnoticed.

Y/N stood very still.

Leopold bowed once more — to her mother, to Theodore, and finally to her — before taking his leave.

The door closed softly behind him.

And the quiet he left in his wake felt full, rather than empty.

Leopold began calling with remarkable consistency.

Never improperly. Never without sending his card in advance. Always at an hour beyond reproach. A

An exhibition newly opened at the Belvedere.

A recital by a visiting Italian soprano whose high notes, he claimed, were capable of humbling entire orchestras.

A luncheon hosted by a fellow attaché — “painfully diplomatic,” he warned, “but redeemed by excellent wine.”

He did not assume.

And he accepted refusal as easily as acceptance — though she rarely refused.

The first morning they walked in the Prater, autumn had just begun to turn the leaves. The air carried that particular crispness that sharpened colour and sound alike. Gravel crunched beneath their steps; horses passed at an unhurried pace.

Lady Ashbourne followed at a decorous distance, Theodore beside her, both engaged in conversation that was courteous enough to suggest disinterest and attentive enough to suggest otherwise.

“You look well this morning,” Leopold said, after a time.

Y/N glanced at him. “I looked unwell before?”

“Not unwell,” he corrected. “Contained.”

She raised a brow. “And today?”

“Today,” he said lightly, “you appear less inclined to measure every word before speaking it.”

She considered denying it.

Instead, she said, “Perhaps Vienna is less demanding.”

“Or perhaps you are less required to defend yourself here.”

She looked ahead, watching a carriage pass beneath the trees.

She felt something ease in her shoulders without realising it had been tight.

He did not overwhelm her with admiration. He did not flatter excessively. What unsettled her, in the gentlest way, was that he remembered.

When she mentioned dreading their eventual return to London, he did not dismiss it as simple nerves. He asked what she expected to find waiting for her there.

When she spoke of her father — cautiously, choosing her words with care — he did not offer rehearsed condolences.

“What did he value most?” Leopold asked once, as they paused beside a stretch of open green. “In books, I mean.”

She blinked at the specificity of it.

“History,” she said. “And political theory. Though he pretended otherwise when guests were present.”

Leopold smiled faintly. “Then he and I would have argued.”

“And lost,” she replied automatically.

He looked pleased at that.

And when, on a quieter afternoon, she alluded to the last three years — the practicalities, the adjustments, the necessity of it all — he did not interrupt.

He listened.

Properly.

When she finished, there was no immediate reassurance. No attempt to solve what could not be undone.

“You have been very steady,” he said instead.

The words were simple.

Not dramatic.

Not pitying.

She had not realised how rarely anyone had described her that way.

Responsible, yes. Sensible. Capable.

But steady — as though what she had done had required strength rather than obligation.

For a moment, she could not quite speak.

So she smiled instead.

And he did not press further.

The evening at the Hofburg was the first time the future felt negotiable.

Music spilled from the ballroom behind them while golden light streamed through tall windows onto the marble terrace. Beyond the balustrade, Vienna shimmered, the city lights scattered like fallen stars along the river.

They stood side by side, not touching, close enough to share the view.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

“Have you ever considered not returning?” Leopold asked at last.

She glanced at him. “Not returning where?”

“To London.”

The music swelled behind them, then softened.

“That would be… difficult,” she said carefully.

“Difficult,” he repeated. “Or impossible?”

She exhaled lightly. “There is very little difference, in my experience.”

He rested his hands along the cool stone of the balustrade.

“There is more beyond it,” he said. “Beyond London. Beyond the Season.”

She smiled faintly. “That is a generous theory.”

“It is a practical one,” he replied.

She turned slightly toward him. “You make it sound simple.”

“I don’t think it is simple,” he said. “But I think it is possible.”

The certainty in his tone was quiet.

“I am meant to return,” she said after a moment. “There are expectations. Obligations.”

“To whom?” he asked gently.

She hesitated.

“My family.”

He nodded once, accepting that.

“And what of you?”

The question was not accusatory.

It was sincere.

She looked back out over the city, watching a carriage lantern flicker far below.

“I have never been asked that before,” she admitted.

“Then perhaps it is overdue.”

She laughed softly, though there was little humour in it.

“Some lives are decided early,” she said. “And then maintained.”

“Maintained,” he echoed.

“As long as they are respectable.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“I do not think you were made merely to be respectable.”

The words were spoken calmly, without flourish.

She felt them land all the same.

He turned toward her fully then, and she was struck — not by intensity, but by steadiness.

“There are other ways to live,” he said. “Travel. Work that engages the mind. Conversations that are not constrained by who is observing them.”

His expression softened.

“You deserve a life that feels larger than obligation.”

The night air felt cooler suddenly.

For three years she had measured herself by what she could preserve. What she could manage. What she could keep from collapsing.

Survival had been enough.

Until now.

The word he had not spoken aloud seemed to hang between them nonetheless.

More.

She did not answer immediately.

Below them, Vienna glittered — vast, alive, indifferent to precedent.

By the fifth month, Vienna no longer felt provisional.

It felt transitional.

What had begun as a stay now resembled something more permanent — or at least, more possible.

Leopold no longer required elaborate pretexts to call. His card still arrived, properly sent, but the invitations had grown simpler.

A walk, if the weather allowed.

Tea, if Lady Ashbourne was receiving.

A lecture at the Academy — “dreadfully dense,” he warned once, “but worth enduring for the discussion afterward.”

He moved easily within their household now. Lady Ashbourne regarded him with warm approval. Theodore with increasing regard.

And when opportunity offered them a moment alone — in the quieter rooms of the Belvedere, or beneath a stretch of vaulted corridor where footsteps echoed softly against stone — the conversation shifted.

It deepened.

“I should like to speak to your brother,” Leopold said one afternoon, as they paused before a Renaissance portrait whose gaze seemed to follow them across the room.

Y/N felt the faintest disruption in her breathing.

“You should?” she repeated carefully.

“I do not intend to drift indefinitely at the edge of your family,” he said. “If I am to remain, I would do so properly.”

His tone was not dramatic.

It was resolved.

She studied him, searching for hesitation.

There was none.

“You would ask him?” she said quietly.

“Yes.”

The simplicity of it — the absence of grand flourish — steadied something in her chest.

Relief came first.

Not because she feared he would not.

But because she had needed to know that he understood the shape of things. That he valued order as much as affection.

“And after?” she asked.

He considered that for a moment.

“After,” he said, “we would decide what suits us best.”

“Us,” she repeated.

He did not smile broadly. He did not reach for her hand in the open gallery.

He merely met her gaze.

“I suspect London may feel smaller than it once did,” he added. “After this.”

She thought of the city as she had left it — grey, measured, watching.

“I am not certain it ever fit me entirely,” she admitted.

He inclined his head slightly, as though that answered something he had long suspected.

“There are other ways to live,” he said. “Other places.”

The words were familiar by now — not persuasive, not urgent.

Simply offered.

She looked back at the painting, though she no longer saw it.

Five months ago, Vienna had been an escape.

Now it felt like an opening.

“I do not fear elsewhere,” she said quietly.

And as she said it, she realised it was true.

Not if she did not walk into it alone.

He did not respond with triumph.

He only nodded — as though they had reached a shared understanding rather than a romantic declaration.

Around them, the gallery hummed softly with distant voices.

The future did not feel distant.

It felt close enough to reach.

The gallery was quiet when they arrived.

Soft light filtered through tall windows, settling over marble floors and gilt frames. There were few guests — only a handful of diplomats and their wives, moving quietly from painting to painting.

Leopold stood near the centre of the hall when she entered.

He bowed slightly as she approached, a familiar warmth in his eyes.

“You look very well this evening,” he said.

It was not elaborate. Not exaggerated.

Simply observed.

She smiled before she could prevent it. “You say that often.”

“Because I have not yet found reason to amend the statement.”

Her mother, with quiet precision, drifted toward a nearby sculpture — not abruptly, not conspicuously — simply allowing space where space might be needed.

They moved through the exhibition side by side.

Leopold spoke at first of safe things — composition, the influence of Venetian colour, the patience required for large canvases. His tone was easy. Measured.

But there was something beneath it. A gathering.

She felt it.

They stopped before a broad landscape — low hills, wide sky, the horizon stretching so far it seemed almost unfinished.

“It reminds me of England,” she said.

“Does it?” he asked.

“Of open country,” she clarified. “Of standing somewhere and knowing there is more beyond what you can see.”

He regarded the painting for a moment longer than necessary.

“I thought you might say something like that.”

Her breath slowed.

The gallery had grown quieter — or perhaps she had simply ceased hearing it.

“Y/N,” he said.

Not lightly.

Not in passing.

She turned toward him fully.

“I ought to have spoken sooner,” he continued. “But I wished to be certain I did not mistake civility for encouragement.”

“You have not,” she said, more quickly than intended.

His expression shifted.

“I hold you in very high esteem,” he said. “Not merely for your composure, though that is considerable. For your judgement. For the constancy you show your family. For the mind you so rarely permit others to see in full.”

Her fingers tightened slightly within her gloves.

“I do not seek to admire you at a distance,” he went on. “I would rather stand beside you. I intend to speak with your brother,” he added. “I would not proceed without doing so properly. But it seemed only right that I speak to you first.”

For a moment she could not find her voice.

He reached into the inner pocket of his coat.

When he withdrew his hand, a small velvet case rested there.

He opened it.

The ring was restrained — a pale stone set in gold, elegant without excess.

“Y/N Ashbourne,” he said quietly, “would you consent to share your life with me?”

For a moment, she could not speak.

She thought of London. Of ledgers and mourning veils. Of three years spent holding together what remained of their family.

She thought of Vienna. Of galleries and promises. Of a future that did not feel like mere endurance.

She thought of Theodore.

He would approve.

He liked Leopold. Trusted him. Had said as much.

Her eyes filled unexpectedly.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Then stronger, “Yes.”

Relief — genuine and unguarded — passed across Leopold’s face.

He slid the ring onto her finger.

It fit.

Of course it fit.

He lifted her hand to his lips. Just enough to make her breath falter again.

Behind them, Lady Ashbourne gave a soft, delighted gasp.

“My darling,” her mother murmured, pressing a hand to her heart as she approached.

Leopold turned to her with quiet dignity. “I shall call upon Theodore this evening to make my intentions formal.”

“Yes,” Y/N said quickly, almost laughing through her tears. “Yes, of course.”

She felt weightless.

Certain.

As though the last three years had been leading here.

To this.

To him.

—

The autumn light poured through the tall windows, catching in the stone and gold around them.

Y/N looked down at the ring again, turning her hand slightly so it shimmered.

And she believed — with her whole heart — that she had just stepped into the life she was meant to have.

That evening she did not walk home.

She floated.

The ring felt warm against her skin, heavier than it should have been, as though it carried not just gold and stone but something luminous and new. She kept lifting her hand, turning it toward the light of passing lanterns, unable to stop smiling.

Her mother had wept openly in the carriage.

“My darling,” Lady Ashbourne kept saying, pressing kisses to her temple. “My clever, brave girl. I always knew.”

Y/N barely heard the rest. Her thoughts were already racing ahead.

Theo.

She could not wait to tell him.

He would be pleased. He had liked Leopold from the beginning. Had fenced with him. Had debated with him. Had called him steady.

He had said he would make a fine brother.

The carriage rolled to a halt before their residence, and before the footman could properly lower the steps, Y/N was already descending.

“Theodore?” she called as she crossed the entry hall, unable to contain herself. “Theo?”

He was in the study.

She pushed the door open without knocking.

He was standing by the desk, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled, a letter crumpled loosely in his hand. He looked up sharply at the sound of her voice.

For a moment — just a moment — his expression softened.

Then he saw her face.

He went still.

“You’re back early,” he said carefully.

“Leopold proposed,” she burst out, unable to stop the words from spilling. “This afternoon. At the gallery. He’s coming to speak with you formally, of course — he insisted — but I wanted you to know first.”

Silence.

Theo’s gaze dropped to her hand.

To the ring.

He did not smile.

“Is this a jest?” he asked. 

Her laughter faltered. “Of course not. Why would it be a jest?”

“You accepted him.”

“Yes,” she said, confusion edging into her tone. “Yes, of course I did.”

He took a step toward her — not aggressive, but purposeful.

“You agreed to marry him.”

“I did.” A faint crease formed between her brows. “Theo, what is this? You like him.”

His jaw tightened.

“I did.”

The shift in tense unsettled her.

“Did?” she repeated.

He turned away from her then, pacing once toward the window before stopping, one hand pressed against the glass.

“Call it off.”

The words were controlled.

Flat.

She stared at him, certain she had misheard.

“…Excuse me?”

“Tell him you reconsidered,” he said. “Tell him it was too sudden.”

A slow chill spread through her chest.

“You cannot be serious.”

“I am.”

“No.” She shook her head instinctively. “No. This is absurd. You said he was steady. You respected him.”

“I was mistaken.”

“About what?” she demanded.

He did not answer.

The silence that followed was not empty — it was deliberate.

Her voice sharpened. “About what, Theodore?”

He faced her again, but something in his expression had closed.

“It is not a match I approve.”

The word landed harder than it should have.

Approve.

“Since when,” she asked carefully, “does my life depend upon your approval?”

“Since Father died.”

The air left her lungs.

For a moment she simply stood there, absorbing the blow.

“I have done everything since Father died,” she said, her voice trembling despite her effort to steady it. “I have kept this family intact. I have managed the accounts. I have preserved what little we had left while you—”

“While I what?” he cut in, sharp now.

“While you escaped,” she said. “Into sport. Into politics. Into anything that did not require you to look directly at what we lost.”

The words hung between them.

He went very still.

“And now,” she continued, the hurt rising, “now that I have found something that is mine — something chosen — you would strip that away as well?”

“This is not about what is yours,” he said.

“Then what is it about?” she demanded. “You will not tell me what changed. You will not tell me what you discovered. You simply—”

“I will not have you marry him,” he said, more forcefully now.

“And you will not explain why.”

“It is not suitable.”

Her laugh was short and incredulous. “Not suitable? He is respected. He is established. He intends to ask properly. What deficiency have you uncovered that renders him unfit?”

He did not respond.

That frightened her more than anger would have.

“You have no reason,” she said, quieter now. “You only object because I have decided something without you.”

His expression flickered — hurt, perhaps — but it vanished.

“I am trying to prevent a mistake.”

“Then trust me to recognise one.”

His voice dropped. “You cannot see clearly.”

“And you can?” she countered.

“Yes.”

The certainty of it infuriated her.

“You think I am incapable of judging my own happiness.”

“I think you are too eager to grasp at the first promise of escape.”

The words cut clean.

Her breath caught.

“So that is what you believe?” she whispered. “That I am desperate?”

“I believe you are vulnerable.”

“And you,” she shot back, “are afraid.”

His head lifted sharply.

“Afraid that I will leave,” she continued, voice unsteady now. “Afraid that I will not remain here, patching together what Father left behind while you decide what future suits you best.”

“That is unfair.”

“What is unfair,” she said, “is you demanding obedience without trust.”

The room felt smaller suddenly.

He did not deny it.

Did not clarify.

The absence of explanation was its own answer.

Something inside her shifted.

“I will not withdraw my acceptance,” she said, each word measured now. “I have given it freely.”

“If you marry him,” Theodore replied, equally measured, “you do so without my blessing.”

The formality of it hurt more than shouting would have.

She swallowed.

“So be it.”

For a long moment, neither moved.

Brother and sister.

No longer aligned.

Finally, Theodore reached for his coat.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Out.”

“You cannot simply leave this unresolved.”

“I cannot remain,” he said quietly.

He did not look at her again as he crossed the room.

The door shut behind him with a force that made the glass rattle in its panes.

Y/N stood alone in the study, her breath uneven, her hands trembling.

The ring felt suddenly heavier.

Colder.

But she refused to look at it as anything other than promise.

He will come around, she told herself.

He must.

He has no reason not to.

And yet, as the evening deepened and Theodore did not return…

A thin thread of unease began to weave itself through her certainty.

—

The house had grown unbearably quiet.

Y/N had remained in the drawing room long after the lamps were lit, the ring heavy on her hand, her argument with Theodore replaying in relentless circles.

He would return, she told herself.

He simply needed to cool his temper.

He had stormed out before.

He would come back.

Lady Ashbourne had retired early, claiming a headache — though Y/N knew her mother had been weeping softly behind her door, distressed by the raised voices echoing through the house.

It was nearly midnight when the knock came.

Not a polite rap.

Not the measured knock of a social caller.

But sharp. Authoritative. Unmistakable.

Y/N startled upright.

Another knock. Harder.

The footman hurried to the door. She heard murmured voices in the hall. Low. Urgent.

Then the footman appeared in the drawing room doorway, pale.

“My lady,” he said, voice strained. “There are officers to see you.”

Officers.

Her stomach dropped.

She rose at once, the room tilting faintly around her.

In the entry hall stood two uniformed officials — city watchmen, their coats dark and dusted with the chill of the night. One held his hat respectfully at his chest.

“Lady Ashbourne?” the elder of the two asked.

“My mother is indisposed,” Y/N replied, her voice steady by sheer force. “I am her daughter. You may speak to me.”

The man’s expression shifted — a flicker of regret passing over it.

“There has been an incident,” he said carefully.

Her pulse roared in her ears.

“With my brother?” she asked before she could stop herself.

The officer nodded once.

“Theodore Ashbourne was involved in an altercation this evening.”

An altercation.

“He has been injured.”

The floor seemed to drop beneath her.

“Injured how?” she demanded.

The second officer stepped forward, quieter.

“A firearm was discharged. Your brother sustained a wound.”

Her fingers tightened in the folds of her gown.

“Where is he?” she whispered.

“He has been taken to a physician,” the first officer replied. “He is alive.”

Alive.

The word struck her like breath returning to drowning lungs.

“But,” the officer continued, and she knew — knew — something worse was coming.

“This injury occurred during a duel.”

The word cracked through the air.

A duel.

Her mind rejected it at once.

“No,” she said. “That is impossible.”

The officer’s jaw tightened.

“Your brother and Herr Leopold Voss met outside the city boundaries this evening.”

The name tore through her.

No.

“No,” she repeated, louder now. “You are mistaken.”

“I am afraid not, my lady.”

The hall felt suddenly too small. Too narrow.

“There was an exchange of shots,” the officer continued, each word deliberate. “Your brother was struck. Herr Voss fled the scene immediately thereafter.”

Fled.

The ring on her finger felt like ice.

“That is not—” she began, but her voice faltered.

Her mind scrambled for explanation.

There must have been confusion.

A misunderstanding.

A quarrel between other men.

Leopold would never—

“Why?” she demanded. “Why would they duel?”

The officers exchanged a look.

“The matter appeared… personal.”

Personal.

Her throat closed.

“He came to us earlier this evening,” the older officer said, softer now. “Your brother sought out Herr Voss after leaving this residence.”

She felt the blood drain from her face.

He had left angry.

He had said he was trying to protect her.

“He challenged him?” she whispered.

The officer inclined his head.

“They both agreed to the terms.”

The world narrowed to a single, unbearable point.

“No,” she breathed. “Leopold would never—”

“He fired,” the officer said quietly.

The words did not feel real.

They echoed strangely, as though spoken underwater.

He fired.

Her hand trembled violently now. She clutched at the wall to steady herself.

Behind her, she heard her mother’s voice.

“Y/N?” Lady Ashbourne had come down the stairs, drawn by the commotion. “What is happening?”

Y/N turned slowly.

Her mother saw the officers. Saw her daughter’s face.

Understood.

“No,” Lady Ashbourne whispered.

Y/N forced herself to speak.

“Theodore has been injured,” she managed.

Her mother swayed.

“And Leopold?” Lady Ashbourne asked faintly.

Y/N could not answer.

The officer did.

“He has fled Vienna.”

Silence fell.

Not the quiet of a peaceful house.

The kind of silence that follows something irrevocable.

Lady Ashbourne let out a broken sound and sank against the banister.

Y/N stood perfectly still.

The ring gleamed on her finger.

Promise.

Future.

Partnership.

She stared at it.

He had said he did not make promises lightly.

He had said he would speak to Theodore properly.

He had said—

A cold, unbearable clarity crept through her.

He had fired.

And he had fled.

The officers were still speaking — explaining where Theodore had been taken, urging discretion, promising updates — but she heard none of it.

All she could see was her brother walking out that door.

All she could hear was her own voice accusing him.

Jealous.

Proud.

Possessive.

And now—

Shot.

She did not cry.

Not yet.

She simply stood there, the world she had built over three months collapsing soundlessly around her.

And somewhere beyond the walls of Vienna, a man she had loved was already gone

The moon had climbed higher by the time Y/N finished speaking.

The gardens of Aubrey Hall lay hushed around them, silvered by light, the air cool and almost too still. Daphne had not interrupted once. She had not gasped or exclaimed or filled the quiet with useless reassurances. She had simply listened — hands folded in her lap, eyes never leaving Y/N’s face.

Now, at last, the silence returned.

Y/N’s hands were trembling.

“I remember the knock,” Y/N said quietly, as though the memory had risen of its own accord. “I remember thinking it must be a mistake. That they had confused the names. That it could not possibly be—”

Her voice failed her.

Daphne moved closer at once, slipping an arm around her shoulders.

“Oh, my dear,” she murmured, drawing her in.

That was enough.

The careful composure Y/N had worn for nearly a year splintered without ceremony. She pressed her face into Daphne’s shoulder and wept — not prettily, not with restraint, but with the breathless force of something long contained.

“I accused him,” she choked out. “I told him he was jealous. That he could not bear to see me happy. And then he—” Her breath hitched. “He went after him.”

Daphne’s hand moved slowly along her back, steady and warm.

“You did not know,” she said gently.

“I should have,” Y/N whispered. “He would not explain. He would not tell me what had changed. And I thought him cruel.”

“You were in love,” Daphne replied.

The simplicity of it undid her further.

“Yes,” she breathed. “I was.”

They sat like that for a long moment beneath the pale wash of moonlight, the garden hushed around them.

When Y/N’s tears quieted to uneven breaths, Daphne eased back just enough to look at her.

“Did you ever learn why?” she asked softly. “Why Theodore challenged him?”

Y/N shook her head.

“No.”

The word felt heavy.

“He would not speak of it,” she continued. “When I saw him the next morning, he was barely conscious. The physician would not allow me near him for long. And when he recovered… he would not explain. Not to me. Not to Mama.”

Her throat tightened again.

“He only said that Leopold was not what he seemed.”

Daphne frowned faintly. “Nothing more?”

“Nothing.” Y/N twisted her fingers together in her lap. “No accusation. No proof. Only that he had been wrong to trust him.”

“And Leopold?”

“He was gone,” she said. “He left Vienna that night.”

There had been whispers, of course. Speculation. Polite scandal.

But no answers.

“I left the following day,” she added, her voice smaller now. “I could not endure the stares. Mama was distraught. Theo would not meet my eyes.”

“You left Theodore there?” Daphne asked gently.

Y/N closed her eyes.

“I could not stay,” she admitted. “Every room felt like an accusation. The terrace. The gallery. The ring.”

She had removed it before stepping into the carriage.

She had not looked back.

“I have not spoken to him since,” she said. “It has been nearly a year.”

Daphne drew in a slow breath.

“And he?”

“He wrote once. Only to say he was well enough to travel. He remained in Vienna for treatment. After that…” She shook her head. “I do not know where he is.”

“And you have not written?”

Y/N’s lips trembled.

“I began letters,” she said. “Many of them. None felt sufficient.”

The night stretched wide around them.

“You were hurt,” Daphne said firmly, though not unkindly. “And frightened. That does not make you heartless.”

“But I accused him,” Y/N whispered. “And he nearly died.”

Daphne lifted her chin gently, forcing her to meet her gaze.

“You loved a man who appeared worthy of that love,” she said. “Your brother refused to explain himself. You were both wounded. Pride does not belong to only one side.”

A fragile, humourless breath escaped Y/N.

“Young,” she said. “We were young.”

They sat in silence again.

“And you still do not know,” Daphne said at last, “why he did it.”

“No,” Y/N replied. “And I do not know which is worse — that he had reason… or that he did not.”

Daphne squeezed her hand.

“Whatever the truth,” she said quietly, “you endured it.”

Y/N looked toward the pale façade of Aubrey Hall rising against the night sky.

“I am so tired of enduring,” she whispered.

Daphne’s expression softened.

“Then perhaps,” she said gently, “it is time you were allowed something else.”

Y/N did not answer.

But for the first time since Vienna, the weight of it did not feel entirely hers to carry alone.

tagged:

“I’m merely anticipating what any clear-eyed woman might see coming.” Her mother turned toward the wardrobe, plucking a shawl from the hook. “The way he looks at you. The early invitation. The long walks, the garden strolls—need I go on?”

Y/N opened her mouth, but her mother was already off again.

“And I do think a spring wedding would suit you. Something simple, of course. Tasteful. The Ashbourne name restored in full splendour.”

A sharp knock at the door cut through the whirlwind of speculation. Both women froze.

Lady Ashbourne clasped her hands together, eyes alight. “Oh,” she whispered. “Do you suppose—?”

Y/N opened the door to find Anthony Bridgerton standing in the hallway, dressed for dinner in navy and ivory, his expression composed but with a flicker of something unreadable behind his eyes.

He bowed slightly. “Lady Y/N.”

Her hand still rested on the doorknob as she blinked at him. “My lord.”

“I’ve come to escort you to dinner,” he said, straightening. “If you’ll allow it.”

From behind her, Lady Ashbourne made a delighted sound that was only barely stifled into a cough.

“Oh,” Y/N said, glancing over her shoulder. “That’s not necessary, I was just about to—”

“Nonsense!” her mother interrupted, beaming. “Of course you’ll allow it. What a gentleman you are, Lord Bridgerton. Y/N, don’t dawdle.”

Y/N gave him a look but stepped out into the corridor nonetheless, gloved hands smoothing over the soft blue silk of her gown. She shut the door behind her and fell into step beside him.

They walked in silence for a few moments, the sounds of the house curling softly around them.

“I haven’t seen you at all today,” Y/N said, breaking the quiet first. Her voice was light, teasing, but there was something genuine tucked beneath it. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”

Anthony’s lips quirked, though his eyes gave nothing away. “Not at all. I’ve been… detained.”

“Oh?” She arched a brow.

“Ledgers. Balances.” He made a vague gesture with one hand. “The stewardship of Aubrey Hall does not pause for houseguests.”

He paused then, glancing at her sidelong before adding, just a touch softer, “Not even you.”

She smiled at that and the candlelight caught in her eyes, turning them warm and amber-hued. “A shame. I was rather hoping my return would earn me special treatment.”

“You’re getting it,” he said, voice edging dry but fond. “I’m personally escorting you to dinner.”

They turned a corner, the grand staircase unfurling before them like something out of memory. The flickering sconces cast shadows across the wood, and the chandelier above scattered fractured light along the walls.

“It’s strange,” Y/N said, more softly now, her voice shifting from playful to thoughtful. “Being back here. After all this time.”

Anthony looked at her then, his gaze not stern or assessing but still, quiet, almost searching. “Strange in a good way?”

She nodded slowly. “Yes. I think so. There’s something about this place—it feels like the moment I stepped through the doors, I became ten years old again. As though nothing had changed.”

Anthony hummed low in his throat, the sound more contemplative than dismissive. “Plenty has changed.”

Y/N dropped her gaze to the hem of her gown, brushing lightly against the edge of the carpeted step. “Yes. But the air still smells like lavender. And the floors still creak in the same places. And there’s that hollow in the banister upstairs where Colin knocked a candlestick over—do you remember?”

“I had to cover for him,” Anthony replied without missing a beat. “My mother nearly had a fit.”

Y/N laughed, that breathless sort of laugh that clung to something old and cherished. “You always covered for everyone.”

“I still do,” he said simply.

His voice had a steadiness to it, and something in it made her chest pull a little tighter.

They reached the bottom of the stairs, the scent of roasted herbs curled into the air.

Y/N slowed to a stop. Turned to him.

“It’s good to be back,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper now. 

Anthony’s eyes met hers again. He didn’t smile, but there was something softer there. 

“It’s good to have you here,” he said.

And for a breath—a heartbeat—neither of them moved. The space between them felt suspended in time, like the hush just before the violins begin.

She wasn’t in love with him. She didn’t even know if she could be. But in that stillness, in that quiet moment beneath the chandelier and the warm glow of something almost like home, she didn’t feel like she had to run from the possibility.

Anthony moved first—just slightly—and with practiced ease, he offered his arm.

“Shall we?”

Y/N hesitated for the briefest moment. Then her fingers slid into the crook of his elbow.

They walked into the evening together—shoulders nearly brushing, hearts carefully guarded, yet just close enough that something unspoken lingered in the space between.

Crystal glinted in the low candlelight, and laughter echoed softly off the dark wood paneling and floral wallpaper that had not changed a bit since Y/N was last seated at this table.

Now she sat between Anthony and Daphne, directly across from Eloise, and just beside Simon, the Duke of Hastings, who was still something of a mystery. 

It had been a long time since she’d dined with them like this. Nearly a decade, she realised. Yet it took only minutes for that invisible thread—so long dormant—to pull taut again.

“I swear,” Eloise was saying now, waving her fork toward Daphne, “if you bring up the colour of the nursery curtains one more time, I will throw myself into the lake.”

Daphne rolled her eyes. “I merely asked if the ochre trim looked too severe.”

“It did,” Benedict chimed in from further down the table, leaning around a vase of roses. “And if you want my opinion—”

“I don’t,” Daphne and Eloise said in unison.

Colin huffed and slumped back in his seat

Y/N laughed again, and this time she let herself lean back in her chair, her hand brushing against the cool stem of her wine glass. The tension that had been coiled around her spine since Vienna, since London, since stepping back into these polished halls, began to slowly unwind.

She looked at Anthony out of the corner of her eye. He wasn’t laughing, exactly, but there was something softer in his expression. The usual tightness in his jaw had eased, and when he caught her glance, he gave her the smallest smile.

“It’s good to have you back,” Daphne said then, more gently, her voice quieter than the rest.

The conversation dimmed around them for just a breath.

Y/N turned toward her, smile lopsided. “It’s good to be back. Strange. But good.”

Eloise set down her knife and looked across the table, earnest now. “We should never have let ten years pass.”

Y/N shook her head. “We were young. And things were… complicated.”

They both nodded, as if in agreement with some silent truth that hovered in the flicker of candlelight.

“Then consider this our do-over,” Eloise said, lifting her glass. “We’ll make up for lost time by being thoroughly insufferable for the next week.”

Benedict raised his own glass in a wry salute. “God help us all.”

Lady Ashbourne chuckled softly beside Violet, who dabbed delicately at her lips with a linen napkin and sighed in contentment. “It’s rare,” she said, surveying the table, “to see all of you like this again. But it makes an old mother’s heart very glad.”

y/n beamed.

The fire in the drawing room had burned low, casting the space in a flickering amber hush. Lady Ashbourne was dozing, upright and dignified in her chair by the hearth, her teacup resting precariously on her lap. Violet sat nearby in lively conversation with Eloise.

Y/N stood at the tall window, her forehead nearly touching the cool glass, watching as the clouds drifted apart to reveal a perfect, pearlescent moon. The garden below shimmered faintly, dew catching the light like stardust.

“Don’t pretend you don’t see it,” came a voice just behind her.

Y/N turned to find Daphne approaching, her hands tucked behind her back, chin tilted with unmistakable intent.

“See what?” she asked.

“That moon,” Daphne said, with mock seriousness. “The universe has delivered a night too beautiful to be spent indoors.”

Y/N raised a brow. “You sound like Colin.”

“That’s entirely unfair. Colin would be halfway up the trellis already.”

Y/N laughed, but shook her head, glancing down at her slippers. “I don’t know, Daphne. I think I’d rather stay in.”

Daphne didn’t move. “You’ve been in all evening. Don’t you want to breathe?”

“I am breathing.”

“Yes, but not the kind that counts,” Daphne said, gently. “Not the kind that comes from being out in the world. Come—just a few minutes. You owe me that, at least.”

“I owe you?”

“For missing ten years of moonlight walks.”

Y/N hesitated. She could feel the pull of it—of Daphne, of the night, of the stars just waiting to be remembered. But she also felt the weight of the quiet ache behind her ribs that hadn’t quite left since she arrived.

“I’ll be cold,” she tried.

“I’ll find you a shawl,” Daphne said swiftly.

“I’ll get my slippers muddy.”

“Then we’ll walk on the stone path.”

Y/N gave her a pointed look. “You’re very persistent.”

“I’m a duchess now. It comes with the title.”

Y/N sighed, but there was already the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “You’re not going to let me sit quietly with my tea and pretend to be content, are you?”

Daphne stepped closer, her voice softer. “No. Because I know you. And because I’ve missed you. And because the stars are out, and there’s a bench in the east garden that’s just begging for scandalous conversation.”

That earned a proper smile. Small. Fond.

“Give me five minutes,” Y/N said at last. “To change my shoes.”

Daphne lit up. “Take three.”

She turned on her heel, already halfway to the door, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll meet you at the side hall. Don’t dawdle, Lady Ashbourne!”

Y/N shook her head, but there was laughter under her breath as she moved toward the staircase. And above, the moon waited patiently, as though it, too, had been hoping for her.

The night air met them like a memory.

Cool and fragrant with lavender and damp stone, it wrapped around Y/N’s bare arms as she stepped onto the garden path beside Daphne. The moon hung full and bright above Aubrey Hall, silvering the hedges and dusting the gravel with pale light. Their slippers made soft, steady sounds as they walked, skirts whispering around their ankles.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

There was something sacred about the quiet—about being here again, where they had once raced barefoot, where they had sworn childhood oaths of eternal friendship, where the world had seemed endlessly wide and harmless.

Y/N drew in a slow breath.

“I should have come to your wedding.”

Daphne turned her head, surprised, though she did not slow her steps.

“I should have written more,” Y/N continued. “I should have answered your last letter. I read it a dozen times, and still I… never replied.” Her voice thinned, just slightly. “I’m sorry.”

Daphne stopped walking then. Gently, without flourish.

Y/N stopped too, uncertain.

Daphne’s eyes shone in the moonlight, not accusing, not disappointed—just achingly soft.

“I missed you,” she said simply. “When I married Simon, I kept looking for you in the crowd. I thought perhaps you’d arrive late, breathless and apologising, like you used to when you overslept for lessons.” She smiled, a small, crooked thing. “When you didn’t, I told myself you had your reasons. But I still missed you.”

Y/N swallowed hard.

“I didn’t know how to come back,” she admitted. “After everything. After Father died. After Theodore left. After…” She trailed off.

Daphne reached for her hand and squeezed. “Then you’re here now. That’s enough.”

They walked again, slower this time, until the stone bench beneath the climbing roses came into view. It had not changed. The same shallow crack along the backrest. The same ivy curling around its base. They sat side by side, shoulders nearly touching.

The moonlight washed over them, cool and gentle.

Daphne looked ahead for a long moment before speaking again.

“There’s something I’ve wanted to ask.”

Y/N’s fingers tightened slightly in her lap.

“What really happened in Vienna?”

The question settled between them, heavier than the night air.

Y/N didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes traced the shape of the garden path, the shadow of the fountain, the faint gleam of the rose trellises. Her breathing was steady, but her hands were not.

“It’s complicated,” she said at last.

Daphne hummed softly. “Most things are.”

Y/N let out a breath.

tagged:

The carriage wheels crunched over the pebbled drive as Ashbourne House’s modest crest bobbed on the door panel, flanked by gleaming brass. Afternoon sunlight dappled the tree-lined avenue, the scent of spring thick in the air.

Aubrey Hall was just coming into view, rising between the elms like a memory brought to life. Its honey-stoned façade looked exactly as it had in her childhood.

Y/N pressed a hand to the carriage window, eyes wide and bright. “It hasn’t changed,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Not even a little.”

Beside her, Lady Ashbourne dabbed at her temples with a lemon-scented handkerchief, her bonnet tilted back at a dramatic angle. “And thank heavens for that,” she said, fanning herself half-heartedly. “Though I do hope the guest suites have been updated. I cannot bear those lumpy provincial mattresses.”

Y/N’s lips curved upward, but she didn’t reply. Her attention was fixed on the soft slope of the hill beyond the front steps, the one Colin once rolled down with a stick for a sword. The gravel path that forked toward the gardens, where Eloise had once staged a royal trial and sentenced her to twenty minutes in the orchard stocks. The west wing balcony, where she and Daphne had sworn an oath of eternal sisterhood at the age of nine.

It had been years, truly, since she had last walked this land. But something about the sight of Aubrey Hall tilted the clock back, just for a moment, to before the weight of titles and expectation.

Before everything changed.

“I always said you would return here,” Lady Ashbourne declared, interrupting her reverie. “It’s only natural, after all. And now—well. Everything is falling perfectly into place.”

Y/N smiled faintly, still watching the house grow closer through the window. “It’s not quite the same,” she said softly.

“Of course it’s not. But I’ve never known a better setting for an engagement. Just imagine it—under the rose arbor, with your hair done up in those delicate little pearl pins—”

“Mama,” Y/N said gently, turning from the window. “We are not engaged.”

Lady Ashbourne waved her off with a flick of her wrist. “Not yet. But your names are in every mouth from Mayfair to Manchester.”

Y/N leaned back against the velvet squabs and let her eyes drift closed for a moment, letting the motion of the carriage lull her. There was something almost dangerous in how easy it felt to be back here. How much her heart lifted at the sight of the sprawling estate and the familiar hedgerows and the arched windows that had once framed a dozen summer misadventures.

She reminded herself—this was not a homecoming. 

And yet… she could not help but feel a flutter of something traitorous in her chest.

Y/N opened her eyes just as the wheels rolled to a gentle halt beneath the ivy-covered portico.

Aubrey Hall stood before her, sun-drenched and golden.

“Welcome back,” she whispered, stepping down.

And for the first time in a long time, she felt like the girl she used to be.

She barely had time to draw breath before Eloise Bridgerton appeared at the top of the steps.

For a heartbeat, the only sound was the carriage door shutting behind them.

Then Eloise lifted her skirts and ran.

No decorum, no hesitation—just a blur of pale blue muslin and flying curls. She reached Y/N at the base of the steps and flung her arms around her without a word.

Y/N staggered slightly under the weight of it, but her arms closed around Eloise at once, the scent of lavender and warm linen wrapping around her like a second home.

“You’re really here,” Eloise whispered, her voice muffled against Y/N’s shoulder.

Y/N let her eyes drift shut. “I am.”

The hug lingered just a second too long to be anything less than genuine. When Eloise finally pulled back, her hands stayed firm on Y/N’s arms, her eyes wide and searching.

“You’ve no idea how strange it’s been,” Eloise said, attempting lightness but not quite masking the catch in her voice. “To write letters for years, and not hear your laugh in all that time. Your handwriting has always been so terribly polite, by the way. Not a single ink blot. Boringly tidy.”

“That was intentional,” Y/N replied, a half-smile on her lips. “I thought if I let my personality slip through, you’d march across the continent to fetch me.”

“Well.” Eloise arched a brow and looped her arm through Y/N’s. “You weren’t entirely wrong.”

They turned toward the house, the gravel crunching softly beneath their feet. Y/N glanced up at the windows of Aubrey Hall, the familiar silhouettes of ivy and stone that hadn’t changed in ten years.

It took her breath away.

“It’s odd,” she murmured. “Being back here. I thought it would feel foreign by now. Distant. But it doesn’t. It feels…” She trailed off.

“Like you never really left?” Eloise offered.

Y/N nodded, her throat tightening. “Exactly that.”

They climbed the first step together. The scent of boxwood and woodsmoke drifted faintly in the warm evening air, tugging at memories long packed away.

“I used to race you down this drive,” Y/N said suddenly. “Every summer. We’d take turns being the runaway governess and the heartless duchess.”

“You were always the duchess,” Eloise replied, smirking. “Even when I demanded the role.”

“I had better posture.”

“You were insufferable.”

They laughed, and it echoed against the stone.

They reached the front doors. Aubrey Hall felt exactly as it had when she was a girl, and yet entirely different, because she was different.

“You know,” she said, a little breathless, “I half expected the house to spit you out. Like it forgot what it feels like to have you here.”

“I thought I’d feel like a stranger,” she said, voice quieter now. “But it’s like the halls remember me. Like I’ve stepped back into a place that waited.”

“Does it feel different?” Eloise asked, glancing sideways. “Being back here. At Aubrey Hall. After all this time.”

Y/N exhaled slowly. “It feels like opening a book I used to love. One where I already know the ending.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“I haven’t decided.”

“Daphne will arrive in a few hours,” Eloise said excitedly. “She insisted. She said if you were here, she would not miss it for the world.”

Y/N’s lips parted in a soft, involuntary smile. “I can’t wait to see her.”

“I thought you’d say that,” Eloise replied, satisfied.

Then, with a grin that slipped easily back into familiar mischief, she nudged Y/N forward.

“Come on then. Before my mother descends upon you like a hawk. I want at least one hour with you.”

Y/N laughed, the sound echoing down the entrance hall.

The familiar scent of beeswax polish and blooming wisteria followed them as they ascended the grand staircase. The sun poured through the tall windows, casting dappled light across the floors like a memory brought to life.

Eloise was talking a mile a minute.

“You’ll have the east guest room, just down from mine. Mama insisted. Said it had the best morning light, though I suspect she merely didn’t want Anthony putting you in one of the colder rooms like a diplomatic envoy.” She rolled her eyes. “The man has no imagination. I’ve half a mind to redecorate for you. Do you still detest rose wallpaper?”

Y/N laughed as they turned a corner. “Violently.”

“Good. Then you’re in luck. No roses in sight.”

They passed portraits Y/N had once named aloud in childish games with Daphne and Colin. Banisters she’d once slid down when Lady Bridgerton was out. Floorboards that creaked in precisely the same places, as if they remembered her footfall.

Something in her chest ached, but it was not painful.

“You know,” she said, glancing sideways at Eloise. “I thought I’d feel like a guest. Or a stranger. But I don’t.”

Eloise’s smile was small and sure. “That’s because you’re not.”

They reached the door, and Eloise flung it open dramatically. “Voilà.”

The room was airy, bathed in pale light with high windows draped in soft linen. The bed was grand, but not imposing. A fresh vase of hydrangeas sat by the hearth, and a tea tray waited, steaming gently on the side table. Her trunk had already been placed near the wardrobe.

Y/N stepped inside slowly, her fingers brushing the edge of the dressing table. Everything felt carefully considered.

“Your mother still knows my favourite flowers,” she murmured.

“She always did pay attention. Even if she pretended not to,” Eloise replied, flopping unceremoniously onto the settee. 

Y/N laughed, then curled her arms around herself for a moment, just breathing it all in.

“How have you truly been?” she asked gently. “Since the last ball? You didn’t say much then. Only that you were trying to avoid another suitor.”

Eloise groaned. “Lord Dunneley. His poems rhymed 'Eloise' with 'breeze' and 'cheese' in the same verse. I fled to the terrace before he could read the third stanza.”

Y/N’s shoulders shook with quiet laughter.

“But no more poetry lately,” Eloise went on. “Mama is far too consumed with you and Anthony.”

Y/N’s mirth faded a fraction, her fingers curling around the carved edge of the vanity.

“I suppose… it’s working, then.”

Eloise didn’t answer immediately. She sat forward instead, resting her chin on one hand. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

“I’m not pretending,” Y/N said, though her voice was quiet. “I care for him. He’s… A good man. And I think we could be happy. In a practical sense.”

“But you’ve always wanted more than practical,” Eloise said softly.

Y/N didn’t respond. Not because she disagreed, but because it hurt too much to admit that Eloise might still be right.

Instead, she turned to the window, and looked down at the gardens below. She could just make out the hedgerows where she, Daphne, and Eloise once declared themselves queens of the orchard.

—

Laughter echoed through the east corridor as Eloise and Y/N tiptoed down the servants’ stairwell — skirts bunched in their hands, hair slightly askew from the wind outside.

“You are too tall for sneaking,” Eloise hissed, glancing back with narrowed eyes. “You sound like a cavalry charge.”

“You’re the one who insisted we escape the parlour before our mothers began asking about wedding colours,” Y/N whispered back. “I was merely following orders.”

They darted through the back hallway, ducking into a linen closet with the giggling precision of girls half their age.

A few minutes later, the pair were discovered in the unused library on the north wing — a childhood haunt of theirs. Dusty, and no longer housing the secret stash of peppermint bark they'd hidden behind the third shelf as children.

“Is it tragic that I half-expected it to still be here?” Y/N said, brushing dust from the empty tin with a nostalgic sigh.

“It was eaten within a week of you leaving,” Eloise replied.

They collapsed onto the worn settee, the sun pouring in through the high, unwashed windows. For a while, they just lay there — breathless from laughing, legs tangled, like no time had passed at all.

From there, they found themselves in the gardens. Eloise dared Y/N to climb the ivy trellis outside the morning room as she once had at eight. Y/N made it two feet off the ground before declaring her petticoats a hazard to athleticism.

The kitchen maid caught them swiping honey biscuits from the larder and only smiled, shaking her head fondly before disappearing with a conspiratorial wink.

They were halfway through the west corridor when Colin found them.

“There you two are,” he called, striding toward them with a flourish. “I should’ve known you’d reverted to your menacing ways.”

Y/N grinned. “We were simply revisiting the highlights of our youth.”

Colin arched a brow. “Ah, yes. The childhood memories of broken china.”

“That was Fran,” Eloise said quickly.

“It was you,” Colin deadpanned. “I saw you do it.”

“Stop ruining things,” she huffed.

Colin turned to Y/N, smile softening. “I come bearing news.”

Y/N tilted her head. “Should I be bracing myself?”

He clasped a hand over his heart dramatically. “Daphne and Simone have arrived.”

Y/N’s eyes lit up. “Truly?”

Colin offered his arm. “Shall I escort you down, my lady?”

Eloise looped her arm through Y/N’s again before she could answer. “We’ll walk, thank you.”

Colin winced. “Fair enough.”

As the three of them made their way toward the grand staircase, Y/N felt the weight in her chest lighten further — a quiet, almost-forgotten joy blooming beneath her ribs.

—-

The drawing room was filled with pleasant conversation—the sound of porcelain on silver, of firelight crackling in the grate. But Y/N barely noticed any of it.

She heard the laugh first.

Daphne’s laugh—the one Y/N remembered from summers spent tumbling through the orchard, daring each other into mischief, breathless with joy.

Y/N didn’t even realise she was moving until she stood in the doorway.

Daphne turned, mid-sentence, and froze.

“Y/N?”

Y/N’s smile broke like sunlight. “You didn’t think you’d arrive without me here to greet you, did you?”

“Y/N!” Daphne’s voice pitched upward, breaking with emotion, and she hurled herself forward, skirts swishing, arms outstretched.

They met halfway with a soft gasp and a laugh that turned into a near sob, embracing fiercely.

“My God, I can’t believe it,” Daphne murmured. “Look at you. You’re here.”

“I’m here,” Y/N whispered back, holding her tight. “And you look magnificent.”

They pulled apart slightly to take each other in properly—tears brimming in their eyes, grins threatening to split their faces.

“I was beginning to think I dreamed you,” Daphne said, brushing Y/N’s cheek with one gloved hand. “Ten years is far too long.”

“Far, far too long.”

A low, amused voice cut through their laughter. “Am I to be without my wife all evening?”

Y/N turned slightly, the fabric of her gown brushing Daphne’s as she glanced over her shoulder.

“Your Grace,” Y/N said, her tone warm as she dipped into a curtsy—reflexive, but still laced with the familiarity of shared company. “It seems we’ve been caught.”

Simon Basset, the Duke of Hastings, smiled as he stepped forward, his eyes sharp with amusement. “I was beginning to think you were a figment, Lady Y/N Ashbourne. My wife has spoken of you so often I was half convinced she’d imagined you.”

“All flattering lies, I’m certain,” Y/N said, rising with a grin.

“I sincerely hope not,” Simon returned easily. “I’ve grown rather fond of the version of you I’ve heard about. I should hate to be disappointed.”

“Then I’ll do my best not to ruin the illusion,” she replied, tone light.

Daphne shook her head at them both. “He’s insufferable,” she said fondly.

“And you married me anyway,” Simon murmured, brushing his fingers briefly against her arm.

Y/N smiled at the gentle exchange. Her chest ached, just faintly, with the weight of everything unspoken.

Still, she straightened her shoulders and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Simon replied, then tipped his head with a conspiratorial glint in his eyes. “And now I’ll leave you to your plotting. But not for long.”

As he turned and strolled back toward the house, Daphne leaned in with a smirk. “He likes you.”

“That was tolerable,” Y/N admitted.

“High praise,” Daphne laughed.

Daphne laced her fingers through Y/N’s and gave a gentle tug toward the nearest settee. “Sit. Now. You must tell me everything. What you’ve been doing, what you’ve been thinking—” she gave her a pointed look, “—and don’t bother pretending no one has tried to court you. You’ve reappeared and half the ton must be absolutely mad with curiosity.”

Y/N laughed under her breath as she lowered herself to the cushions. “That’s a generous estimation.”

Daphne gave her a suspicious squint. “So? Who is it, then? Don’t tell me you’ve gone and fallen for some brooding Scottish viscount with a tragic past and a penchant for poetry.”

That startled a proper laugh from Y/N. “Good Lord, no.”

Daphne leaned forward eagerly. “Then who?”

Y/N hesitated—just long enough for the air between them to still. She glanced down at her hands, suddenly fascinated by the ring she wasn’t yet wearing. “Anthony,” she said at last, quietly.

Daphne blinked. Once. Then again. Not in shock, exactly—but recalibrating, as though she were trying to picture the two of them together for the first time.

“…Anthony,” she repeated.

Y/N gave a small nod, the warmth rising to her cheeks. “Yes.”

A beat of silence passed before Daphne leaned slowly back into the cushions, brows lifting. “Well. That is… not the answer I was expecting.”

“No one seems to expect it,” Y/N said, managing a wry smile. “Including us.”

Daphne tilted her head, eyes narrowing in amused thought. “And are you—?”

“We’re not engaged,” Y/N said quickly, cutting in before the question could land too hard. “Not yet.”

“Yet?” Daphne echoed, her smile returning. “That’s a rather telling word.”

Y/N exhaled, giving a helpless little shrug. “He would have preferred it otherwise.”

“What does that mean?” Daphne asked, eyes narrowing with delighted suspicion.

Y/N looked toward the window, the afternoon light casting soft patterns across the floor. “When we first spoke of it, he was… very direct. He suggested marriage almost immediately. Three days after we saw one another again, in fact.”

Daphne’s hand flew to her mouth to smother a laugh. “Anthony?”

“Yes. That Anthony.”

“And you?”

“I told him,” Y/N said carefully, “that if I were to marry him, it would not be as the result of a conversation held at Hyde Park and concluded in under ten minutes. I insisted on a courtship.”

“Oh, I wish I had seen his face.” she wiped at the corner of her eye, still smiling. “So you’re expecting…?”

Y/N nodded once. “I believe an engagement will come. This week or the next, most likely. He is not a man who lingers once he has decided upon a course.”

Daphne sobered then, just slightly, reaching for Y/N’s hand. “And how do you feel about that?”

Y/N paused.

“I feel,” she said slowly, “that it is sensible. That he will be a good husband. That our families will benefit. And that… life will be easier.”

Daphne didn’t interrupt. Just listened.

“And,” Y/N added quietly, “I am fond of him.”

Daphne gave a low whistle and leaned in again. “You’ve stunned me. And I’m not easily stunned.”

Y/N met her eyes then, something half-uncertain, half-steadfast flickering there. “You’re not horrified?”

“Of course not,” Daphne said gently. “Though I will say—the next time you plan on becoming my sister, I fully expect advance warning next time.”

That coaxed a real smile from Y/N—small, but unguarded. “Noted.”

tagged:

Y/N turned just in time to see Colin Bridgerton striding toward her with all the effortless charm of a man who’d never once tripped over his own feet, even though she knew full well he had.

“Colin,” she greeted, a smile blooming across her face without a second thought. 

And for a moment, she was eight years old again — the sun had been everywhere that day. It spilled across the grass like melted gold, warmed the tops of their heads, kissed the tips of the lavender bushes that swayed along the orchard wall.

“Faster, Colin!” Y/N shrieked, legs pumping as she tore across the open lawn.

“I am going fast!” Colin shouted back, his curls bouncing as he tried—and failed—to keep up with her.

“Come on, you two!” Daphne called from ahead, already halfway up the hill, crown of daisies slipping sideways on her head. “If you don’t hurry, I’m eating the lemon biscuits without you!”

“I’ll trip her,” Colin panted beside Y/N. “Then we’ll split the spoils.”

“You’ll never catch her,” Y/N said breathlessly, grinning. “She’s already halfway to the folly.”

“She cheated,” he muttered. “She always cheats.”

But he was smiling too, cheeks flushed, eyes lit with mischief. They tumbled through the grass together, the scent of crushed clover rising with every step.

By the time they reached Daphne, all three of them were covered in grass stains and dirt. Colin collapsed dramatically onto his back, flinging one arm over his eyes like a swooning heroine.

“I have perished,” he declared. “Tell my mother I died a noble death.”

“She’ll never believe you were noble,” Y/N said, nudging him in the ribs with her toe.

They lay there, laughing, the sun beating gently down on their faces. Above them, clouds drifted like ships across the endless blue.

She shook her head, and she was back in the glittering ballroom, with a Colin she barely recognised infront of her. 

He bowed, sweeping her into a gentlemanly salute with an exaggerated flourish that nearly brushed the hem of her gown.

“Lady Ashbourne,” he declared, “may I claim the honour of this next dance, before one of these other dreadful gentlemen realises you are unoccupied and attempts to impress you by discussing the weather?”

Y/N laughed, the sound escaping before she could stop it. “Are you implying you are not a dreadful gentleman?”

“I would never imply such a thing,” Colin said solemnly, straightening with mock dignity. “I am stating it plainly. I am the least dreadful option available to you this evening.”

“An impressive argument.”

“Thank you. I’ve been practising.”

She placed her hand in his, and he guided her toward the dance floor just as the orchestra struck the opening notes of a waltz. They stepped into the first turn with surprising ease, the crowd melting into a blur of silk and candlelight around them.

“You’re not a bad dancer anymore,” she noted, unable to keep the teasing from her voice.

“I was never a bad dancer,” he protested, scandalised. “Merely… enthusiastic. There is a distinct difference.”

“I recall a quadrille in Aubrey Hall where you stepped on my toes four times.”

“I was twelve,” he replied. “And you were standing in the wrong place.”

She laughed again, breathless now as they spun. “I missed you, Colin.”

For a fleeting moment, his expression softened, the mischief giving way to something warm and genuine.

“And I you,” he said quietly.

But only for a heartbeat. Then the grin returned.

“I heard the most outrageous rumour the other day,” he whispered, leaning in with conspiratorial delight. “Apparently, you’re courting my brother.”

She lifted a brow. “Am I?”

“That’s what Whistledown insists,” he said. “And she is never wrong. Terrifying woman, really. I live in fear of my name appearing beside the word ‘scandal’.”

“I’m surprised she didn’t call me a fortune-hunter.”

“Oh, I’m sure she considered it,” Colin said brightly. “But then she remembered who Anthony is and decided you were the one in peril.”

That drew a startled laugh from her. “He isn’t that bad.”

Colin gave her a look of deep, sibling-earned knowing. “He can be. But he isn’t cruel. Just…” he searched for the right word, “…constructed. Like a very handsome brick wall.”

Y/N shook her head, still smiling. “You’re fond of him.”

“Of course I am. Someone has to be.”

They turned again with the music, and Colin lowered his voice once more, eyes gleaming.

“Though I should warn you, he’s been speaking of Aubrey Hall.”

She faltered only slightly, but Colin felt it.

“He wants you there early,” he continued lightly. “A full week before the rest of the ton descend. Something about ‘remembering how much you loved it there’. Very suspicious behaviour. Extremely.”

Y/N glanced at him. “And what exactly are you suggesting?”

“Oh, nothing,” Colin said innocently. “Except that my brother has never invited a lady to Aubrey Hall early in his life. Not once.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

Colin grinned. “If he proposes in the orchard, I expect front-row seating.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he said, guiding her through the final turn of the dance with a flourish, “you’re still dancing with me.”

The music ended. He bowed deeply, lifting her hand to his lips.

“A pleasure, Lady Ashbourne. Do keep my brother from turning into a complete tyrant. It’s a public service.”

She shook her head, still laughing as he released her hand and disappeared into the crowd like a fox satisfied with the henhouse raid.

One moment, Y/N was laughing into her sleeve, still buoyant from her waltz with Colin — and the next, there he was. 

As though conjured by the very thought of him, Anthony Bridgerton appeared at her side.

She didn’t miss the look he cast in the direction Colin had vanished — half irritation, half suspicion. It lingered just a moment too long.

“What was that?” he asked, clipped and low.

Y/N blinked up at him, still flushed from dancing, still light on her feet in a way she hadn’t felt in years. She smiled — wide and unbothered

“Just catching up with an old friend,” she said airily, brushing a wisp of hair from her cheek as she turned toward the refreshment table.

Anthony followed, of course.

“I understand that,” he said slowly, as she reached for a glass of lemonade. “But what, precisely, did he say to have you giggling like that?”

She paused, glass halfway to her lips.

There it was — unmistakable.

Jealousy.

Just a flicker, a tightness in the mouth, a sharpness in the tone. Enough to make her heart flutter in the strangest, most inconvenient way.

She lowered the glass and tilted her head at him, smirking.

“Oh, you know.” She gestured vaguely to the ballroom, the crowd, the music still swelling in the air. “Ten years of catching up. There’s a lot to cover.”

Anthony said nothing at first, but his eyes narrowed — just slightly.

Y/N took a sip of lemonade, pretending not to enjoy how deeply it unsettled him.

“Did he mention Aubrey Hall?” Anthony asked, voice too casual to be convincing.

Y/N blinked at him over the rim of her glass. “Should he have?”

He looked at her then — properly. Searching her face as though she were a puzzle that had shifted its edges while he wasn’t looking.

“You’re in a particularly elusive mood tonight,” he said finally.

“Am I?” she said sweetly. “Or are you simply unused to being on the back foot?”

His brow arched. “You think I’m on the back foot?”

“I think,” she said slowly, letting her gaze drop pointedly to his tightly clenched jaw, “that Colin said something you wanted to say yourself, and now you’re cross that I heard it from someone else.”

Anthony bristled.

Y/N grinned again, victorious.

“He does like to talk,” she added, turning toward the ballroom once more.

Anthony stepped closer, his voice quieter now. “Then you already know.”

“About your invitation?” she asked innocently.

He gave a terse nod.

“That you’d like me at Aubrey Hall early,” she continued. “Before the house party.” She paused. “To reconnect with the family.”

He crossed his arms. “It seemed appropriate.”

Y/N looked up at him. Her tone was light, but something real flickered beneath it. “And Daphne?”

That softened him. “Yes. She’ll be there.”

Something bloomed in her chest. She hadn’t realised how much she missed Daphne — not really — until now.

Anthony studied her face. “So? Will you come?”

Y/N turned the lemonade glass slowly between her hands. She could still feel Colin’s hand on hers, still hear his teasing voice. 

Anthony. Watching her like she might vanish if he blinked too long.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I’ll come.”

Anthony’s shoulders relaxed, not visibly, but she felt the shift. The faintest breath of tension easing.

The carriage bumped softly over the cobblestones, lantern light flickering against the velvet-lined walls.

Lady Ashbourne had been positively glowing since they’d stepped down from the steps of the ball. Her hands were clasped tight in her lap, her face flushed not with exertion but with glee, and her eyes—her eyes were dancing.

“Aubrey Hall,” she breathed for the sixth time in as many minutes. “Y/N, do you understand what that means? A private invitation—ahead of the rest of the ton. Violet said it as though it were the most casual thing in the world, but I nearly fainted.”

Y/N gave a noncommittal hum, her gaze fixed on the window. London rolled past in oil-lamp silhouettes. She could still feel the echo of the waltz in her bones—Colin’s laughter, Anthony’s dark gaze catching hers from across the room.

“He intends to propose,” her mother continued, oblivious. “There is no other explanation. Men do not extend private invitations to women they are not ready to claim. Oh, I must speak to Violet again about the guest list. I wonder if she would let us incorporate a touch of Ashbourne green into the floral arrangements…”

Y/N turned from the window, one brow raised. “You’re planning the wedding already?”

Lady Ashbourne blinked, as though that was not the entire point of this conversation. “I am preparing. There is a difference. And given the swiftness with which this has progressed, I would be negligent not to.”

Y/N leaned back into the cushions, folding her hands in her lap. Her gloves were warm.

“I suppose you think he’s already in love with me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” her mother said, waving a hand. “He’s not in love with you. Yet. But men fall quickly when it suits them, and if he hasn’t already, he will. The signs are all there.”

Y/N tilted her head, her voice dry. “Yes. Nothing says devotion like a strategic alliance.”

That earned a frown. “Y/N—”

“He’s the Viscount. He needs a wife. I’m of a suitable age, well-bred, relatively scandal-free apart from the incident we are not mentioning, and my presence beside him does his reputation more good than harm.” She ticked off each point on her gloved fingers. “It is convenient. For both of us. That is all.”

Her mother’s expression softened into something sympathetic—annoyingly so. “You say that as though it’s a bad thing.”

“It isn’t,” Y/N said, evenly. “Convenience is reliable. Love is not.”

Lady Ashbourne studied her daughter carefully, lips pursed. “You always were too practical for your own good.”

“And yet here we are,” Y/N replied, tilting her head, “in a carriage provided by a man who, five years ago, did not know I existed outside of childhood summers and polite greetings.”

Her mother sniffed. “Well, he knows now. And if you ask me, I think he likes what he sees.”

Y/N didn’t respond. Not right away. Her fingers brushed absently along the trim of the window as she watched a group of revelers disappear into the fog.

Did Anthony like what he saw?

Perhaps. But liking was not love. And fondness was not forever.

She was fond of him. That was true. He was intelligent, observant, controlled in a way that made her feel oddly safe, and at times—rare, flickering moments—he was even a little bit funny. She could picture a future with him, yes. One with schedules and gardens and children who would be raised properly. A marriage built on shared purpose and mutual advantage.

But she could not imagine him kissing her forehead before bed. Or reading poetry aloud. Or smiling at her like she was something more than an arrangement made flesh.

And that was fine. That was what she had agreed to.

“He will make a good husband,” Y/N said quietly, more to herself than to her mother. “A capable one. He’ll provide for his family, uphold his duty. That’s more than most women get.”

Her mother shifted slightly, the rustle of her skirts cutting through the quiet. “But is it what you want?”

Y/N glanced at her.

And gave the only honest answer she had:

“It’s what I need.”

There was a long silence after that. The city gave way to quieter streets. Trees blurred past in the dark.

At last, Lady Ashbourne reached across the carriage and gently took her daughter’s hand.

“Needs have a way of surprising us, you know. Becoming wants. Becoming… something more.”

Y/N didn’t reply.

tagged:

The morning sun spilled through the windows in the Bridgerton breakfast room, warming the white linen tablecloth and silver plates laden with toast, jam, and softly boiled eggs. 

Violet sat at the head of the table, buttering a scone. Gregory and Hyacinth bickered softly over who had taken the last strawberry tart. Benedict sipped his tea and looked faintly bored. And Eloise—of course—was brandishing the morning paper.

“‘Could it be that this union has taken a more tender turn?’” she read aloud in a scandalised tone, eyes wide with mock horror. “‘Or has the ever-practical Viscount simply discovered that affection is, in fact, most fashionable this Season?’ Oh, dearest Anthony, you trendsetter!”

Anthony, who had just entered the room and was pouring himself a cup of coffee, paused mid-pour.

“Must you?” he asked flatly, not even looking up.

Eloise ignored him entirely. “‘Wherever the ton may gather—be it a musicale, a ball, or a promenade in Hyde Park—Anthony Bridgerton will be at Lady Y/N Ashbourne’s side.’ Honestly, Anthony, this is positively romantic. You sound like a character in one of those dreadful novels Hyacinth hides under her mattress.”

“I do not!” Hyacinth protested.

Anthony took a slow sip of his coffee and lowered himself stiffly into his chair. “It is exaggeration. A fabrication. Whistledown thrives on embellishment.”

“Oh, but not all of it is fiction,” Eloise said, positively purring now. “You have been rather inseparable this week, haven’t you? And don’t pretend it was for her benefit, she managed well enough without your brooding presence for years.”

“Eloise,” Violet said gently, though her eyes twinkled behind her teacup. “Do let your brother eat.”

“Eat? How can he possibly eat when he is so smitten?” Eloise flipped to the next column. “‘He escorts her through every dance, every corridor, every tedious round of afternoon calls with the air of a man… content? Amused? Smitten?’ What a choice of words! ‘Amused’ might be closest.”

Anthony set down his coffee with a clink. “Enough.”

But Eloise was just getting started. “Tell me brother, when did your cold, dead heart begin to thaw? Was it during a promenade?”

Anthony fixed her with a withering stare. “If I were in possession of a ‘cold, dead heart,’ you would be responsible for it.”

“Oh, do stop,” Violet interrupted, her tone light but meaningful. “Lady Whistledown always speculates beyond the bounds of sense. Though…” She smiled gently at her eldest son. “She does seem to believe you have taken quite a liking to Lady Y/N.”

Anthony took a long, fortifying breath. “There is no ‘liking’ involved. It is not a romantic pursuit. It is… mutually beneficial.”

“Mutually beneficial,” Benedict repeated, deadpan. “That’s exactly what every woman dreams of hearing when she enters a courtship.”

“She knows the arrangement,” Anthony snapped. “Her reputation has suffered. Her family needed stability. I am providing it. In return, I gain a Viscountess capable of navigating society with competence and poise. That is all.”

“And the dreamy looks?” Eloise asked sweetly.

“There are no dreamy looks.”

“Oh, forgive me. Smouldering glances. My mistake.”

Anthony looked like he was seriously considering launching a butter knife across the table.

Violet chuckled quietly. “I do believe the lady is bringing out something… softer in you, Anthony. And I, for one, am delighted to see it.”

“There is no softness,” Anthony said firmly. “Only civility. I am simply fulfilling the expectations of a proper courtship.”

Eloise leaned forward on her elbows, a mischievous grin spreading. “And yet—when she laughed at Lady Danbury’s joke at the musicale, you looked at her like she’d rewritten the stars.”

There was a beat of silence.

Anthony’s jaw ticked.

“I was watching the stage.”

“You were watching her.”

“I was not—”

“Oh, let him be, Eloise,” Violet said, utterly amused now. “Even the Viscount is allowed a few… surprises.”

Anthony stood abruptly, straightening his coat. “I’ve had quite enough breakfast.”

“But you haven’t eaten anything,” Hyacinth pointed out.

“Exactly.”

He strode from the room with his dignity barely intact.

Sunlight pooled across the carpet, warming the tea tray that sat between the two women. The morning breeze stirred the lace curtains, carrying the scent of roses from the garden and the faint echo of carriage wheels along the square.

Lady Ashbourne was in rare form.

“I simply knew it,” she said, setting aside the Whistledown paper with all the reverence of holy scripture. “The moment I saw you together at the Smyth-Smith musicale, I said to myself, ‘That girl is positively glowing.’ And now look! The entire ton is finally seeing what I’ve always known—you and Anthony Bridgerton are perfectly matched!”

Y/N blinked down at her untouched tea. “I wouldn’t call us perfectly matched,” she said quietly.

Her mother waved the remark away with a flutter of her fan. “Don’t be modest, dearest. You were born to stand beside a man like him. Vicountess Y/n Bridgerton, it even sounds right. Violet must be beside herself with joy. We were all so close, once. And Anthony—well, he’s grown into such a fine man. So steady. So reliable. You could not ask for a better husband.”

“Mother—”

“And handsome!”

Y/N’s sigh came out as a quiet, strangled laugh. “Yes, that too.”

Lady Ashbourne smiled dreamily, utterly unbothered by her daughter’s restraint. “You’ll make such a striking pair. Oh, how I wish your father were here to see it. He always admired the Bridgertons, you know. Said they were one of the few families left with proper sense of honour. Theodore adored them too.”

At the mention of her brother’s name, something in Y/N’s composure faltered. The porcelain cup trembled faintly in her hand before she set it back onto its saucer.

Her mother didn’t seem to notice. “Speaking of Theodore—he does know about the courtship, doesn’t he? You’ve written?”

Y/N stilled.

The question hung in the air, fragile as glass.

Lady Ashbourne looked up from buttering her scone. “Y/N?”

“No,” Y/N said at last. “I haven’t told him yet.”

Her mother blinked. “Not told him? But why ever not? He’ll be delighted! The Bridgertons were his closest friends growing up. He and Anthony—well, they were inseparable.”

“Yes,” Y/N said faintly. “They were.”

She rose then, moving to the window under the pretense of admiring the garden. The movement bought her a moment—a thin barrier between herself and the inevitable conversation.

“I just haven’t found the right words,” she said.

Her mother frowned gently. “My darling, what words could he possibly need? This is wonderful news! After everything that’s happened, it’s time for something good. Theodore will be thrilled to see you happy again.”

Y/N’s gaze lingered on the sunlight pooling over the roses below. Her voice, when it came, was quiet. “Vienna wasn’t so long ago, Mother.”

“No,” Lady Ashbourne said softly, setting her cup aside. “But it’s behind us now.”

“Is it?” Y/N asked, not turning. “He nearly died there.”

Lady Ashbourne hesitated. “He acted rashly.”

“He acted because of me.”

The silence that followed was almost unbearable. Even the soft rustle of the curtains seemed too loud.

Her mother rose then, crossing to her with slow, measured steps. “You can’t keep punishing yourself for what happened,” she said gently. “Theo made his choices, and you can’t undo them. But this—this match—could be our chance to put all of that behind us. A fresh start.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. She wanted to believe her. She wanted to believe that one man’s duel and another’s proposal could simply be… forgotten. That Vienna had been a passing storm, not a scar carved deep into all their lives.

But Theodore’s face—the last time she’d seen him, pale and furious, his arm in a sling—rose unbidden in her mind. His voice, hoarse with pain, still echoed: He wasn’t worthy of you, and you were too blind to see it.

She forced a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Perhaps you’re right.”

“Of course I am,” her mother said brightly, squeezing her hand. “And once Theodore hears of this, he’ll be overjoyed. He may even return home to attend the wedding.”

Y/N’s smile faltered. “Yes,” she said softly. “Perhaps.”

Lady Ashbourne looked radiant with hope. “I’ll have Cook send for more lavender cakes. Anthony always loved those. And perhaps we should send word to Violet—we must start thinking about flowers—oh, it will be divine!”

As her mother bustled out of the room, humming to herself, Y/N stood alone by the window, staring out at the garden.

The sunlight was too bright.

And all she could think was how Vienna still lived between them—unspoken and waiting.

Later in the day The quiet had returned.

The doors had long since clicked shut behind her mother, but Y/N hadn’t moved. She remained by the window, her fingertips resting lightly against the sill, though her gaze had long since drifted beyond the garden view. She wasn’t truly seeing the trimmed hedges or the climbing roses. She was watching ghosts.

She had grown up in this house. Played hide-and-seek in its corridors. Danced barefoot on these same rugs. Once, she and Daphne had raced from the parlour to the foyer, trailing ribbons and shrieks, their governesses at their heels. The older Bridgertons had visited often in those days. Before everything became complicated.

Eloise had once declared war on her with a wooden spoon and a colander for a helmet. Theodore had tried to act above it all but even he had been pulled into their chaos more often than not. Anthony, especially, had a way of dragging him into mischief. Y/N used to trail behind them like a shadow. Always listening. Always watching.

That was before death began stealing things from them.

Before Lord Bridgerton collapsed on a summer day, and Anthony was thrust into the role of Viscount while still barely a man.

Before her own father slipped through their fingers one grey December morning, and the quiet of Ashbourne House turned cold.

That had been the beginning of the unraveling. Of Theodore’s temper. His recklessness. His need to fill the room their father left behind.

And her? She had folded herself into the spaces between, like lace between seams. Smiling for guests. Hosting teas. Keeping the estate books when no one else thought to.

She became the steady one. The one who soothed. The one who smiled. 

A breeze stirred through the room, catching the edge of the Whistledown paper left behind on the tea table. The edges fluttered like the hem of a gown in flight.

Lady Y/N Ashbourne and Viscount Bridgerton... every social event... a budding affection...

She turned away from the window, crossing to the settee but not sitting. Her fingers smoothed the fabric of her skirts instead—over and over, a nervous habit long ingrained.

She wanted to write to Theodore.

She had meant to. Every day since Anthony had made his intentions known.

But how could she?

How could she explain that the wounds left behind in Vienna—gaping and still sore—had never properly healed?

The duel had not been just about honour. Not really.

There had been pride involved, yes. And fury. And fear. But also something far messier. Something closer to grief.

And the worst part—the part Y/N never said aloud—was that she had understood it. Understood him.

Theodore had always loved her fiercely. Protectively. Possessively, even. And when that loyalty curdled into rage, it was like watching a house go up in flames: beautiful, terrifying, and beyond reason.

She closed her eyes. Took a breath.

What would he say if he knew about Anthony?

Would he see it as betrayal? Or worse—as proof that she could not be trusted to choose wisely on her own?

Y/N sat at last, folding her hands in her lap.

She liked Anthony—more than she expected to. Not for his title or his reputation, but for his honesty. His steadiness. The strange comfort of being with someone who didn’t need her to perform. 

But liking someone and trusting yourself were different things.

And telling Theodore…

She wasn’t ready. Not yet.

Across the room, her mother’s sunny yellow embroidery floss sat looped over the arm of her chair, forgotten in her excitement. A half-finished daffodil peeked out from the linen hoop.

Y/N stared at it for a long moment.

Then she rose.

Not to write the letter. Not yet.

But to find the strength to eventually do so.

Y/N sat at her writing desk, a single candle guttering beside her. The light wavered across the page, catching the gold of the inkstand, the pale blue of her nightdress, the trembling tips of her fingers.

She had been sitting there for over an hour. The parchment before her was still blank.

A dozen false starts littered the floor—crumpled half-pages that began with My dearest brother and Theo, I hope this finds you well, each one abandoned before the second line.

What could she say to him?

How did one write to the person who had nearly died for them?

How did one explain that, after all the pain and ruin, she had found herself standing beside another man—the man Theodore had once called his closest friend?

She dipped her pen at last, the scratch of metal against glass sounding far too loud in the stillness.

Then, slowly, she began to write.

My dearest Theodore,

It has been far too long since I have written, though I suspect you will not find that surprising.

There are some silences, I think, that are not born of neglect but of fear—fear of saying the wrong thing, of reopening wounds that never truly healed.

You have always accused me of being too careful with my words. Perhaps that is true.

But you and I both know what words can do when loosed too quickly.

London feels different this Season. Smaller somehow, though the crowds have not changed. The faces are the same, the gossip just as loud, the smiles just as sharp. And yet, I feel… set apart from it all, as though I am moving through a place I once knew in another life.

It is strange to think how much can change in a single year, and how much can not.

You will have heard whispers by now. I imagine Whistledown has ensured as much.I would rather you heard it from me.

Anthony Bridgerton and I are in a courtship.

Even now, writing the words feels foreign to me—as though they belong to someone else.

It is not what you think, Theodore. It was not born of romance or sudden affection, nor of ambition or design. It is… something simpler, though not easier.

A matter of survival.

You know better than anyone how precarious things have become since Father’s passing—how every invitation, every glance, every whispered name feels like a judgment waiting to fall.

Mother tries to pretend it is not so, but we both know she feels it too. The house has grown quieter, the staff smaller. The ledgers more unforgiving.

Anthony is—  

(Here, she paused, staring at the half-formed sentence before continuing.)

Anthony is not what he was when we were children. There is something harder in him now. But I understand that hardness. We are both people who have had to become something we never meant to be.

Please don’t think poorly of him. Or of me.

This is not a betrayal, Theo. It’s a choice. One I made because I must.

I am not the girl who followed you through the orchards at Aubrey Hall, nor the one who stood on the terrace that night in Vienna, thinking she knew what was best.

I am tired, Theo. Tired of trying to hold together the pieces of everything we lost.

You once told me I was the sensible one. That I never let myself fall.

Perhaps this is proof that you were wrong.

I hope you will understand one day.

Or at least, forgive me if you cannot.

Your sister, Y/N

She sat back, staring at the ink drying on the page.

Her hand ached from the grip of the pen, her eyes burned from holding back tears.

It wasn’t enough. It was too much. It was all she could bear to say.

She folded the letter with careful precision, sealing it with wax before she could change her mind.

Then, she set it aside on the edge of her desk, where the morning post would find it.

Only then did she allow herself to breathe.

The candle flickered low, its flame shrinking to a soft gold ember.

For the first time in months, Y/N let her head fall into her hands and wept until the candle went out.

tagged:

The morning passed in the slow, syrupy way it often did when waiting for something—or rather, someone—to arrive. Y/N sat on the edge of the settee with her back straight and her hands folded primly in her lap, doing her best to maintain the posture her mother was so fond of remarking upon.

Across from her, Lady Ashbourne perched in her favourite high-backed chair, bright-eyed and far too energetic for a woman who had been up since dawn fussing with ribbon samples for a hypothetical engagement gown.

“Oh, I always knew it would be a Bridgerton,” she said for what must have been the fourth time that morning, her fan fluttering idly in one hand as she peered out the window. “Your father never said it outright, of course, but he always had a fondness for that family. So proper. So respectable. It was only a matter of time.”

Y/N lifted her teacup and took a polite sip to hide the sigh that threatened.

“And you were so darling with them when you were younger,” Lady Ashbourne went on, undeterred. “Do you remember that summer you followed Colin about like a duckling? I’d find you both in the garden covered in mud and cherry stains, and you’d swear you were simply looking for snails.”

“That was Eloise, actually,” Y/N murmured.

Her mother waved a hand. “Yes, well, you were all inseparable, weren’t you? The four of you running about like some kind of half-civilised menagerie. I remember Lady Bridgerton once saying she thought of you as another daughter. That’s always a good sign, you know.”

Y/N raised a brow. “I was eight.”

“Yes, and now you’re not! Time flies, doesn’t it? And Anthony—my, he’s grown into quite the figure of a man. All that brooding intensity—it’s very fashionable just now.”

Y/N looked to the window, her tone drier than the toast she hadn’t finished at breakfast. “I don’t think fashion has anything to do with it.”

Lady Ashbourne ignored the jab, her expression dreamy. “I admit, I always thought Colin would come round to it—he was closer to your age, after all. But Anthony! Oh, Anthony is far more established. A Viscount! I imagine the invitations will already be flooding the mail.”

“There is no engagement, Mama,” Y/N said, schooling her voice to a calm she didn’t feel. “We’ve simply agreed to a courtship.”

Her mother tsked. “Yes, and ducks simply agree to fly south for the winter. It’s the same thing, really.”

“It’s not romantic,” Y/N insisted. “It’s… practical. He’s helping us.”

Lady Ashbourne sniffed. “That’s what gentlemen do, dear. Help the women they intend to marry. It’s practically a proposal already.”

Y/N closed her eyes for a moment, counting silently to five.

“And honestly, it was always going to be someone like him,” her mother continued. “You’ve always been the sensible one. Far more interested in managing accounts and staff rosters than needlepoint. And now—well! Look at you. Composed. Mature. A proper lady of the house. What Viscount wouldn’t want that?”

Y/N opened her mouth, unsure of whether she was about to agree, protest, or simply make a strangled noise—but she was spared the trouble.

The butler cleared his throat from the doorway.

“Viscount Bridgerton, my lady.”

Lady Ashbourne leapt up as though she’d been called to court. “Viscount!” she cried, radiant with delight. “How lovely of you to call.”

Anthony stepped into the drawing room, immaculately dressed and stiff with formality. His dark coat was crisp, his cravat pristine, his jaw far too tight for this early in the day. He bowed with practiced ease.

“Lady Ashbourne. Lady Y/N.”

Y/N rose more slowly, forcing a composed smile as their eyes met. There was something unreadable in his gaze—calculating, perhaps. Or simply cautious. Either way, it unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

“Oh, how marvellous,” her mother gushed. “And so punctual! I do love a man who honours his appointments. Y/N, darling, won’t you offer some tea?”

Y/N gave a small, dry smile. “I imagine that’s why he’s here.”

Lady Ashbourne beamed, practically vibrating with anticipation. “Well,” she declared, patting her daughter’s shoulder with excessive fondness, “I shall just… leave you to it, shall I?”

Anthony inclined his head politely. “Of course.”

“Oh! Anthony—do say hello to your mother for me, won’t you? I must speak to her about flower arrangements.” She twitched her fan open and closed once before gliding to the threshold.

Then, naturally, she stopped and turned back. “Do not think I shall be far,” she added with a syrupy smile. “But propriety must be preserved, after all.”

Despite her declaration, the Dowager Countess Ashbourne did not leave. She simply chose a cushion by the tall window and retrieved her embroidery with such exaggerated disinterest it was a wonder the needle didn’t pierce her thumb. She might as well have held a sign reading: Don’t mind me, I’m just here to chaperone.

Anthony’s brow arched as he moved toward the fireplace. “That was… subtle.”

Y/N let out a sigh, struggling to repress her amusement. “That was subtle,” she murmured, rising and gliding toward the tea service. “You should’ve seen her when I turned seventeen. I wasn’t allowed to sneeze in the presence of a titled gentleman without her practically planning the honeymoon.”

Anthony’s mouth twitched. “Terrifying.”

“Quite.”

She reached for the silver teapot, and the soft clink of porcelain and murmur of pouring water filled the momentary silence. It was strange, how the air between them seemed both familiar and foreign. They had known each other once—but years had passed, enough for that knowledge to shift and blur.

“Would you care for tea, my lord?” she asked, carefully lifting the cup and saucer.

He nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

Their fingers brushed as she passed it to him—an innocent contact, gone in a blink, yet it sent a faint jolt up her arm. Anthony’s hand recoiled too quickly, and something passed behind his eyes—something surprised.

She cleared her throat. “It’s warmer than yesterday,” she offered, by way of conversation.

Anthony blinked, the corner of his mouth twitching. “It is.”

The silence returned, not frigid, but… expectant. It loomed between them like an unwelcome chaperone of its own.

Y/N attempted a smile into her cup. “We’re off to a rousing start.”

He exhaled a soft breath, almost a laugh. “Forgive me. I’m not… especially skilled at idle conversation.”

She arched a brow. “Truly? I assumed you were an expert, given how often you’re discussed at every ball.”

“That is precisely the issue,” he said dryly. “I’m spoken about, not spoken to.”

That earned a small laugh from her, surprised and sincere. She set her cup down, her hands smoothing over her skirts. “You and I might get along better than society expects, then. I’ve never been fond of small talk, either. My mother has tried to cure me of it for years.”

That coaxed a proper laugh from her.

Something in the atmosphere shifted, like the loosening of stays at the end of a long evening. The stiffness between them melted just slightly, replaced by something easier. Still uncertain, but softer around the edges.

Anthony cleared his throat and glanced away, setting down his cup. “We should… perhaps take a turn in the garden. If your mother is willing to accompany us.”

“She will be.” Y/N stood, smoothing her skirts. “She’s waited ten years for this.”

Anthony offered his arm. “Shall we give her a proper show, then?”

Her gloved fingers slid through the crook of his elbow, warm even through the silk.

“Yes,” she said quietly, almost to herself. “Let’s.”

The garden at Ashbourne House had been freshly tended, the hedges trimmed to neat precision and the gravel path raked smooth. It was the sort of display that gave the distinct impression of not trying too hard, while clearly trying very hard indeed.

Lady Ashbourne trailed several paces behind her daughter and Lord Bridgerton, her parasol held at a jaunty angle as she made a great show of admiring the lilies.

“Oh, look at those foxgloves,” she exclaimed to no one in particular, loudly enough that they were sure to hear. “Quite dangerous if not handled properly, of course. But so striking. Don’t mind me! Just enjoying the blooms!”

Y/N cast Anthony a dry glance. “She’s not even attempting subtlety anymore.”

“She was attempting it before?” he returned, brow arched.

Y/N bit back a laugh, the corner of her mouth twitching. “In her mind, yes.”

They walked on, the warm sun filtering through the trellises above. The garden was quiet except for the chirp of birds and the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. The quiet between them felt less strained now. Like a rhythm slowly returning.

“I imagine Aubrey Hall must have spectacular gardens now,” she said after a moment, watching a bee dart between blossoms. “I remember them being almost… untamed when we were children. In a way that felt magical.”

Anthony looked at her, surprised by the memory. “They’ve been tamed a bit since then. Though the west grove remains rather wild, my mother insists it encourages the butterflies.”

“She’s always had an affection for those,” Y/N said softly, with a smile. “I remember the fountain near the orchard, Colin fell in trying to impress me one summer.”

Anthony let out a surprised huff of laughter. “He was pretending to be a knight, if I recall. Swore he saw a dragon behind the boxwood hedge.”

Y/N nodded. “Daphne hit him with a stick and declared herself Queen of the Orchard. I still have the scar from when Eloise pushed me into the briars for trying to steal her crown.”

Anthony chuckled, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You did steal it.”

“I was seven!” she laughed. “And she wouldn’t share.”

“She still doesn’t,” he murmured fondly.

There was a brief pause, heavy with shared memory. Y/N slowed slightly, brushing her hand against the hedge as they walked.

“It feels strange, doesn’t it? To look back and realise how long ago it all was. We were all so young, and everything seemed… simpler.”

“I don’t know that it ever was simple,” Anthony said, quieter now. “We just didn’t know any better.”

That earned a small nod from her. “Ignorance as bliss, I suppose.”

They reached a stone bench tucked beneath a flowering arbor. Anthony glanced toward it, then to Lady Ashbourne, who was now studying a rosebush with such forced concentration, y/n was worried she would have an apoplexy.

“She won’t mind if we sit,” Y/N said dryly, gesturing to the stone bench tucked beneath the flowering archway.

Anthony inclined his head in agreement, and they lowered themselves onto the bench—careful, of course, not to let their shoulders brush. The space between them was small, but it might as well have been miles for all the tension it held.

A breeze stirred through the garden, lifting the scent of lavender and early honeysuckle into the air. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Anthony cleared his throat. “I never asked—how has it been, returning to town?”

Y/N kept her gaze ahead, watching the sunlight shift through the vines. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s London that’s changed… or simply me.”

He glanced over, a flicker of something thoughtful passing across his face. “That tends to happen.”

She nodded once, slowly. “Everything’s in the same place. The streets, the buildings, the people—even the gossip. And yet it all feels a shade unfamiliar.”

Anthony followed her gaze, silent for a beat. “Like slipping on a coat that no longer fits.”

She looked over at him, surprised. “Exactly.”

Another pause stretched between them—not heavy, but cautious. Not quite discomfort. Not yet ease.

Behind them, Lady Ashbourne wandered along the path with all the subtlety of a dramatist in her final act. She paused far too long before a rose bush, holding her parasol aloft as though in rapt contemplation, though her head tipped ever so slightly in their direction.

Y/N suppressed a smile. “She’ll be beside herself if we return in silence.”

Anthony’s eyes flicked toward the bobbing parasol. “Then perhaps we ought to give her something to misinterpret.”

“She’ll embellish it regardless,” Y/N murmured, folding her hands in her lap.

He gave a short breath of amusement. “She always did have a talent for invention.”

The breeze stirred again, brushing a stray curl from Y/N’s brow. She didn’t move to fix it.

Just then, Lady Ashbourne’s voice floated toward them—too bright, too carefully timed. “Anthony! I must ask your opinion on the new marble urns near the terrace. I do worry they’re a touch too modern. Your mother, of course, would know...”

Anthony sighed, a note of resignation in it. “Subtle as ever.”

Y/N rose first, brushing a petal from her sleeve with slow precision. “We’re being summoned.”

He stood beside her, offering his arm. “I suppose we’ve fulfilled our duties for the afternoon.”

Her fingers settled into the crook of his elbow, warm even through the gloves. “Not quite yet.”

Their eyes met—just briefly—but it lingered longer than it should have. 

They walked in silence, steps matched as they made their way toward the terrace, the path lined with blooms and shadows.

“I think I’m growing used to it,” Anthony murmured, more to himself than her.

She looked ahead, lips barely curving. “You may have to.”

She glanced around the arrivals hall, trying not to look as out of place as she felt. People hurried past with briefcases and luggage carts; families embraced, and cab drivers shouted names. Everyone seemed to know exactly where they were going, except her.

Her stomach fluttered. She swallowed and adjusted her grip on the handle. You’re fine. You’re okay. You made it.

Her eyes skimmed over the sea of signs—printed names, handwritten scribbles, one man holding a piece of cardboard that just said “MUM.” And then, finally, she spotted it: bright blue letters on bright pink cardboard.

“Welcome to the UK, Y/N.”

She couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped her. It was a child’s handwriting—slanted and cheerful, the sort that made the corners of her mouth lift before she realised she was smiling.

Her gaze found the little girl first: blonde hair in pigtails, bouncing on her toes, holding the sign proudly above her head. Next to her stood a tall man with long, coppery-red hair tied back at his neck, scanning the crowd with the patience of someone used to waiting.

That must be them.

It was oddly surreal, standing there in Heathrow Airport, staring at the man whose letters had guided her through months of preparation. The Weasleys.

She hesitated a moment longer, nerves pricking beneath her skin. Don’t be weird. Just smile, say hello, and thank them for picking you up.

They’d exchanged dozens of letters leading up to this—discussing everything from Victoire’s bedtime routine to what sort of meals she preferred. She knew this was all official, all above board. She’d read the contract, triple-checked the address, and even spoken to him once over the phone.

Still, her best friend’s teasing words echoed faintly in her mind:

“What if this is one of those really elaborate kidnapping schemes and you end up on A Current Affair?”

They’d both been half-drunk that night, red wine staining their lips and laughter spilling between them. She’d rolled her eyes, but later—packing alone in her small Brisbane flat—she’d thought about it again. The unknown. The distance. The sheer strangeness of it all.

“Daddy, I see her!”

Bill followed the girl’s gaze, and when his eyes landed on Y/N, his expression softened into something open and polite. He gave a small wave, his other hand resting gently on his daughter’s shoulder.

That simple, steady gesture made something in Y/N’s chest unclench. He didn’t look intimidating or unapproachable.

She smiled back and began weaving her way toward them, her heart thudding for reasons she couldn’t quite name. 

Y/N lifted a hand in a small wave, trying to keep the grin from wobbling under her nerves. Victoire’s face lit up as she tugged eagerly on her father’s arm.

Bill smiled as they stepped forward to meet her, his expression as calm and composed as his daughter’s was exuberant. “Y/N?”

“That’s me,” she said, forcing her voice to sound brighter than she felt. “Hi. Sorry if I kept you waiting; customs took forever.”

“No trouble at all,” Bill replied, offering his hand. His grip was firm but kind, grounding her in a moment that suddenly felt very real. “It’s good to finally meet you in person. You must be wrecked.”

“Pretty much,” Y/N admitted with a small laugh. “I think my brain’s still somewhere over the Ocean.”

Victoire giggled at that, a small, sweet sound that melted some of Y/N’s nerves.

Bill glanced down at his daughter. “Victoire, love, say hello properly.”

The little girl straightened with all the seriousness of a six-year-old on an important mission. “Hello, Miss Y/N. I made the sign myself.”

Y/N crouched a little so they were eye level. “You did? It’s beautiful, sweetheart. I saw it all the way across the hall, those are some very bright colours.”

Victoire beamed. “Pink is my favourite.”

“Mine too,” Y/N lied easily, because in that moment, it really could’ve been.

Bill’s eyes crinkled slightly at the corners, amused. “She takes her signage very seriously. We had quite a debate about glitter.”

“I think you made the right call,” Y/N said, returning his smile. “No glitter at airports. That’s a universal rule.”

Victoire giggled again and slipped her small hand into Y/N’s without hesitation as they began to walk. “Daddy says you came all the way from Austra-lia.”

“That’s right,” Y/N said, adjusting her stride to match the little girl’s. “A very long flight. I had to watch, oh, about seven terrible movies to survive it.”

“Do you have kangaroos?” Victoire asked, her blue eyes wide with curiosity. “Daddy says they’re like big bunnies that punch people.”

Y/N laughed so hard she nearly tripped over her suitcase. “That’s… honestly not too far off. They hop around, and the boys can get pretty grumpy. But I promise they don’t go punching everyone.”

“Do you ride them to school?”

Bill gave a quiet chuckle beside them. “I told her that wasn’t true.”

Y/N played along. “Well, sometimes if the buses aren’t running, you’ve got to improvise.”

Victoire gasped, delighted. “Really?”

Bill gave Y/N a faintly apologetic smile. “You’re going to have her telling her grandmother that at dinner.”

“Sorry,” Y/N said, grinning. “Jet lag makes me gullible and a bad influence.”

They wove their way through the arrivals hall toward a quieter corridor near a cluster of lifts. Bill led the way, easily navigating the maze of signs. Y/N followed, trying to keep her exhaustion at bay, her suitcase wheels clattering against the tiled floor.

“How was the flight, really?” Bill asked over his shoulder as they stepped into a service corridor that grew steadily emptier.

“Long,” Y/N said honestly. “I think I hit that point where coffee stops working and your spine starts begging for mercy. But it went smoothly. No crying babies, which feels like a small miracle.”

“Ah, yes, the rare quiet flight,” Bill said with mock solemnity. “You’ll fit right in here with that kind of luck.”

She smiled faintly. Professional, she reminded herself. He was just being polite. Still, there was something reassuring about the easy way he spoke—steady, unhurried, exactly the sort of tone that made her feel a little less lost.

They reached an unmarked metal door tucked beside a vending machine. The door swung open onto what looked like an old storage area—but the air shimmered faintly around the edges, giving away the enchantment.

“Welcome to the wizarding transport hub. Not much to look at, but it does the job.”

The space beyond was enormous—half industrial, half magical. Dozens of fireplaces lined the walls, emerald flames flashing as witches and wizards stepped in and out. The air smelled of ash and ozone, and a low roar of voices filled the cavernous room. People shouted destinations over the din, their trunks levitating behind them.

Y/N froze for a moment, blinking against the sensory overload. It wasn’t that she’d never travelled by Floo before, but the sheer scale of it made her head spin.

Bill’s voice reached her through the haze. “Here, hold on to my arm when you go through. It’s faster if we go together.”

She nodded quickly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Right. Got it. Haven’t done this in years, to be honest.”

“You’ll be fine,” he said gently, offering his arm. “Shell Cottage, Devon. You’ll want to keep your eyes closed; the soot’s a menace.”

Victoire hopped into the grate first, vanishing in a flash of green flame. Bill gave Y/N a small nod, and together they stepped forward into the fire. The world blurred to spinning colour and smoke, wind whipping her hair against her face.

And then, with a final lurch, they landed on cool stone.

Y/N stumbled forward slightly, blinking through the faint haze of ash. The scent of saltwater hit her nose before she could even focus. The air here was softer, cleaner. Beyond the window, the sea stretched endlessly, silver under the fading light.

The world was still spinning slightly when Y/N stepped away from the fireplace. She blinked hard, trying to get her bearings.

Shell Cottage was smaller than she expected — but in the sort of way that felt cozy, not cramped. The walls were whitewashed stone, soft with age, and the air carried the faintest tang of sea salt and old wood polish. Everything gleamed with a quiet kind of care.

The front room opened into a sitting area with a low-beamed ceiling and mismatched armchairs gathered around a large hearth. Seashells and framed sketches of dragons and maps cluttered the mantelpiece, and sunlight poured through the wide windows that looked straight out over the sea.

Victoire darted ahead, her pink cardigan fluttering behind her like a cape. “This way! I’ll show you everything!”

Bill gave Y/N an amused look as he reached for her suitcase. “You don’t have to—”

But she shook her head quickly. “It’s alright, I’ve got it.” She reached for the handle before he could protest. “You’ve already done enough — I’d feel terrible if you threw your back out on my first day.”

That earned her a chuckle. “Suit yourself. Though I’ll note that as your first act of rebellion.”

Y/N smiled, cheeks warming. “Might as well start strong.”

They followed Victoire up the narrow staircase, which creaked pleasantly with each step. The air upstairs smelled faintly of lavender and salt, and every window framed another glimpse of rolling sea or pale sky.

Victoire flung open a white door near the end of the hall. “This one’s yours!”

Y/N stepped inside and froze, momentarily speechless.

Someone had clearly taken care to make it welcoming: soft cream walls, a small desk tucked beneath a window overlooking the shore, a patchwork quilt folded neatly across the bed. A vase of fresh flowers sat on the nightstand, their colours bright against the soft coastal light.

“Oh,” Y/N said, her voice barely above a whisper. “This is… lovely.”

“I told Daddy to put it next to mine,” Victoire said proudly, pointing toward the adjoining door. “So you won’t get lonely.”

Y/N’s heart melted. “That’s very thoughtful of you.”

Across the hall, another door stood slightly ajar — Bill’s, she realised. The thought didn’t unsettle her, exactly, but there was something strange about the intimacy of it. She hadn’t expected to be living this close to her employer, to hear his footsteps in the hallway or his voice through the walls.

Bill leaned against the doorway, arms folded loosely. “I’m glad you like it. Figured you’d want something with a view.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of it,” Y/N said, glancing toward the window. The ocean stretched endlessly beyond the glass — cold and silver and wild, nothing like the warm, golden beaches she’d grown up with.

Bill followed her gaze. “It’s not much compared to the Australian coast, I imagine.”

That pulled a small laugh from her. “It’s… different. Back home, the beaches are bright — blue water, white sand, blinding sun. You’ve got to wear thongs or you’ll burn your feet. And there’s the smell of sunscreen and barbecues everywhere.” She paused, smiling faintly at the memory. “Here it feels quieter. Colder, but gentler, if that makes sense.”

“It does,” Bill said, his tone thoughtful.

Victoire tugged at Y/N’s hand again. “Come see my room!”

Y/N followed her through the adjoining door, and whatever heaviness had lingered in her chest eased a little. Victoire’s room looked like a painting — walls a soft rose-pink, shelves stacked with stuffed toys, and a mobile of silver stars spinning gently in the window light.

“I helped paint,” Victoire announced proudly. “Daddy said I got more on me than the walls.”

“I can see your artistic flair,” Y/N said warmly, crouching beside her to look at a small collection of seashells lined up on the windowsill. “These are beautiful. Did you find them yourself?”

“All of them,” Victoire said. “Daddy says the ocean brings them just for me.”

Y/N smiled. “I think he’s right.”

From the doorway, Bill’s voice carried softly. “Why don’t we let Y/N get settled, hmm? She’s had a long day.”

Victoire nodded solemnly, as if accepting a great responsibility. “Okay. But we can have tea later?”

“Tea sounds perfect,” Y/N said.

Bill gave a small nod of approval. “Kitchen’s downstairs — help yourself to anything you need. I’ll sort out dinner once you’ve had a chance to rest.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “Really.”

He smiled — polite, tired, genuine. “You’re very welcome. And… welcome to Shell Cottage.”

When he and Victoire disappeared down the hall, Y/N turned back toward the window. The wind had picked up, scattering sea spray against the glass. She sank onto the edge of the bed, her whole body aching from travel, but her chest finally beginning to unclench.

Choosing a Viscountess—he had imagined it as a task of logic, not of feeling. Survey the candidates. Determine suitability. Select accordingly.

He had assumed that, amongst the many eligible young ladies paraded through the season, one would rise naturally to the occasion. That the process would be efficient. 

Orderly.

He stood slowly from the desk, his body aching with the kind of weariness that went deeper than fatigue. 

The ache of disappointment. 

Of uncertainty.

The memories of the Montrose Ball surfaced almost as if summoned—unwelcome but persistent. Four dances, each one as unfulfilling as the last. Women who were beautiful, polite, accomplished, even eager—but none who had seemed remotely prepared for the role required of them. None who had inspired confidence.

But then—

A quiet voice in the back of his mind spoke up.

Five dances, remember?

He stilled.

He didn’t want to remember. That was the problem.

It wasn’t that Y/N had been terrible. Quite the contrary. He had enjoyed himself the most in her presence.

And that, more than anything, disturbed him.

There had been no scheming glances from her, no polished lines rehearsed for his benefit. No desperate charm, no overstep of propriety. Just… a strange, easy kind of calm. The two of them moving in time with the music as if it hadn’t been nearly a decade since they’d spoken more than a few words.

Perhaps it was the shared history, he reasoned. Familiarity, nothing more.

Summers at Aubrey Hall. Daphne’s giggling shadow. She had been barely ten when he turned twenty—a gap that had always made her seem more like a spirited younger cousin than anything else.

And yet, last night, when he had seen her across the ballroom floor in pale blue silk and pearls, poised and still while others fluttered around her like anxious birds—

It hadn’t felt like a child grown into a woman. It had felt like something from before.

Before his father’s death. Before the weight of the title had settled on his shoulders like stone.

Back when he could still laugh without caution. When he didn’t measure every action against its consequences. When he had friends, not responsibilities. Dreams, not expectations.

He crossed the room, throwing the curtains open with a hard pull. 

Light poured in at once—unforgiving and far too bright. He winced, shielding his eyes briefly before letting the view settle in.

The sky was painfully clear. That crystalline kind of blue that always made his mother suggest a promenade. He could hear it already—“It would be good for you, Anthony. Fresh air clears a cluttered mind.”

He doubted even a thousand walks in Hyde Park would clear this.

Y/N Ashbourne was not the woman he intended to choose.

She was tied too tightly to memories he had long since locked away. A time when he believed life could be soft, or joyful, or uncomplicated. He had no business dwelling there.

And yet—

Her voice echoed, low and wry: “You’ve been very diligent this evening,.”

He almost smiled. Almost.

It was nostalgia, that was all. The ache of a past he hadn’t allowed himself to mourn. A trick of memory, not of emotion.

He turned back to the desk, to the discarded lists and cold brandy.

—

Y/N sat at the breakfast table, picking at her toast while the sunlight streamed in too cheerfully for her taste.

Her mother, on the other hand, was radiant.

“Oh, I knew it,” Lady Ashbourne declared as she stirred her tea with far too much flair for someone who’d barely risen an hour ago. “I told you the Montrose ball would be the turning point.”

Y/N didn’t look up. “Because the Viscount offered me a dance?”

“Because,” her mother said triumphantly, “he sought you out. Of all the ladies in the ballroom—”

“He danced with four others before me.”

Lady Ashbourne waved a dismissive hand. “Formalities. A man in his position must make the rounds. It would be poor manners to single out one young lady so early in the evening.”

“Well, he certainly avoided that scandal.”

Her mother sipped delicately, ignoring the comment. “He came to you with purpose, darling. I saw it in the way he walked—very… decisive. He looked as if he were marching into battle.”

“That’s one interpretation.”

Lady Ashbourne narrowed her eyes. “You are entirely too pragmatic, Y/N. Honestly, it’s a wonder you haven’t frightened off more suitors.”

“I assure you, I’ve done my best,” Y/N murmured.

“Don’t be snide.”

“I’m not. I’m just pointing out that no one else approached me last night. Or this morning. No cards, no calls, not even a wilted bouquet from the fourth son of an obscure baronet.”

“Because they saw you dancing with the Viscount Bridgerton, of course! They’d be mad to compete.”

“Or sensible enough not to try.” Y/N folded her napkin neatly. “You said it yourself—he looked as if he were walking into battle. Perhaps he was, and I was the unfortunate opponent.”

Lady Ashbourne sighed and reached for her tea again, visibly disappointed. “You are determined to see only the worst in a perfectly lovely evening.”

“No,” Y/N said with a faint smile. “I simply saw it for what it was.”

—

“Come now, dearest, you must wear the green,” Lady Ashbourne insisted, plucking a bonnet from its box with far more excitement than the situation warranted. “The one with the lace trim—so soft against your complexion. It is positively meant to catch sunlight.”

Y/N glanced up from the window seat where she sat, half-laced gloves in her lap, her expression unreadable.

“There’s no point,” she said, voice mild. “He’s not going to be in Hyde Park.”

Her mother’s hands stilled. “You don’t know that.”

“I rather think I do,” Y/N replied. “If Lord Bridgerton intended to call, he would have done so this morning. He did not.”

Lady Ashbourne made a dismissive sound and turned toward the mirror, adjusting the feathers on her bonnet. “Perhaps he has been very busy. Viscounts must have duties, after all. Or perhaps he was too shy to call immediately. Men can be quite peculiar in matters of the heart.”

Y/N stood, sighing softly as she took the blue bonnet from her mother’s hands. “It was one dance.”

Lady Ashbourne waved a gloved hand as if brushing the statement from the air. “It was a Bridgerton dance. Do you know what that means this Season?”

“I imagine it means he was coerced by his mother,” Y/N said dryly.

Her mother gasped. “Y/N.”

“It’s not a slight. Lady Bridgerton was quite kind. She asked him to dance with me out of pity. And I’m not offended, truly.” She began adjusting the bonnet on her own, her motions practiced, calm. “But let’s not make more of it than there was.”

Lady Ashbourne stepped closer, lowering her voice to something gentler. “Darling… I only want you to have a fair chance.”

Y/N paused.

Her mother gave a wistful smile, one Y/N had seen many times before—usually when peering out of drawing-room windows waiting for carriages that never came. “You were so brave last night, standing there with your head high, even when they all whispered. You looked beautiful. And for once—for once, they all saw it too. I only want the world to know what I know. You deserve happiness, and I am simply… trying to nudge fate along.”

Y/N hesitated, heart softening, even as her practical instincts screamed otherwise.

She knew Anthony Bridgerton had not spared her a second thought. He had not called. Had not sent a note. He had likely returned home and filed their waltz away under miscellaneous obligations. But she also knew how hard her mother tried. How dearly she clung to dreams.

“All right,” she said at last, gathering her shawl. “Let’s go.”

Lady Ashbourne lit up like a candelabra. “Oh, splendid!”

“But if we pass the Bridgertons,” Y/N added with a raised brow, “you are not to throw your parasol in their path.”

Her mother sniffed. “I would never.”

—

“The sun was almost offensively cheerful.

Anthony adjusted the cuffs of his gloves as they strolled along the wide gravel path, Violet to his left and Eloise to his right, both in fine spirits—unlike himself. The trees bowed gently in the breeze, casting dappled shadows along the lane. Dogs barked in the distance, bonnets tilted flirtatiously, and laughter seemed to follow them at every turn.

Anthony found it all deeply exhausting.

“I suppose now you’re going to draw up a list,” Eloise said suddenly. “Each woman scored by category—face, figure, accomplishments, ability to manage staff, propensity for silence…”

Anthony didn’t respond.

“Oh good,” she continued brightly. “You’re already doing it in your head.”

“I am attempting to be practical,” he said, already tired of this conversation.

“You’re being cold,” she shot back. “You treat this as though you’re hiring a steward, not choosing a wife.”

“That is precisely the point,” Anthony said, his tone clipped. “I am choosing someone to help manage a household, a family, a title. I have no interest in emotional folly.”

Eloise stopped walking, forcing both him and Violet to pause.

She stared at him, arms crossed. “You danced with five women last night. Five entire human beings. And you discarded each of them for not meeting a standard you barely articulated. Miss Lyndon was too shy. Miss Fairleigh too talkative. Miss Greaves too—what, accomplished? Heaven forbid she be proud of something.”

Anthony frowned. “They were not suited to—”

“To you,” Eloise interrupted, “or to the impossible idea you have of what a Viscountess should be? Because I can assure you, brother, you are far more difficult than any of those young ladies.”

“Must you bait him, Eloise?” she said mildly.

But Eloise pressed on. “Do you know what I saw last night? A man standing rigid as a tree while young women tried to laugh or flirt or simply survive the scrutiny of dancing with the great Anthony Bridgerton. I don’t know what you’re looking for, but I do know you’ll never find it if you keep mistaking affection for frivolity, and individuality for incompetence.”

Anthony was silent.

She didn’t say it cruelly. She wasn’t mocking him. But the words were barbed all the same.

Anthony shook his head and looked away—just in time to miss the subtle gesture Violet gave to a figure across the promenade. Her hand lifted in a small, gracious wave. 

The Ashbournes.

They were walking at a respectable distance, Lady Ashbourne in an elaborate hat that bobbed with every step, and Y/N at her side, glancing around the park with the vague look of someone trying not to look like she was searching for anyone in particular.

“I still maintain that Miss Fairleigh was moments from proposing,” Eloise said behind him. “And you let her go. Shameful.”

Anthony opened his mouth to retort—just as Violet gently placed a gloved hand on his arm.

“My dear,” she said sweetly, “do keep your posture upright. We’re about to have company.”

He turned sharply, confused—only to see the Ashbournes almost upon them.

Too close to avoid. Far too close to ignore.

His jaw flexed as he realised what had happened.

Violet’s smile was the picture of innocence.

“Lady Ashbourne,” she greeted smoothly. “Lady Y/N.”

“Lady Bridgerton!” Lady Ashbourne beamed, nearly glowing with delight. “What a pleasure.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Violet returned. “It’s a perfect day for walking, is it not?”

Anthony felt Y/N’s gaze slide to him—brief, polite, but distant. He gave the smallest of nods.

“Lord Bridgerton,” she said simply.

“Lady Ashbourne,” he replied with stiff formality, and then—after the smallest pause— “Lady Y/N.”

Y/N inclined her head gracefully. “My lord.”

Eloise, beside him, was biting her lip to hide a grin. “How serendipitous,” she said with mock delight. “I do love an accidental meeting.”

“It’s almost as if someone arranged it,” Anthony muttered.

“Oh surely not,” Violet said. “How could I possibly have known they would be here?”

Y/N’s brows rose ever so slightly. If she suspected, she didn’t say.

But Anthony did notice, to his great irritation, that his mother and her mother had already begun walking ahead—arms linked, heads inclined.

Which left him and Y/N trailing behind.

Alone.

He glanced over at her. She didn’t seem particularly pleased. Or displeased. Simply calm. As if being on Anthony Bridgerton’s arm was no different than standing in the shade of a tree.

And that, for some reason, bothered him more than it should

Anthony offered his arm, the motion steady, if a touch formal.

“Would you care to walk, Lady Y/n?”

There was the faintest flicker of something behind her eyes—surprise, perhaps, or something wearier—but she inclined her head with soft grace and slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow.

It was not a romantic gesture. Her touch was light, poised, impersonal. But there was a familiarity to it all the same.

They walked in silence at first.

Hyde Park was alive with early afternoon leisure—chatter weaving through trees, hooves thudding dully against the paths, parasols tilting against the sharp light. The breeze carried the scent of grass and lavender, punctuated now and again by children’s laughter and the clatter of wheels along the promenade roads.

Anthony glanced down briefly at the woman beside him. Pale green muslin, elegant gloves, bonnet tilted just so. She had always carried herself with dignity, even as a girl. 

He remembered a summer—perhaps twelve years ago—when she had scraped her knee on a tree root and refused to cry, despite being all of eight. Daphne had fussed, his mother had cooed, but Y/N had simply brushed the dirt away and asked if they could finish their picnic before the ants found the sandwiches.

She had not changed much. Only grown into herself.

“How have you found the Season thus far?” he asked, at last.

She gave him a sidelong glance, her mouth tugging faintly. “It has barely begun.”

“True,” he conceded. “But even so, I imagine the drawing rooms have been… lively.”

“Oh, certainly. Lively with speculation, mostly.”

His brows lifted slightly. “About your brother?”

She gave a half-smile, dry. “About me, of course. One duel and suddenly one becomes the subject of great interest—and greater avoidance.”

Anthony’s jaw tensed.

He had heard whispers, of course. Everyone had. The duel had not gone unremarked. Nor had the scandal it provoked. The man in question—a second son of some northern Baron—had apparently spoken ill of Lady Ashbourne and pulled into question her honour in a private salon. Theodore had challenged him without hesitation. Pistols at dawn. The wound nearly killed him. The whispers had nearly buried her.

“I’ve never placed much faith in gossip,” Anthony said quietly.

She looked away. “You’ve never had to. You’re a Bridgerton.”

There was no bitterness in her tone, only fact.

“And your brother?” he asked, after a beat.

“In Vienna still,” she replied. “Recovering. He writes often, though the letters have grown shorter of late. I suspect boredom is setting in, which I take as a good sign.”

“And you’ve managed the estate on your own since?”

“I’ve had to.” Her voice didn’t waver. “My mother is… not adept at such matters. She prefers embroidery and lace catalogues to balance sheets.”

“You’ve had no assistance?”

“Some,” she admitted. “We have a solicitor, and a steward in Surrey. But they must be directed. Decisions must still be made. Correspondence managed. Accounts reviewed. I oversee the household in London and the country properties as best I can. The staff have been loyal, which helps.”

He said nothing for a moment. His gaze fell to the parasol looped over her other wrist, the careful neatness of her posture, the precise way her glove was buttoned.

She was not playing a role. She was performing a duty.

“You make it sound quite manageable,” he said.

Her lips curved faintly. “Because it must be.”

They walked a few more paces in quiet, passing a patch of wild roses curling through the park fence. A nursemaid bent over a pram nearby, humming softly, and the air was filled with dust and sunshine.

Anthony felt her hand shift ever so slightly against his arm. Still not holding on—but perhaps not so ready to let go, either.

“I was sorry you missed Daphne’s wedding,” he said quietly.

Her expression was gentle. “I wished to attend. But it came just after Father’s passing. There were tenants to settle, inventories to finalize, and Theodore was already away. I couldn’t leave my mother alone.”

“I understand.”

“I’m sure it was lovely, though.”

“The cake was a disaster,” he offered, dryly.

That startled a laugh from her. A real one, soft and warm.

They shared a look—brief but real—and Anthony was startled by the weight of it. Not flirtation. Not longing. Just… understanding. Shared years. Shared losses. The ease of two people who had once known one another well, and who now stood as adults forged by responsibility.

He was reminded again—sharply—of what he had said the night before.

That he sought competence, steadiness, not romance. Someone capable of running a household, raising children, maintaining a life of duty.

Here she was.

There was no artifice in her.

No frantic giggling, no excessive praise. Just composure. Quiet fortitude. Intelligence that didn’t need to announce itself.

She was, he realised with the cold precision of a man who measured everything twice before committing, perfect.

Too perfect, in fact, for him to waste time debating the matter any longer.

He stopped walking.

So did she, glancing at him curiously.

And then, before he could talk himself out of it, he said:

“Will you marry me?”

There was a beat of absolute silence.

A bird chirped. Somewhere behind them, Eloise likely dropped dead from sheer disbelief.

Y/N blinked once. “I beg your pardon?”

Anthony cleared his throat. “Marry me,” he repeated, as if the second time would land more gently. “I realise this is rather sudden—”

She gave a startled laugh, hand rising instinctively to her chest. “You could say that.”

“I do apologise for the abruptness,” he added, hastily. “But I’ve been giving the matter of marriage a great deal of thought and, well… it seems only logical.”

She stared at him.

“Logical,” she echoed flatly.

“Yes. That is—” Anthony exhaled. “I require a wife who understands duty. Who is capable of bearing the responsibilities of a Viscountess. Who can manage a household of considerable size, maintain social decorum, and raise children who understand the weight of their name.”

He looked at her, the sharp angles of his face taut with seriousness.

“You’ve done most of that already. You’ve already been managing a household. You’ve already stood against whispers. You’ve already weathered scandal and emerged with dignity intact. Most of the young ladies I danced with last night could scarcely look me in the eye without dissolving into giggles or babbling about upholstery.”

Y/N gave a snort, despite herself. “I’m flattered to be held in higher esteem than upholstery.”

Anthony ignored that, pushing forward, clearly on a roll now.

“What I mean is—this makes sense. Marrying you would not only serve my needs, it would restore some measure of social security to your family. I’m aware of the rumours surrounding your brother and you and the state of your family’s finances. The Ashbourne name would be rehabilitated overnight.”

“Charming,” she said, dry.

His jaw twitched. “I didn’t mean that as an insult.”

“No,” she said, tilting her head. 

“I meant it as a solution,” he said. “A partnership, not a courtship. I would not insult you by pretending otherwise.”

There was a pause.

Y/N looked down at her gloved hands for a long moment, then turned her face toward the trees as they walked once more.

When she finally spoke, her voice was measured.

“I see your point,” she said. “And I admit—your proposal does make… strategic sense.”

Anthony gave a slight nod, hopeful.

“But,” she added, glancing sideways at him, “you cannot possibly expect me to accept a marriage proposal in the middle of Hyde Park after one dance and a quarter-mile walk.”

His lips pressed together. “You just said it made sense.”

“It does,” she agreed. “But I still have a mother. And if I return home today with the news that you proposed without ever officially calling upon me—without a proper courtship, without flowers or calls or even a whisper of intention—she will spontaneously combust. And she will haunt us both for the rest of our days.”

Anthony blinked. “Your mother would haunt us?”

“Spectrally and dramatically.”

“…Right.”

They walked a few steps in silence.

“I don’t require love,” he said. “But I do believe in respect. And I would not wish to begin this arrangement by disrespecting you, or your mother.”

Y/N smiled faintly. “Then you shall call on me.”

He looked over at her, brow furrowing slightly. “And we shall… what? Take walks and talk about the weather?”

She tilted her head. “We can talk about wallpaper too, if that’s what Viscounts do during courtship.”

He gave a low huff of a laugh, shaking his head.

“Fine,” he said. “I shall call.”

“Properly?”

“Properly.”

They stopped near a bend in the path, the late afternoon sun warming the hem of her skirts.

He extended his arm once more.

She took it.

As they walked on, there was a strange kind of calm between them. A truce. An understanding.

No promises. No proclamations. But something had shifted.

And neither of them quite knew what to call it.

Anthony glanced briefly toward her but said nothing, his expression unreadable as he let his gaze sweep over the crowd again.

Then Eloise’s voice sliced through the polite hum of conversation.

“Oh, good. We’re matchmaking again.” She stepped between them, hands clasped dramatically behind her back, eyes gleaming with mischief. “I can hardly contain my excitement.”

Anthony’s jaw flexed.

“So,” Eloise went on, her tone sweet and cutting all at once, “which one is tonight’s lucky candidate? Or do you plan to interview them all and take notes?”

Anthony gave her a flat look. “I am observing. Nothing more.”

“Observing?” Eloise tilted her head. “How thrilling. Shall I take a poll for you as well? Family reputation, dowry size, level of charm, though I imagine you’d score that last one rather low since you seem determined to avoid it altogether.”

“Eloise,” Violet said mildly, though there was the faintest flicker of amusement in her eyes.

“What?” Eloise asked innocently, though her smirk betrayed her. “He’s standing here scanning the room like a farmer at market. Soon he’ll be asking which ones are sturdy enough to bear healthy stock.”

Anthony’s brow furrowed. “This is not a market,” he said curtly.

“Oh, forgive me,” Eloise said lightly. “I didn’t realise you were dressing it up as something nobler. Shall we call it… procurement? Selection? Or would you prefer vetting potential acquisitions?”

Anthony exhaled through his nose. “You are insufferable.”

“Yes, but at least I’m not treating women like breeding livestock,” Eloise countered, tilting her head toward him. “You realise you sound ridiculous, don’t you? Standing here, watching them all twirl around like you’re picking out the most efficient horse for the stables.”

Violet sighed, though her lips quirked faintly. “Eloise, that’s enough.”

“I’m only saying what we’re all thinking,” Eloise replied, completely unrepentant.

Anthony’s gaze swept the room again, carefully avoiding the corner where he already knew Y/N was standing. “I am doing what is necessary,” he said calmly.

“And you truly believe that will be enough for you?” Violet asked quietly, her tone softer now, almost hesitant.

Anthony didn’t look at her. His gaze stayed on the dancers, his voice clipped. “Enough is all I need.”

Eloise let out a quiet sigh, her arms folding. “How inspiring.”

Anthony ignored her entirely.

“Oh, I can see it now,” Eloise added, unable to resist one final jab. “The announcement will read: Viscount Bridgerton has selected his wife based on fine breeding, sensible temperament, and a dowry of respectable weight. Love, of course, was deemed unnecessary.”

“Love is unnecessary,” Anthony said flatly. “It makes fools of men. I will not waste my time on it.”

Eloise stared at him for a moment, the humour dimming ever so slightly from her expression. “Or maybe,” she said softly, “you’re just afraid it will make a fool of you.”

Anthony turned sharply to her, but before he could reply, the music swelled again as a new dance began, the sound filling the space between them.

Violet gave her eldest son a long, searching look, but she didn’t press further. She simply folded her hands and turned her gaze back to the dancers, her thoughts elsewhere.

Anthony’s expression didn’t change. He was resolute.

Pairs moved into place, and mothers hovered at the edges, hopeful eyes darting toward potential matches.

Violet’s hand rested lightly on his arm, her voice lowering just enough to be private. “Lady Ashbourne is here tonight as well,” she said, her tone soft but full of meaning. “She looks lovely.”

Anthony did not look for her. He didn’t need to.

He already knew exactly where she was.

Across the ballroom, near the edge of the crowd. Pale blue silk that caught the candlelight just enough to be seen, pearls resting at her throat. She stood with her back straight, composed, but her hands were lightly clasped against her skirt in a way that betrayed her restraint.

It was the same stillness he had seen the night before.

Even from here, he could sense it, the way she held herself apart. Not because she wished to, but because she had been left there, on the margins of a room full of people who had already made up their minds about her.

He forced his gaze away before his thoughts lingered any further.

She was the past. A reminder of long afternoons when life had still felt limitless, of Theodore’s laughter echoing through Aubrey Hall, of his father’s hand clapping warmly on his shoulder. A time before he had learned that safety was an illusion, and time would run out before he was ready.

Y/N Ashbourne belonged to that life. And that life was over.

He could not—would not—allow the past to tangle itself into what needed to be done now.

Anthony shifted slightly, turning back toward his mother. “Miss Grafton,” he said at last, his voice steady. “She’s suitable, you said?”

Violet blinked, a little surprised by the abruptness of his tone. “Yes… I believe so. She’s very respectable, quite sensible, and she—”

“Then I will ask her for this next dance,” he said simply.

Eloise’s voice floated in immediately, sly and cutting. “Oh, how thrilling. I can hardly wait to watch you fall into deep practicality.”

Anthony didn’t bother looking back at her.

He stepped into the flow of the room with the same calm purpose he’d carry into a negotiation. He knew where Miss Grafton stood—near the far pillar, her lavender gown neat and precise, her hair pinned perfectly into place. She was surrounded by two other young ladies, their laughter polite, their eyes flickering toward the eligible gentlemen like moths to light.

She saw him approach, and her entire posture shifted. Her hands smoothed instinctively down her skirts, and her shoulders straightened. A faint flush crept into her cheeks.

“Viscount Bridgerton,” she greeted, dipping into a graceful curtsy. Her voice was soft, practised.

“Miss Grafton.” Anthony bowed politely. “Might I have the honour of this next dance?”

Her smile was small but pleased. “Of course, my lord.”

He offered his arm, and she placed her hand lightly against it. Together, they walked to the floor, blending into the sea of couples forming for the next waltz.

The orchestra began, its melody pleasant but forgettable. Anthony led Miss Grafton into the opening steps, their movements synchronised but utterly devoid of spark.

“You dance beautifully, my lord,” Miss Grafton said after a moment, her voice soft and practised.

Anthony gave her a single nod. “Thank you.”

A small pause followed, and Miss Grafton filled it quickly. “You attend every Montrose ball, don’t you? I believe I’ve seen you here in previous seasons.”

“Yes,” Anthony replied simply. His tone was even, offering no invitation for further conversation.

Her smile flickered, but she pressed on. “It is always such a fine event. The Montroses have an impeccable taste for music, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Quite,” he said.

She tilted her head ever so slightly, clearly hoping for a more elaborate reply. When it didn’t come, she shifted tactics. “Do you enjoy dancing, my lord?”

“When required,” he answered.

Her laugh was soft, overly polite, and just a touch forced. “Ah, well, I suppose gentlemen don’t have the luxury of enjoying themselves as freely as the ladies do.”

Anthony did not comment.

The silence between them stretched thin, broken only by the rhythm of the music and the soft shuffle of their steps. Miss Grafton was graceful, perfectly in time, and visibly conscious of every movement she made. She smiled at the exact moments expected of her, her gaze bright in a way that seemed almost too intentional, as if she were silently reminding him of her suitability.

Anthony’s eyes flicked briefly past her shoulder, just long enough to see the pale blue silk he knew would be there.

Y/N.

She stood at the edge of the room, speaking to another wallflower. Her posture was composed, her smile faint, polite. But there was something in her stillness that struck him—something quieter, deeper than the glittering, rehearsed motions of the ballroom.

Anthony pulled his gaze back at once.

“Tell me, Miss Grafton,” he said suddenly, his voice breaking through the waltz like a blade, “do you manage the household accounts for your family?”

She blinked, startled, then nodded quickly. “Oh yes, my lord. My mother says I have quite the talent for figures. I ensure the ledgers are balanced, the staff are paid on time, and the menu is properly budgeted. I suppose it is practical to learn such things, should I one day oversee a household of my own.”

“Practicality is important,” Anthony said, his words precise, as if he were making a mental note.

Her smile widened a fraction. “I believe it is, yes. My father says I have a sensible nature.” She tilted her chin slightly, pride creeping into her tone. “I am not prone to flights of fancy.”

“Good,” he said.

The word hung there, flat and unadorned.

Miss Grafton hesitated, clearly unsure whether to keep speaking or to let the silence settle again. She chose the former. “I also have a fondness for music, though I don’t claim to be particularly skilled. I play the pianoforte adequately, though I much prefer attending musicales and listening to others who are far more talented. Do you enjoy music, my lord?”

“When appropriate,” he replied.

There was the smallest flicker of confusion in her eyes, but she smoothed it over with another polite smile.

Anthony’s mind betrayed him despite himself. Y/N lingered at the edge of his thoughts like a shadow, a presence he could not quite dismiss.

But he tightened his hold on Miss Grafton’s hand slightly, grounding himself in the reality he had chosen.

This was what he needed.

A wife like Miss Grafton. Logical. Suitable. Someone who would manage a household well and bear children. Nothing more.

When the music faded to a close, Anthony released her hand and bowed with perfect courtesy. “Thank you, Miss Grafton. You dance admirably.”

“You’re too kind, my lord,” she said, dipping her head with a graceful curtsy. “It was an honour.”

He escorted her back to her chaperone with the same polite precision, offering no further conversation.

Across the ballroom, Violet watched with quiet calculation, her eyes following him closely. Beside her, Eloise smirked, her expression one of open amusement.

The next young lady was Miss Lyndon.

She was timid, exactly as his mother had said. Timid, not in the pleasant, endearing way some found charming, but in the way of someone who wished to vanish entirely. Her voice was so soft it was almost swallowed by the music, and her eyes flitted around the room as though searching for an escape.

Anthony offered his arm. She hesitated, then placed her hand lightly on it, barely grazing his sleeve as though afraid to impose.

They stepped onto the floor.

“It’s a lovely evening,” she whispered as he led her into the first movements of a quadrille.

“Yes,” Anthony replied evenly.

Miss Lyndon smiled, thin and fleeting, before glancing nervously toward the edge of the room. “I do so enjoy the Montrose balls,” she ventured after a pause. “They always have the prettiest flowers, don’t you think?”

Anthony followed her gaze briefly to the extravagant arrangements of roses and lilies that lined the ballroom. “I hadn’t noticed,” he said plainly.

Her lips parted slightly, as if the response hadn’t been the one she expected. Her eyes flicked away again, and a faint flush touched her cheeks. She tried once more.

“I… I heard you have quite a fine library at Bridgerton House,” she said, her tone lighter now, as if she were testing the waters. “Do you enjoy reading?”

“When I have the time,” Anthony answered, his voice as level and impersonal as before.

“Oh,” she said softly. Her gaze dropped, and she smoothed her skirt unnecessarily.

They moved through the next figure in silence.

Miss Lyndon glanced at him once more, perhaps trying to summon the courage for another attempt at conversation. But Anthony did not offer any opening, no hint of warmth or encouragement. His expression remained neutral, his attention fixed on the steps of the dance with the same precision he would apply to a fencing match.

She inhaled lightly, as if to speak, but then seemed to think better of it.

The music played on, filling the space where conversation should have been. Couples around them were laughing quietly, exchanging little remarks, but between them there was only the dull rhythm of movement.

Anthony guided her through each turn effortlessly. Her movements were graceful enough, but there was no spark. No connection. Just a polite exercise in social obligation.

When the final notes faded, Anthony released her hand and bowed. “Miss Lyndon.”

She curtsied quickly, her voice almost a whisper. “Thank you, my lord.”

She seemed relieved, palpably so, as he escorted her back to her chaperone with efficient courtesy.

And, frankly, Anthony was relieved too.

Next was Miss Fairleigh.

She was the complete opposite of Miss Lyndon. Where Lyndon had been timid to the point of near invisibility, Miss Fairleigh was relentless, bright, loud, and determined to fill every moment of silence with her own voice.

The moment Anthony offered his hand, she clasped it eagerly. “It’s such an honour, my lord!” she gushed before they had even reached the centre of the floor. “I never imagined I’d have the chance to dance with the Viscount Bridgerton himself. My sister told me you would be frightfully intimidating, but you don’t seem so at all!”

Anthony inclined his head. “Thank you,” he said flatly.

“Oh, I didn’t mean it as a compliment—I mean, it is a compliment, of course, but not only a compliment,” she continued in a rush. “I simply mean you’re very… approachable! Well, perhaps not very, but more than I expected! You have a certain presence, of course, but not the sort of presence that makes one faint, if you know what I mean—”

Anthony did not know what she meant. “I see,” he said, his tone giving away nothing.

They moved into the opening steps of the waltz, Anthony leading her with effortless precision while she continued to chatter.

“And it’s such a busy Season, isn’t it? So many balls, so many introductions! I imagine you must be positively drowning in invitations. I don’t know how you manage it—”

“I manage,” Anthony replied, cutting off the need for further elaboration.

“Yes, well, I suppose you must!” she said, undeterred. “After all, your family is so well-regarded, everyone must be hoping to meet you. You must be terribly sought after. Do you ever feel overwhelmed? I know I do sometimes. And I’m not even being pursued by half the ladies in London!”

She laughed loudly at her own remark, a laugh that carried over the music in an awkward, piercing way that made the couple nearest them glance over.

Anthony did not laugh.

Miss Fairleigh didn’t notice—or pretended not to. “Oh, but it must be wonderful, in a way. All that attention! Though, of course, it can’t be easy, deciding which introductions to honour. My mama says one must always be strategic with one’s dances, you know, and I think she’s right—don’t you?”

Anthony met her gaze briefly. “I’m sure she is.”

She smiled too widely, too brightly, and immediately launched into another tangent. “Of course, it’s different for men, isn’t it? You have so much freedom. Whereas we ladies must always be careful to avoid appearing too eager. Not that I’m too eager! I’m merely pleased. Which is not the same thing at all. My sister says I talk too much when I’m nervous. Do you think I talk too much?”

Anthony led her through a turn without hesitation. “You speak freely,” he said neutrally.

“Ah! Well, yes, I do tend to speak my mind. I’ve always believed it’s better to be interesting than silent, don’t you?”

“I think there’s a time for both,” he said dryly.

If she noticed the faint edge in his tone, she didn’t show it.

The waltz continued, though it felt far longer than it was. Anthony counted the remaining bars in his head as he moved through the steps, each moment blending into the next in a haze of ceaseless chatter.

When the final notes of the music faded, Miss Fairleigh was flushed and breathless from both the dance and the torrent of words she had unleashed.

“Oh, my lord,” she gasped, pressing a gloved hand lightly to her chest, “you are so graceful. Thank you, thank you so much!”

Anthony bowed stiffly. “The pleasure was mine.”

It was not.

He escorted her back to her chaperone with impeccable politeness, but the moment she was settled, he stepped away without hesitation.

Then came Miss Greaves.

She was accomplished. Very accomplished. So accomplished that within moments of taking his hand, it became clear the dance would serve primarily as a recital of her many virtues.

“I play the pianoforte, of course,” she began as they stepped into the opening of the waltz. “And the harp. My governess always said I had a natural gift for music.”

“Indeed,” Anthony replied, his tone flat.

“And I speak French, Italian, and some German. My tutor said my pronunciation was exceptional for someone my age. I’ve also been told I have quite a fine hand for drawing, though I confess I prefer watercolours to oils—oils can be so messy, don’t you think?”

“How admirable,” Anthony said, not bothering to inflect the words with anything resembling actual admiration.

Miss Greaves smiled brightly, seemingly unfazed. “And I pride myself on knowing the very latest etiquette. Did you know that in Vienna, it is considered gauche to begin a waltz without a proper bow? I’ve read all about it. I believe being well-educated in such things is essential for any lady of standing, don’t you agree?”

“Yes,” Anthony replied, his tone clipped and precise.

She beamed, clearly pleased with his minimal response, and continued without pause. “I also keep up with the latest literature. I find it so important to be cultured. Mama says a lady must always be prepared to converse on any topic. I can speak of politics, poetry, art—though of course I never share an opinion that might be considered too forward. Balance is key, don’t you think?”

Anthony led her into a turn. “Quite.”

“And you, my lord?” she asked eagerly. “What accomplishments do you most admire in a lady?”

“Practicality,” he said without hesitation.

Her smile faltered, the faintest flicker of uncertainty crossing her face. “Oh,” she said lightly, recovering quickly. “Well, of course, practicality is important, yes. But it’s so rare to find someone who can balance both practicality and refinement. I do believe I’ve managed it. I’ve always been told I have a very even temperament.”

Anthony made no comment.

They continued in silence for a few bars. Miss Greaves looked faintly unsettled but pressed on. “I’ve also begun studying household management in earnest. I keep all of Mama’s social calendars organised. I believe attention to detail is what sets a true lady apart.”

“Indeed,” Anthony said again.

She hesitated, perhaps realising for the first time that the conversation was entirely one-sided. The music carried them through another series of steps, filling the space where words now felt strained.

When the final chords of the waltz faded, the silence between them was awkward enough that even Miss Greaves seemed grateful for the end.

Anthony released her hand and bowed. “Miss Greaves.”

She curtsied with a stiff little smile. “Thank you, my lord.”

He escorted her back to her chaperone with impeccable courtesy, but without a single additional word.

And then he stepped away without looking back.

Four dances. Three women.

Four different versions of the same hollow exercise.

Timid, over-eager, accomplished. It didn’t matter. Each one was a performance. Each one was a perfectly rehearsed mask designed to appeal to a Viscount who was, apparently, too polite, or too powerful, to ignore.

Anthony felt the dull beginnings of a headache behind his eyes.

He stepped away from the floor, his gaze sweeping over the ballroom. The couples danced, the mothers plotted, the chatter hummed on and on.

He turned away before his thoughts lingered too long.

He looked back toward the dancers, toward the endless sea of polite smiles and practiced charm, and for the first time that evening, a thought sharper than all the others settled in his mind.

Perhaps marriage simply isn’t worth it.

Anthony stood at the edge of the ballroom floor, posture impeccable, expression unreadable. Around him the music swelled as another waltz began, but he didn’t move.

He had danced with three women—each one recommended by reputation, each one supposedly ideal for the role of Viscountess.

Miss Lyndon had been too meek to manage a household of any size, barely able to hold a conversation. Miss Fairleigh was breathless and scattered, incapable of even a moment’s quiet composure. Miss Greaves had been so consumed by her own accomplishments that she hadn’t paused long enough to ask a single meaningful question. 

And Miss Grafton—Miss Grafton had been the most sensible of the three. She was polite, measured, and clearly well-trained in her manners. But she lacked any presence. She spoke like a woman who had spent her entire life memorising rules and was still terrified of breaking one. There was no authority in her tone, no quiet confidence that would command the respect of a household staff or stand firm when faced with difficult decisions. She was suitable for polite drawing rooms and afternoon teas, perhaps, but not for Bridgerton House.

They were polished. Decorative. Pleasant enough to look at. But none of them inspired confidence that they could be his partner in the duties required of a Viscountess. Not in running a large estate, not in commanding respect from staff, not in raising children who would one day inherit the Bridgerton name.

Anthony’s jaw tightened slightly.

“Anthony.”

He turned to see Violet beside him, her expression calm, though her eyes carried that quiet knowing that always managed to unsettle him.

“Mother,” he said evenly.

“How has your evening been?” she asked, her tone warm but deliberate.

Anthony drew a slow, controlled breath before answering. “Revealing.”

Her brow arched lightly. “Revealing?”

“Yes,” he said, his tone measured. “I have danced with three women this evening. And while each is charming in her own way, none of them are capable of the role required. Miss Lyndon was so timid she could hardly look me in the eye. Miss Fairleigh could not keep her thoughts in order long enough to finish a single sentence without tripping over her own words. Miss Greaves spoke only of herself—endlessly. And even Miss Grafton, who seemed the most composed, had no presence. She would be completely overshadowed by the responsibilities that come with being Viscountess. Not one of them gave me even a moment’s assurance that they could manage a household like Bridgerton House, let alone represent this family with the strength and poise it demands.”

Violet regarded him carefully, her head tilting just slightly as she studied his face. “You are not looking for charm, then,” she said gently. “You’re looking for… steadiness.”

Anthony shook his head faintly. “I am looking for competence,” he corrected, his voice clipped. “For someone who understands the weight of the role. I don’t require romance, or wit, or spark. But I do require a woman who can be trusted to run a home, guide children, and stand beside me without faltering under the demands of this family.”

Violet inclined her head, thoughtful. “And you have not found that here tonight.”

“No,” Anthony said simply. There was no anger in the word, only finality.

Violet’s gaze softened. “And yet you will keep looking.”

“I must,” Anthony replied. “It is necessary.”

There was a brief pause, then Violet spoke quietly, “Lady Ashbourne has been on the sidelines all evening.”

Anthony’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak.

“Not a single dance,” Violet went on. “You know what the ton whispers about her. They have never been kind. And yet she stands here, graceful, composed, and without complaint. That alone speaks more of strength than anything you’ve found tonight.”

Anthony’s eyes followed Violet’s line of sight almost against his will.

Y/N was exactly where she had been all evening—at the edge of the crowd, pale blue silk and pearls, speaking softly to another overlooked young woman. She wasn’t fidgeting. She wasn’t forcing a smile for the sake of being seen. There was a stillness to her, not passive but deliberate, as though she refused to bow to the weight of being ignored.

It was a calm that felt entirely different from the nervous laughter and eager chatter he’d endured from the others.

He forced his gaze away before the thought could settle.

“I’m not looking for that,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “This is not about sentiment.”

Violet sighed gently. “I won’t press you. I know your mind is set on practicality, and I will respect that. But the poor girl has stood there ignored all evening. She deserves at least one dance that does not feel like an obligation.”

She looked at him steadily. “If not for yourself, then do it for her.”

Anthony held her gaze for a long moment, his jaw tightening slightly. Finally, he inclined his head once, sharply.

Violet smiled faintly and stepped back, leaving him alone once more.

Anthony exhaled once, silently, before straightening his shoulders.

The ballroom stretched wide before him—glittering chandeliers, swirling silk gowns, the faint hum of laughter and music weaving through the air. Every step he took across the polished floor drew a few curious glances. Mothers nudged daughters to stand straighter. A pair of girls near the refreshment table stopped whispering altogether, eyes following him as if he might change direction at any moment.

He ignored them all.

His gaze stayed fixed on the far edge of the room.

Y/N stood exactly where she had been all evening. Pale blue silk, pearls resting at her throat, her hands folded lightly in front of her as she spoke quietly to another young woman—a wallflower in faded lilac who looked grateful for the company. Y/N listened more than she spoke, nodding gently as the girl murmured something with a shy, unsure smile.

She hadn’t noticed him yet.

Anthony’s steps were steady, measured. He wasn’t a man crossing a room to make a bold statement. He was simply doing what needed to be done. One dance. Nothing more.

As he drew closer, Y/N glanced up.

For a moment, her eyes met his.

There was no wide-eyed surprise. No fluttering or fidgeting. Just a calm, composed acknowledgement—a faint lift of her brows, a small pause in her quiet conversation. If she was startled, she hid it well.

Anthony stopped in front of her and bowed, a crisp, precise movement. “Lady Ashbourne.”

Her curtsy was equally composed. “Lord Bridgerton.”

He extended his hand. “May I have this dance?”

Her gaze flicked briefly to the couples already forming on the floor, then back to him. There was the faintest hesitation, so slight it could have been imagined, but then she placed her gloved hand lightly in his.

“Of course,” she said, her voice soft but steady.

Anthony turned, leading her toward the floor.

Behind them, a ripple of whispers spread almost instantly. He ignored it.

He felt the weight of the eyes on them as they took their place. To the crowd, it would look like a deliberate choice. A Viscount offering a dance to the girl the ton had all but cast aside. It would spark more speculation than he cared to consider.

But for Anthony, it was just this: one dance, nothing more.

As the orchestra began to play, he positioned her for the first steps, his grip light, precise.

“Thank you,” she murmured, just enough for him to hear over the music.

“For what?” he asked, tone even.

“For asking,” she said simply.

Anthony said nothing.

And then the waltz began.

They moved in perfect step, the polished rhythm of the waltz carrying them across the floor. Anthony’s hand was firm at her waist, her touch light on his shoulder, their joined hands a study in composure.

“You’ve been very diligent this evening,” Y/N remarked after a few bars of silence, her voice soft but steady as they moved in time with the music.

Anthony glanced down at her, brow slightly furrowed. “Diligent?”

She tilted her head, a subtle smile playing on her lips. “Making the rounds. Fulfilling expectations. That sort of thing.”

“Ah,” he said. “Yes. That.”

Their steps were measured and fluid, practiced and polite. But the silence that settled between words was oddly comfortable—neither strained nor urgent. Just... familiar. Like the hush of a summer afternoon.

“You always did take responsibility very seriously,” she said after a moment, eyes focused somewhere over his shoulder. “Even when we were children.”

“I was the eldest,” he said simply.

“And we were always reminded of it,” she added, glancing up at him with something between fondness and wryness.

He allowed the corner of his mouth to lift. “You were insufferable, you know. Always turning up where you weren’t meant to be.”

“I maintain I was charming,” she said, tone light. “And curious.”

“You were ten,” he said. “And hell-bent on proving you could ride astride better than your brother.”

“I could,” she replied, as if it were fact—which it was.

He hummed in reluctant agreement, and for a moment, the ballroom seemed to dissolve around them.

“I was sorry to miss Daphne’s wedding,” Y/N said, her tone shifting. “I wanted to be there.”

Anthony’s expression sobered. “You were in mourning. It was understood.”

She nodded, but didn’t look away. “Still. I thought of her that day.”

“And she thought of you,” he said, without hesitation. “She asked about you often.”

The music swelled around them, the crowd spinning slowly at the edges of their vision, but their focus remained on each other.

Ten years was a long time. And yet, in this moment, it barely seemed a breath.

He looked at her then—truly looked—and for the first time all evening, Anthony Bridgerton stopped thinking about obligation, and expectations, and the inevitable march of time.

Just for a moment.

Then the music began to slow, the final notes drifting into stillness.

They stepped apart with practiced ease, but something lingered in the space between them.

Something unspoken.

He bowed. She curtsied. And the world returned to its proper rhythm.

But neither of them quite moved away.

Not yet.

He remembered. He remembered when the Ashbournes had stopped appearing on guest lists. When the polite silences had started. When his own grief had consumed him too fully to notice how many other people were vanishing from the fringes of his world.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Y/N didn’t look away. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Still,” he said, more quietly, “you were missed.”

She blinked, just once. Then gave him a small, gracious nod. “Thank you.”

The music shifted toward its final refrain. They moved through the last sweeping arc of the waltz, silent for a few measures, but it wasn’t the silence of awkwardness. It felt like memory, settled between them like something familiar.

When the music came to a close, Anthony stepped back and bowed. She curtsied in return.

“Lady Ashbourne,” he said.

“Lord Bridgerton,” she replied.

He offered his arm, and she accepted it without hesitation. As he led her back to the edge of the room, she glanced sideways, her voice low.

“You still lead too tightly on the third turn.”

His mouth twitched. “You’re the second person to say that tonight.”

“Well,” she said, looking ahead again, “perhaps you ought to take the note.”

He escorted her back to her place beside her chaperone, released her hand, and inclined his head politely.

Then he turned and walked away.

At last, he grew quiet. His hands, roughened with ink, toyed absently with the edge of a discarded sheet. His gaze dropped, his voice low.

“I wed again.”

The words landed heavy between them, and Claire’s breath caught in her throat. She nodded, slowly, her chest tightening. Of course he had. He was a man, flesh and blood, left behind for two decades. She had prepared herself for this. Or thought she had.

He swallowed hard, as though the words scalded his throat. “It was… her. Y/N.”

Claire’s head jerked up, her eyes wide. She remembered the name, faintly—Jamie had spoken of her once, long ago, with the casual warmth of someone he had known since childhood. A neighbour. A friend. She searched his face now, the faint, sorrowful curve of his mouth.

“You loved her,” she said softly, not as a question but a truth.

Jamie looked up then, his eyes shimmering. “Aye. God help me, I did. I loved her as I loved the air in my lungs. She was… she was everything I thought I’d lost wi’ you, Claire. She was home.”

Claire’s throat tightened, but she managed a small, fragile smile. “And she made you happy?”

His lips trembled, his hands curling into fists on the table. “Aye. She did. For a time.”

Something in his tone made Claire’s chest ache, and she leaned forward, her voice low and unsteady.

“Jamie, you’re speaking in the past tense. What… what happened?”

Jamie closed his eyes, his whole body going still as though bracing against a blow. When he spoke, his voice cracked like timber splintering under too much strain.

“We were only wed three years.”

The silence that followed was unbearable, stretching out until Claire thought she might break from the tension of it. Her heart pounded in her ears, each beat carrying dread.

“She caught the influenza,” he said at last, hoarse and halting. “It swept through Lallybroch like a curse. Half the tenants were down, Jenny herself near to death. And Y/N…” His voice broke, ragged, and he pressed the heel of his hand to his mouth, shoulders trembling with the effort of holding steady. “She was strong, Christ, she was stronger than me in many ways. But the fever… it took her. Quick as a storm rolling in. One night she was at my side, laughing as she set bread to rise, and by the next week—”

His hand dropped, palm striking the table with a helpless crack. He bowed his head, hair falling forward to shadow his face, but it couldn’t hide the devastation etched in every line of him.

“I held her hand until the last,” he whispered, his voice breaking in earnest now. “She slipped awa’ in her sleep, quiet as a candle burning itself out. I begged the Lord, begged Him to take me instead, but—” His chest heaved with the weight of memory, words torn from somewhere deep. “He didna listen.”

Claire’s vision blurred, her throat closing around a sob she hadn’t expected. Her heart broke for him, yes, but also, impossibly, for this woman she had never known. This woman who had lived in the empty space Claire herself had left behind. She reached across the table, covering his ink-stained hand with her own, her fingers trembling.

“Oh, Jamie…” she whispered, her voice thick with tears.

His fingers clutched hers, desperate, as though he feared she might slip away too. “She was my heart, Claire. After Culloden, after losing you—I thought I was dead myself. But Y/N… she made me live again. She gave me back laughter, and peace, and a place to belong. And I—” His voice cracked, faltered, before he pushed the words out with aching reverence. “I thought we’d have the rest of our lives. I thought I’d grow old wi’ her.”

Claire’s tears spilled freely now, hot and stinging. She had imagined this reunion a hundred times across twenty years, but never like this. Never with the ghost of another woman between them—a woman who had been his world, who had borne his love, who had died in his arms.

Jamie finally lifted his gaze, and the rawness of it nearly undid her. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with grief that time had not softened.

“There’s no day that passes I dinna think of her,” he said, voice thick, broken. “Even now. Even sitting here wi’ you, Claire—part of me is still wi’ her. Always will be.”

The words hollowed the room, left it aching and still. And yet Claire felt the truth of them settle in her bones like a weight she would carry too. She wept for him. For the years lost. And, with a strange and piercing sorrow, for Y/N, the woman who had held his heart, only to have it torn from her too soon.

Claire bowed her head, her tears falling over their joined hands, her grief folding into his, two currents meeting in the same wide sea.

Claire nodded, her heart breaking and mending all at once. “I understand,” she said softly, and she meant it with every fibre of her being. How could she begrudge him love, when she had left him to walk the earth without her for twenty years? She had chosen to go, to step back through the stones, and in that absence he had found warmth again. She could not hate him for it. In truth, she loved him all the more for having been capable of such devotion twice in one lifetime.

The room was quiet but for the faint creak of the press cooling in the corner, the muffled hum of Edinburgh’s streets beyond the window. Between them, grief and memory and love braided themselves into a knot too tight to unpick, too painful to separate. There was no dividing the past from the present, no clean lines between the living and the dead.

Jamie turned her hand slowly in his, his thumb tracing the bones of her fingers as though committing them to memory. Then he lifted it, pressing a kiss against her skin. It lingered there, trembling with sorrow, gratitude, and something almost like penance.

“I dinna deserve such women as you both,” he whispered, his voice breaking under the weight of it. “Yet I was blessed wi’ each of you, for a time.”

The words struck Claire deep, sharp and tender all at once. A woman she had never met, yet who had carried Jamie’s heart, his laughter, his burdens. A woman who had walked in the space Claire herself had left, and who had paid for it with her life.

Her throat ached, but still she gave his hand a gentle squeeze, anchoring him. Telling him without words that she was still there, that she always would be. That she carried Y/N too, in this strange, aching communion of love and loss.

“Ye’re starin’ at me again, lass,” he teased, lifting a brow.

“And what if I am?” she shot back, laughing when he reached to snag her wrist and pull her down into his lap. Two years of marriage, and she still felt giddy at his touch, still marveled at how easy it had become to wake to his warmth every morning, to end every day with his kiss.

Theirs was a simple life, but it was full. They worked side by side, argued over the best way to stack the peat, stole kisses in doorways. They prayed together on Sundays, shared stories by the fire, and learned—slowly, tenderly—what it meant to grow old with one another.

But that morning, as she bent over the hearth to stir the porridge, a strange flutter caught her low in her belly. She stilled, hand braced against the table, waiting for it to pass. It didn’t. It rolled again, faint but certain, a whisper of movement that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than flesh. A wave of heat spread through her chest.

No. It couldn’t be.

She was nearly forty, her years of childbearing long behind her—she had made her peace with that. Alexander was grown, a man in his own right, and she had not thought her body capable of such surprises anymore.

And yet…

Her hand drifted to her stomach, palm flat, her breath caught in her throat. The sensation was familiar, achingly so.

She remembered the first time, all those years ago. She had been barely seventeen. She’d felt it then, that same low flutter, like the faintest ripple of wings. She had frozen in place, the sound of everything fading into nothing as a quiet certainty bloomed within her. Life. It was not something she had reasoned out, nor something she could have explained to anyone. It was simply known, in her very bones, that another soul had begun inside her.

Alexander.

She could still recall the way her body had hummed with the knowledge, a trembling mixture of awe and terror. She had pressed her palm to her stomach then, too, whispering to herself when no one was near: There you are. I ken you’re there.

And now, nearly two decades later, the same certainty welled up. The flutter wasn’t hunger, wasn’t weariness—it was life, raw and new, declaring itself in the secret places of her body.

Her throat tightened as her eyes filled, the kitchen around her blurring into nothing. She whispered into the stillness, the words trembling on her lips as they had once before:

“There you are.”

Jamie noticed the stillness, rising to his feet at once. “Mo ghraidh? Are ye well?”

She turned to him slowly, her hand still pressed against her stomach, her eyes wide and shimmering as though she hardly dared speak aloud what she felt. Her lips curved into the smallest, trembling smile.

“Jamie… I think—” She faltered, breath catching, before forcing the words out. “I think I might be with child.”

For a moment, he only stared, unmoving, as though her words were too impossible to grasp. His mouth opened, closed, and then, suddenly, his face broke open, wonder and disbelief rushing across his features before joy, fierce and uncontainable, won out.

“God above,” he whispered hoarsely, crossing the room in three long strides to gather her into his arms. “Truly?”

Her laugh came half-wild, shaky with nerves and awe. She nodded against his chest, the sound muffled. “I—I canna be certain, not yet. But, Jamie… I never had this feeling with the babes I lost. Only with Alexander.” Her voice wavered, but her hand pressed more firmly to her belly, as if testing the truth of her own words. “That first flutter, that strange certainty, I kent it was life. And now… it feels the same. The very same.”

Jamie’s breath hitched, and he drew back just enough to search her face, as though to read the truth written there. “After all this time…” His thumb traced her cheek with aching reverence. “Nearly forty years, mo ghraidh, and yet the Lord has blessed us wi’ this?”

Tears blurred her vision, but she laughed softly through them, almost disbelieving. “I thought I’d left that part of my life behind. I’d made peace with it, truly, I had. But now…” Her voice broke, and she shook her head helplessly, a hand clinging to his sleeve. “Now I dinna ken whether to fall on my knees or run out into the fields shouting it to the sky.”

Jamie kissed her then, fierce and reverent, his hands cradling her as though she were spun glass, as though the whole of this miracle lay in his keeping. When he pulled back, his eyes shone bright, wet with emotion.

“It seems,” he said thickly, voice breaking, “the Lord has seen fit to bless us wi’ more than we ever dreamed. More than I thought possible.”

She pressed her forehead to his, trembling with the weight of it, both joy and fear. “I dinna want to hope too much. Not yet. But, Jamie… if it is true—”

“It is,” he said firmly, his hand covering hers where it lay over her belly. “It is, mo chridhe. Whatever comes, we’ll face it together.”

Her gown hung nearby, simple but finely made, a gift of Jenny’s clever hands. Fine satin and silk were for the wealthy, the noble—for brides whose families could afford such display. Y/N’s dress was of good linen, soft and fine, with a bodice neatly laced and sleeves that tapered to the wrist. A strip of lace, yellowed with age, trimmed the neckline—a piece from her mother’s wedding kerchief, brought out and stitched anew. Beneath the gown, a petticoat of plain wool added weight and shape, the hem just brushing the tops of her shoes.

Spread carefully on the table beside it lay a kerchief of white linen, pressed flat, to be draped modestly over her shoulders in the chapel. A ribbon of pale blue had been stitched along the edge by Jenny’s eldest, her small, uneven stitches a charm of sorts.

Beside it lay the sprig of fresh heather, Jenny’s doing—meant for her breast. A symbol of good luck, of protection, of a marriage that might weather all storms.

Y/N let her fingers linger over the heather before brushing the gown again, smoothing it for the hundredth time. She knew the rites that awaited her—the three banns had been called in the chapel, the priest would bless them both, vows spoken before God and community, the joining of hands bound with the words of the Church. The people of Lallybroch would gather to bear witness, to celebrate, to feast after.

It should have felt familiar, this waiting. She had done it before—once, long ago, when she was barely more than a girl.

Her first wedding had been held in haste, the banns barely called, her gown plain homespun, hurriedly let out at the seams to fit her. Alan had been kind, gentle in his way, but she remembered sitting at her mother’s dressing table that morning with her stomach hollow, her hands cold. She had felt small, overwhelmed, as though she were stepping into a life chosen for her rather than a life she had chosen. The memory pressed sharp, the whispered instructions of her aunts, the tight smile of her mother as she pinned her hair, the candlelit chill of the chapel, and the way her pulse had thundered not with joy, but with something closer to fear.

She had been a bride then, but not yet a woman who knew her own heart.

Now, she thought, with her hand smoothing the linen of her gown, she was both.

And now—

She drew a breath, pressing a hand to her chest. Her heart raced for another reason entirely. It beat so fast she thought it might break free, not from dread, but from the sheer swell of it all.

Jamie.

This time, she was not walking toward a stranger who would become her husband, but toward the boy who had always been hers—the man who had carried her in his heart through war and silence and sorrow. This time, there was no coldness, no emptiness. Only fullness. Only certainty.

The cottage smelled faintly of lavender mingled with the familiar tang of hearth smoke. Through the open window, she could hear laughter and the shrill cries of the children chasing one another in the courtyard, Jenny’s voice sharp and fond as she called after them, the deeper rumble of men shifting barrels and benches for the feast. It was the sound of life, of kin, of a household preparing not for mourning, not for toil, but for joy. It wrapped around her like a benediction.

Her gaze dropped to her hands, folded tightly in her lap. She thought of the rings she had worn before—the simple gold band slipped onto her finger in a chapel so cold she’d shivered all through the vows, the priest’s Latin words echoing hollowly against stone walls. Alan had been good to her; she would never speak otherwise. She had honoured him, she had borne him a child, she had mourned his passing. But what they had shared had been tempered, measured. Born not of burning devotion but of the quiet necessity of two lives pressed together.

She had grieved him. But she had never known then what it was to feel as she did now.

Now, the love was fierce. Earned. Lived-in.

Her eyes lifted to the gown hanging in the corner, ready for her to step into. The linen shone pale in the morning light, the lace at its neck delicate as a sigh. Jenny’s daughters had braided her hair the night before, winding it into plaits that could be pinned neatly now, ready to be covered with a linen veil at the chapel. Not a fine silk, no, but plain and proper, as befitted a bride. A garland of green and white waited beside it, fresh heather and rowan Jenny had gathered at dawn. She would wear it over the veil as custom dictated, a symbol of purity, but also of protection—against ill will, against misfortune, against anything that might dare touch the joy she was about to claim.

She thought of the cherry blossoms drifting down around her only a week past, pale as snow, soft as breath, as Jamie knelt in the grass. His voice had been steady then, though she had seen his hand tremble as it reached for hers. She had dreamed of that moment as a girl and let it go as a woman, certain it would never come. And yet here she was.

Her throat tightened. She pressed her palms together, bowing her head until her forehead brushed the backs of her fingers. The words of the old prayers returned unbidden— Pater Noster… Ave Maria… —but beneath them, deeper still, came a whisper she had not spoken since childhood. Not for luck, not for riches, not even for peace.

Only gratitude.

For the years that had shaped her, even the bitter ones.

For the griefs that had carved her hollow enough to be filled again.

For Alexander, her son, her anchor, her proof that love endured even in loss.

For Jenny, for the walls of Lallybroch, for this home that had steadied her when she thought she could not go on.

And above all—for Jamie Fraser. The boy who had once been hers, the man who was hers still, waiting now at the end of the chapel aisle with a heart she had never stopped carrying in her own.

When she opened her eyes, the light through the window had shifted, a bright spill across the floorboards, warm as blessing.

It was time.

A knock at the door pulled her from her prayers. Light, polite, but familiar.

“Come in,” she called softly, smoothing her skirts with hands that trembled more than she liked.

The latch lifted, and Alexander stepped in. He had taken pains with himself that morning—his hair neatly combed, his best coat buttoned, boots polished to a shine. For a heartbeat, she only stared at him, her chest tightening. He looked so tall, so steady, the little boy who had once clung to her skirts now standing in the doorway a man grown.

“Ye’re ready, Mam?” he asked, his voice careful, as though he were afraid of breaking the moment.

Her lips curved, though her throat ached. “As I’ll ever be.”

He crossed the room in a few strides, his eyes taking in the gown, the veil waiting to be pinned, the flush on her cheeks. “Ye look… beautiful,” he said, awkward but earnest.

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “Oh, Alex.” Reaching up, she cupped his cheek, her thumb brushing over the faint shadow of a beard. “You sound just like your father.”

His mouth twitched, a ghost of a smile. “I hope that’s a good thing.”

“It is.” Her voice dropped, husky with the weight of it. “It always will be.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. He bent then, almost shyly, to press a kiss to her temple, and when he straightened, his hand lingered over hers where it rested against his arm.

“Are ye sure, Mam?” he asked at last, his brow furrowing slightly. “Sure this is what ye want?”

The question, simple as it was, undid her. Tears pricked her eyes, though she blinked them back quickly. “More sure than I’ve ever been of anything. And it’s because of you.”

“Me?” His brows rose.

She nodded, her smile tremulous but firm. “Aye. Because you’ve been my whole world all these years. You taught me I could love fiercely and survive loss. You gave me the strength to stand when I thought I’d fall. And now…” She paused, steadying her breath. “Now I ken it’s time. For me. For us.”

For once, he didn’t argue. His hand squeezed hers, his thumb rubbing once over her knuckles before he drew back and offered his arm properly, like the gentleman he was. “Then I’ll take ye to him.”

Her heart swelled, pride and love tangling until she thought she might burst. She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, the weight of it both familiar and new.

As they stepped out into the morning air together, she glanced up at her son, and for just a moment, she saw not the man but the boy he had been, the boy who had clutched her hand crossing streams, who had cried for her in the dark, who had whispered that he would take care of her when he was grown.

And now he was keeping his word.

The chapel was small, whitewashed stone with ivy beginning to climb its outer walls, but to Jamie it might as well have been a cathedral. He stood near the altar, hands clasped tightly behind his back, his shoulders square but betraying none of the storm in his chest.

The candles had been lit, their flames wavering in the draught, filling the air with the faint smell of beeswax. A few guests had already gathered, their whispers rising and falling like a tide. Jamie hardly heard them. His gaze fixed on the wooden crucifix above the altar, unblinking, as though he might steady himself by sheer force of will.

Jenny had been watching him from the back pew for some time. She knew that stance—too rigid, too controlled. The way his jaw worked, the muscle feathering there, told her more than his silence ever could.

At last, she rose and came forward, skirts swishing softly against the flagstones. “Ye’ll wear a groove in the floor if ye keep standin’ there like that,” she said lightly.

He startled, just a fraction, before glancing down at her. “I dinna ken what ye mean.”

Jenny’s lips curved. “Aye, ye do. Ye’re nervous as a colt in harness.”

Jamie’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t deny it. His hands fell to his sides, clenching once, then loosening. “Aye,” he admitted, voice low. “I am.”

Jenny tilted her head, studying him. “It’s no a bad thing, ye ken. Means ye care.”

His gaze dropped to the worn stones beneath their feet, the weight of years heavy on his broad shoulders. “It’s more than nerves.” He hesitated, as though confessing something shameful. “I keep thinkin’ of her.”

Jenny stilled, her expression softening. She needed no name. “Claire,” she said gently.

He nodded once, jaw tight. “I loved her. God knows, I still do, in some part of me. I canna pretend otherwise. And now—” He stopped, breath shuddering out. “Now I’m about to vow myself to another woman. The only woman I loved before her. It feels… as though I’m betraying them both.”

Jenny reached out, laying a hand against his arm, firm and steady. “Listen to me, brother. There’s no betrayal in love. Ye gave Claire all that ye could, and she gave the same to you. What ye shared ended—aye, far sooner and crueller than it should’ve, but it ended. And now life has given ye another chance. With her.”

Jamie’s throat worked, his eyes fixed on the crucifix. “But what if I canna give her all of me? What if part of my heart still lies with Claire?”

Jenny squeezed his arm. “Do ye think Y/N doesna ken that? She’s carried her own grief, Jamie. She kens the shape of it as well as you. She doesna want half of ye, she wants the whole man ye are now. The one who’s been broken and mended. The one who’s learned sorrow, and still dares to love again.”

Her voice softened, but her eyes stayed sharp, unyielding. “Dinna cheapen either of them by callin’ it betrayal. Claire was your past. Y/N is your future. And both truths can live in your heart without dishonour.”

For a long moment, Jamie didn’t move. Then his eyes closed, his head bowing, the weight of her words settling into him like a balm and a burden both.

When he opened them again, his gaze found Jenny’s, and she saw the change—still nervous, still human, but steadier. Resolved.

“Ye’ve always had a sharp tongue, sister,” he said hoarsely.

“Aye,” she said with a small smile. “And it’s saved your hide more times than I can count.”

A flicker of a laugh escaped him, ragged but real. He reached for her hand, squeezing it once before letting go. “Thank ye, Jenny. For remindin’ me what matters.”

She nodded toward the door, where sunlight streamed faintly through the cracks. “What matters is waitin’ for ye. Now stand tall, Jamie Fraser. The lass deserves a man who’s proud to take her hand, no’ one quakin’ in his boots.”

Jamie drew a long breath, his spine straightening. And for the first time that morning, he felt ready—not because the nerves had vanished, but because he knew who he was carrying with him, and who he was walking toward.

The chapel had grown quiet. The shuffling and murmurs stilled as though the very air knew something sacred was about to begin. Jamie stood tall at the altar, every nerve in him strung taut.

Then the door opened.

Light spilled in, spilling across the stone floor like a blessing, and there she was.

Y/N.

His breath caught sharp in his chest, as though someone had struck him. She was radiant—not in finery, for her gown was simple, but in the way she carried herself. Linen pale and soft against her skin, a sprig of heather pinned at her breast. Her hair framed her face just as it had when she was a girl, though time had left its marks as it had on him. He would not have wished them away. Every line, every shadow in her face, was earned. Every moment of grief, of endurance, had led her here. To him.

And at her side—Alexander, tall and steady, his mother’s son in every way. Jamie felt a lump rise in his throat at the sight. The lad’s arm linked with hers, pride in his face as he bore her forward, giving her away and yet keeping her, too.

Jamie thought, fleetingly, of all the nights he had dreamed this—nights in exile, nights in prison, nights when the weight of the world seemed too much and only the memory of her smile had kept him whole. In his mind, he had seen her walk toward him a thousand times, her hand outstretched, her eyes soft. He had woken to emptiness, always.

But not now. Now she was real, flesh and blood and beating heart. His heart.

The sight of her undid him, as though he were no laird, no man seasoned by war and loss, but a boy again. Thirteen, standing beneath the cherry tree, tasting the sweetness of her lips for the very first time. The same dizzy wonder filled him now, the same helplessness, the same certainty that this girl, this woman, was his beginning and his end.

His vision blurred, though he forced the tears back, his jaw working. God help him, he wanted to weep with the sheer immensity of it, the miracle of her walking toward him, the gift of being allowed to stand here and wait for her.

Every step she took toward him was a stitch in a wound he had carried all his life. Every step, a promise.

Jamie drew himself up, shoulders broad, his hand unconsciously brushing the crucifix in his pocket. He felt the swell of pride rise in him like a tide. Pride that she had chosen him, after all the years, after all the pain. Pride that she was his match, his equal, his heart made flesh before him.

When her gaze lifted at last, finding his across the chapel, Jamie’s breath left him in a rush.

Mine, he thought, fierce and unyielding. She is mine, and I am hers.

The boy beneath the cherry tree still lived in him, trembling with awe and first love. But the man—scarred, older, tempered—stood ready to take her hand and vow himself with all the strength he possessed.

And as she drew closer, Jamie Fraser thought there had never been, in all of creation, a sight so worthy of falling to one’s knees.

The chapel air was cool and still, the faint smell of beeswax and heather hanging about the stone. Y/N came to stand before him, her hand slipping from Alexander’s arm. The lad bowed his head respectfully and stepped back, pride soft in his eyes as he yielded his place.

Jamie reached for her hand almost without thought. It was warm, trembling just slightly, and when her eyes met his, he knew he was shaking too.

The priest cleared his throat gently, beginning in Latin before shifting to the Scots tongue for the vows, so all present might understand.

“We are gathered in God’s house,” he said solemnly, “to witness the joining of James Fraser and Y/N McKinnon in holy matrimony. It is a solemn bond, no’ tae be entered into lightly, but with reverence, faith, and love.”

Jamie’s chest swelled; he could scarce breathe for it.

The priest nodded. “Ye may speak your vows.”

Jamie took her hand fully into his, the calluses of his palm rough against her soft skin. His voice, when it came, was low but steady, every word carrying the weight of a lifetime.

“I, James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser, take thee, Y/N McKinnon , to be my wife. To have and to hold from this day forth. For better, for worse. For richer, for poorer. In sickness and in health. To love and to cherish, till death parts us.”

His throat tightened, but he held her gaze. “Before God, before your son, before all here, I pledge ye my heart. It has always been yours.”

The hush in the chapel was deep, reverent.

Y/N’s lips parted, her breath catching, but she answered without faltering, her voice soft yet sure.

“I, Y/N McKinnon, take thee, James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser, to be my husband. To have and to hold from this day forth. For better, for worse. For richer, for poorer. In sickness and in health. To love and to cherish, till death parts us. Before God, before my son, before all here, I give you my heart. For it has always belonged to you.”

A murmur swept softly through the gathered kin, Jenny wiping discreetly at her eye.

The priest lifted his stole, wrapping it gently around their joined hands in the old Highland custom, binding them together. “What God has joined, let no man put asunder.”

Jamie bent his head, pressing his brow to hers for a heartbeat before the priest continued.

The ring was brought forth, a plain band of gold with a thistle engraved across it. Jamie slipped it onto her finger with hands that trembled, his voice thick as he whispered, “With this ring, I thee wed.”

She, in turn, slid a ring upon his hand—Jenny’s doing, ensuring he had one as well—her thumb brushing his skin with tender finality.

The priest lifted his hands in blessing. “By the power vested in me by Holy Church, I now pronounce ye husband and wife.”

The words seemed to reverberate through Jamie’s very bones. Husband and wife.

He drew her in then, without waiting for permission, and kissed her. Not the desperate, consuming kiss of nights past, but one steady and sure, sealing their vows in the eyes of God and kin alike. The chapel erupted in soft laughter, clapping, the stamping of boots in approval.

Jamie broke from her just long enough to rest his forehead against hers, his voice a whisper meant only for her.

“Ye are mine, mo sheillean. At last, and always.”

And for the first time in his long, storm-tossed life, Jamie Fraser felt wholly, truly home.

The chapel’s hush gave way, the moment they stepped outside, to a roar of voices and the skirl of pipes. The sun had broken free of the clouds as if summoned, and its light spilled over the gathered kin and tenants, their faces bright with grins, their hands eager to clap shoulders and clasp fingers.

Lallybroch had outdone itself. Long trestle tables were spread across the courtyard, laden with bannocks and roasted meats, honeyed oatcakes, wheels of cheese, and flagons of ale and whisky enough to drown the whole parish. Children darted between legs, shrieking in delight as Fergus chased them with exaggerated growls. Jenny’s girls carried trays of steaming pies from the kitchens, their cheeks flushed from the heat and the excitement.

Jamie barely made it three steps before half a dozen hands caught him, thumping his back, gripping his arm, raising cups in his honour. He laughed, breathless, and kept one hand locked around Y/N’s as though she might vanish in the press.

She laughed too, the sound like something he hadn’t known he’d been starving for all these years. She was kissed on both cheeks, embraced by Jenny and the bairns, Alexander clapping her shoulder with the pride of a man who knew he’d given his blessing wisely.

“Eat! Drink!” Jenny commanded above the din, her voice sharp and fond. “There’s nae leaving this table hungry!”

The musicians struck up then, fiddles and pipes, a bodhrán thudding like a heartbeat beneath it all. The courtyard burst into movement, couples swinging out into the reels, boots pounding in time, skirts flying. Jamie pulled Y/N with him into the circle, his hands sure at her waist, her laughter spilling as he spun her, her hair catching the golden light.

He couldn’t stop smiling — his cheeks ached with it, but still it came, again and again, every time she glanced up at him. She was radiant, flushed with joy, her eyes brighter than any candle flame.

They stumbled breathless from the dance, cups pressed into their hands before they could even sit. Jamie drank deep, the whisky burning warm down his throat, but it was nothing compared to the heat in his chest when he looked at her.

Y/N leaned close, her hand brushing his where it rested on the bench. “I feel… as though I might burst,” she admitted, her voice shy but giddy.

Jamie’s grin softened, his thumb sweeping over her knuckles. “Burst, then. I’ll gather ye up, piece by piece, and keep ye safe.”

The words nearly undid her — she pressed her lips together, eyes shining, before Jenny’s voice rose again, sharp as a hawk.

“Speech! A word from the groom!”

The courtyard erupted in cheers, mugs banging against tables. Jamie stood, his hand reluctant to leave Y/N’s but his face alight with pride.

He lifted his cup high. “To my wife,” he said, the word ringing bold and certain. “She is my heart, my home, my joy. May we never know a day without laughter, nor a night without love.”

A cheer went up so loud the crows startled from the rooftops. Y/N hid her face in her hands, laughing and blushing, but Jamie bent, catching her lips in a swift, sure kiss to the crowd’s delight.

The music surged again, reels spilling one into the next, children clambering into laps, candles flaring as dusk fell. The feast stretched on, a blur of food and song and warmth. Lallybroch itself seemed alive, the stones holding the echo of every laugh, every tune, every vow renewed in spirit.

And through it all, Jamie never let her drift far. Whether she was dancing, drinking, or laughing at something Fergus had whispered, he was always there — a hand at her back, a glance across the firelight, a touch that said plainly what words never could:

She was his.

At last.

And he was hers.

Forever.

The music had swelled into another reel, the courtyard shaking with boots and laughter, when Jenny appeared at Jamie’s side. She pressed a fresh bannock into his hand, then leaned close, her eyes glinting.

“That’s enough of ye hogging the floor,” she said briskly, though her smile softened the words. “There’s a wife waitin’ on ye. Time ye went home.”

Jamie opened his mouth to protest, but Jenny was already waving him off, shoving Y/N’s shawl into her hands. “Go on wi’ ye both, before the bairns catch their second wind and keep ye here till dawn.”

The crowd cheered as though they knew exactly what was happening. Fergus let out a piercing whistle, and Alexander, grinning despite himself, clapped Jamie on the back so hard his whisky sloshed over the rim.

Flushed and laughing, Y/N allowed herself to be herded toward the gate, Jamie’s hand warm at her back. The noise of the feast faded behind them, replaced by the cool hush of night.

They walked slowly, the path back to her cottage lit by the moon and the scatter of stars overhead. The air was crisp, scented faintly of heather and woodsmoke, their breath clouding pale in the lamplight spilling from Lallybroch’s windows.

For a while, neither spoke. Y/N tugged her shawl tighter, though it wasn’t the cold that made her shiver. Jamie walked close enough that his sleeve brushed hers now and again, each touch sparking through her like tinder catching.

It was ridiculous, she thought, how she felt like a girl again, thirteen and trembling with the thrill of holding his hand behind the byre. And yet it wasn’t the same. They were older now, changed, with years and grief behind them. That made this, this quiet walk in the starlight, feel all the more like a gift.

Jamie finally broke the silence, his voice low. “Jenny’ll be smilin’ herself to sleep the night. Likely patting her back for seeing us out the door.”

Y/N laughed softly, glancing at him. “She’s never been subtle.”

“No,” Jamie agreed, his eyes catching hers for a moment longer than was safe. “But she’s usually right.”

The words lingered between them, weighty and unspoken. Y/N’s heart thudded, her mouth suddenly dry. She fixed her gaze on the path ahead, though every nerve in her body was tuned to him, the steady rise of his chest, the warmth radiating from his side, the way his hand flexed once, as though he were resisting the urge to reach for her.

They reached the cottage at last, the little window aglow with the fire Alexander must have banked before leaving for the feast. Jamie paused at the door, turning to her.

His face was unreadable for a moment, caught somewhere between reverence and restraint. “Ye look… radiant,” he said finally, voice roughened with honesty.

Her breath caught. She wanted to tell him the same, that he looked every bit the man she had dreamed of and more, that she could barely believe this was real, but the words tangled in her throat. Instead, she only smiled, small and unsteady, and stepped past him into the warmth of the cottage.

He followed, closing the door behind them. The quiet settled heavy, full of things unsaid, the flicker of firelight painting gold across his face.

And for the first time all day, it was just them.

Just Jamie and Y/N.

And the night ahead.

The cottage was quiet but for the low crackle of the fire, shadows dancing across the walls. Y/N stood near the table, her shawl still clutched in her hands though she’d no need of it. Her heart thrummed so loudly she was certain Jamie could hear it.

Jamie lingered by the hearth, his broad shoulders haloed in firelight. He looked younger in that glow, like the boy she had first kissed beneath the cherry tree. Yet there was something deeper now in his gaze, the kind of weight that came only with years of living and longing.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. It was as though the joy and noise of the day had carried them to this threshold, but now the hush demanded something else entirely.

At last, Jamie cleared his throat, his voice low and careful.

“I dinna want ye to be afraid.”

She blinked, startled, before shaking her head. “I’m not. Only… I don’t quite know where to begin.”

His mouth softened into a smile, though his hands fidgeted slightly at his sides, betraying his own nerves. “Aye, well. Truth be told, neither do I. For all I’ve dreamed of this, it feels new.”

Her breath caught at that, because it was true. They had both been wed before, both known what it was to share a bed. And yet, standing here, it felt as though they were fumbling in the dark for the first time.

Jamie stepped closer then, slow, giving her space to stop him if she wished. When she didn’t move, his hand rose, brushing lightly against her cheek. His palm was warm, roughened, familiar and yet achingly intimate.

“I’ve wanted this since I was a lad,” he murmured. “But I meant what I said, ye deserve more than haste. Ye deserve tenderness, choice. Always.”

Her throat tightened. She lifted her hand to cover his where it rested against her face, pressing into it as though anchoring herself. “And I choose this,” she whispered. “I choose you.”

He bent his head and kissed her, slow at first, reverent. Her hands found his shoulders, steadying herself against the sheer force of it—the taste of him, the certainty, the way the world seemed to still around them.

When they parted, she was breathless, laughing softly at herself. “It’s absurd,” she said, voice trembling. “We’ve both lived whole lives apart, yet I feel like a girl again.”

Jamie’s forehead rested against hers, his eyes alight with something fierce and tender all at once. “Then we’ll be young together, just for tonight.”

He helped her loosen the pins from her hair, his fingers careful, almost reverent as each curl tumbled free. She reached for the clasp of his coat, shy at first, but his soft smile steadied her, made her bold.

Piece by piece, the layers of the day fell away—shawl, coat, shoes—until it was only the two of them, standing in the firelight with nothing between them but the weight of years and the sharp, sweet pull of longing.

Jamie cupped her face again, his thumbs brushing her cheeks as though she were made of glass. “Ye’re so beautiful,” he said, the words raw, unpolished. “God, I never thought I’d see ye like this.”

Her eyes stung, her breath catching. She wanted to say the same, that she had dreamed of him, prayed for him, never truly let him go. But words failed, so she kissed him instead, pouring all of it—grief, longing, joy—into the press of her lips against his.

When at last he drew her toward the bed, it was slow, unhurried. They lay down together as though learning one another anew, laughter breaking through the nerves, touches tentative but growing surer with every heartbeat.

And when he whispered her name, it was not with urgency, but with reverence, as though it were a prayer he had carried all his life, finally spoken aloud.

Jamie’s breath was warm against her cheek, his hands braced at either side of her as though he feared she might vanish. Y/N reached for him, her fingers tracing the strong line of his jaw, the familiar scar beneath his ear. She wanted to memorise him all over again, not just the man he had become, but the boy she had once loved, the man who had survived to return to her.

“Jamie,” she whispered, the sound breaking in her throat.

He kissed her again, deeper this time, until she felt herself unravel beneath the weight of it. His hands slid to her waist, drawing her closer, until there was no space left between them. The heat of his body burned through the thin linen of her shift, every inch of him a reminder of how alive she was, how alive they both were.

For a moment, he broke away, his chest heaving. “Are ye sure?” he asked, voice rough. “Tell me now, lass, if ye’ve any doubt.”

Her answer came without hesitation. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Whatever restraint he had left seemed to splinter then. His mouth found hers once more, his touch growing bolder, yet never losing its tenderness. He moved slowly, as though relearning every contour of her, and she marvelled at the reverence in it. He worshipped her with every kiss, every caress, until she felt her body tremble with anticipation.

When at last he joined with her, it was with a gasp torn from both their throats—a sound of recognition, of relief. For an instant, she clutched at him, overwhelmed by the sheer rightness of it, the way their bodies fit as though they had been carved for this moment alone.

Jamie buried his face in her neck, murmuring her name like a prayer. His movements were slow, deliberate, each one a vow renewed in the language of touch. She matched him, her hands roaming his back, her breath mingling with his as they found their rhythm.

It was not like her first wedding night, all nerves and strangeness. Nor was it like the careful years that had followed. This was something else entirely, something fierce and consuming, yet achingly gentle. It was love made flesh, the years of absence and longing melting away until there was only the two of them, bound together in body and spirit.

As the moment built, the world seemed to dissolve. There was no war, no loss, no sorrow—only Jamie, only this. She clung to him as though she could fuse them together, and when release came, it tore through her in waves, shattering and remaking her all at once.

Jamie followed with a low groan, his body shaking as he gave himself over to it, holding her as though she were both anchor and salvation. For a long time, they stayed that way, tangled and breathless, the fire crackling softly in the corner.

At last, he lifted his head, his hair damp against his brow, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “Mo ghraidh,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to hers. “I’ve dreamed of this all my life—and still, it’s more than I ever imagined.”

She cupped his face, smiling through her own tears. “Then dream no more, Jamie. We’re here. Together.”

She kneaded bread she did not need, her hands moving with more force than necessary. The dough stuck to her palms, warm and pliant, but her thoughts wandered elsewhere, to places she did not want them to go.

“Mam,” Alexander said from the table, where he’d been leafing through a book he had borrowed from Ian. “Ye’re like a hen scratching the same patch of dirt.”

Her lips twitched — almost a smile — but she didn’t look up. “And you sound like your father, always ready wi’ a word about how I’m doing it wrong.”

Alexander chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “I didna say it was wrong. Just… pointless.”

“Sometimes keeping busy’s the only way to keep steady,” she replied, turning the dough onto the board with more force than necessary.

He studied her for a long moment, his expression sharper than she liked to admit. Alexander had always been too quick to notice what she tried to hide, the cracks in her voice, the way her hands lingered too long on the same task.

“Ye dinna need to prove anything,” he said quietly. “Not to me.”

That made her glance up. His face — so young still, but carrying a weight that sometimes startled her — met hers with quiet steadiness.

“I ken,” she said softly, brushing flour from her palms. “But it helps. For a while.”

He gave a small nod, then reached for another slice of bread from the plate in front of him. “Suit yourself. Just don’t wear the floor away, aye?”

This time, she did smile, faint but real. “Eat your bread before it goes stale.”

Alexander grinned, tearing into the crust, and for a moment the knot in her chest eased.

It was always like this with him — the way he could anchor her without even trying. He was her only bairn. Watching him now, shoulders broadening, voice deepening, she felt the old ache stir — for the ones she had lost — but also a fierce gratitude. Whatever else she had failed to hold on to, she had him. And that had to be enough.

Still, in the quiet moments, her mind betrayed her. She would pause with the broom against the wall and feel again the press of Jamie’s forehead against hers. She would catch sight of the empty chair by the hearth and imagine him there, watching her, the air thick with unsaid things.

By evening, she was weary to the bone, but no closer to forgetting.

The next day was worse.

Jenny’s words clung to her like burrs. He’s wanted you since he was a boy… he wouldna take what he’s dreamt of all his life in a moment that was less than what you deserve.

Foolish, she thought again and again, scrubbing the same pot until her knuckles reddened. Foolish for wanting him. Foolish for letting herself believe it might be simple, that twenty years could be mended in a kiss, in a breathless whisper between rooms.

She walked the length of the fields that afternoon, the hem of her skirts damp with dew, the wind stinging her cheeks. The hills rolled out before her just as they always had, and for a moment, if she closed her eyes, she could almost believe she was young again. That nothing had happened yet. That she and Jamie were still only a pair of reckless bairns, running too fast, dreaming too big.

But then she opened her eyes, and the years returned. The graves. The scars. The empty cradle by her bed.

When she came back inside, Alexander was bent over a book at the table, his brow furrowed in concentration. He looked up at her with his father’s eyes, so gentle, so steady. And she felt her chest ache with something sharp — gratitude for him, sorrow for all she had lost, and an unbearable longing for the life she might have had if things had been different.

That night she lay awake long after Alexander’s breathing had steadied upstairs. She pressed her face into the pillow, as if she could smother the thoughts before they grew too loud. But still, they whispered.

His hands. His voice. The look in his eyes when he said he would wait.

And worse still — the look in Jenny’s eyes when she’d told her there was no shame in still wanting him.

By the second morning, her body was heavy with the effort of pretending. She woke before dawn, lying still beneath the quilt, staring at the low ceiling beams. Sleep had been shallow and fractured, dreams turning again and again to the brush of his mouth against hers, the feel of his hand at her waist.

She rose finally, not because she wanted to, but because she could not bear to lie there any longer.

Her movements became deliberate, ritualistic. She washed, dressed, braided her hair back. She moved through her chores in silence, every gesture practiced, automatic, sweeping as though the dust offended her, scrubbing as though she could scour out the thoughts she carried.

But the stillness inside her house did not ease.

At the table, mending a shirt that no longer needed it, she found her fingers faltering over the stitches. The needle pricked her thumb, sharp and sudden, and she stared at the bead of blood before pressing it away with the cloth. The thought rose before she could stop it, his hands closing over hers, firm and steady, as though he would never let her go.

Her throat tightened. She shook it off, bent again to her work.

By midday, the bread was baked, the floor scrubbed, the linens aired. Still the restless pulse in her chest did not settle. She knew she could not go on like this — not with her heart thrumming against her ribs like a bird desperate to be let out.

But neither could she face him. Not yet. Not when the memory of what she’d felt under his touch still burned so hot against her skin.

So she carried on. Polishing, sweeping, stitching. Keeping her hands busy so her thoughts did not betray her.

Yet the truth was there, lodged beneath it all. The memory of him lingered in every corner — in the warm drawer she’d opened, in the way the shutters caught the light, in the air she breathed. Her house was hers again, but every space she had once thought empty felt changed now, as though he had walked through it and left a mark behind.

And perhaps he had.

By the third afternoon, when the house was quiet and Alexander had gone into the loft with a book, Y/N slipped out the door. She didn’t plan it, didn’t even think about it. Her feet simply carried her down the worn path she had walked a thousand times as a girl.

The air held that first true warmth of spring, the kind that lingered even when the wind caught. She drew her shawl tighter around her shoulders, though she hardly needed it.

The path curved gently between hedgerows just beginning to thicken with green. 

The trees arched overhead, their bare bones softening with the haze of new buds, delicate tips catching the pale sun. Here and there, a branch had burst fully into bloom, pale blossoms trembling in the light breeze, petals loosening to drift lazily down, spinning as they fell until they landed soft against the earth.

The air itself felt different now. No longer sharp and thin as it had been in winter, but rich, full, carrying the scent of damp moss and fresh-turned soil. The earth smelled alive. The thaw had passed, and the ground no longer clung to her shoes, though her skirts brushed against shoots of grass that reached upward, bold and fresh, still wet with the morning’s dew. Tiny wildflowers, purple and white, pricked through the green as though they’d been waiting for this very day to appear.

Far off, the hills glowed with a deeper shade of heather, not yet in its full flush, but hinting at the colours that would soon paint the slopes. A low breeze swept down the glen, carrying with it the faint, sweet tang of gorse beginning to bloom, its yellow blossoms like pockets of sunlight scattered across the land.

A skylark lifted nearby, its song piercing and pure, rising higher and higher until it seemed the whole sky had taken voice. She closed her eyes, letting it wash through her, and for a moment, it was as though she had stepped back into a world untouched by time. A world before war, before grief, before she’d learned what it was to lose.

She drew in a breath, and the air seemed to fill more than her lungs. It filled her chest, her bones, as if the season itself had crept inside her. Spring was never gentle here; it didn’t slip in quietly but announced itself with a sudden, startling force. Ice melted, rivers swelled, buds pushed through hard ground, everything stubborn and fierce in its demand to live.

And perhaps she was not so different.

Her hand slid along the rough bark of a tree as she passed, steadying herself. She thought of all the years between then and now, the weight she had carried, the children she had never held, the husband she had buried, the love she had lost. Yet here she was, breathing in a world remade.

The Highlands seemed to whisper it all around her: nothing is truly gone. Not forever. The earth lies fallow, but it blooms again. Always.

She paused by a familiar stone wall, its edges softened with moss. Her hand rested on the cool surface, fingertips brushing over the grooves she had traced countless times as a child. She remembered walking this very way in summers long past — running instead of walking, bare feet slapping the dirt, hair loose and wild, heart unburdened.

Now, she stood still. Breathing.

The world around her was shedding its winter, stretching into the season ahead. Buds promised fruit, the fields promised growth. And she, too, felt the faint stirring of something she thought she’d buried long ago — the ache of hope, the terrifying sweetness of it.

Her eyes stung. She blinked against it, and let the breeze dry her face.

Jamie drew the reins tighter as he rode down the familiar track, the horse’s hooves muffled against the softening earth. Spring had settled proper now, green creeping up every hillside, lambs dotting the pastures. It was the sort of morning that might’ve once lightened his step, but his chest felt tight.

He’d rehearsed the words half the night and still they tangled every time he thought them.

It wasn’t as though he didna ken what he wanted. He’d known that since he was a lad, tripping over his own feet to follow her down the brae. And that night — Christ, that night had near undone him. The feel of her in his arms, the taste of her lips — it had burned through him like fire, but he’d stopped. He had to. Not because he didna want her, but because he wanted her properly .

He wanted her name joined to his. Wanted to give her the place and the promise she had always deserved.

And that meant doing it right.

Alexander.

The lad was her only kin left in the world, save for the bairns she’d buried and the family she’d lost. Jamie was a traditional man, maybe to his fault, but he couldna bring himself to ask her without speaking to her son first. Alexander deserved that respect. More than that, Y/N deserved it.

The cottage came into view, smoke curling from the chimney. Jamie dismounted, tying the reins to the post with hands that weren’t as steady as he liked. He took a long breath, rolling his shoulders, before he stepped up to the door.

When Alexander opened it, surprise flickered over his face, quickly replaced by the guarded look Jamie knew well — the look of a young man weighing a situation before he spoke.

“Mr. Fraser,” he said, polite but careful.

Jamie inclined his head. “Alexander. May I come in a moment?”

The lad hesitated only a breath before nodding and stepping aside. Inside, the cottage smelled of baking bread and woodsmoke, the kind of scent that lodged deep in the chest. Alexander closed the door behind them, turning to face him square.

Jamie had faced soldiers, kings, and worse in his life. But standing in front of the lad who carried her whole heart — Christ, it made his throat dry.

“I’ll no waste your time,” Jamie began, voice low, steady. “I’ve come to speak plain. About your mother.”

Alexander’s brows lifted slightly, but he stayed quiet, his shoulders squaring.

Jamie cleared his throat, his hand brushing at the back of his neck like he used to when he was a lad caught out in mischief. “I ken I’ve no right tae ask for much, not after all these years. But the truth is, I love her. I’ve loved her since I was barely more than a boy. And I mean to ask her to wed me.”

Alexander’s mouth parted, surprise flickering, but Jamie pressed on before doubt could silence him.

“I wouldna do it without speaking to you first. You’re her son, her only kin. It’s important to me that you ken my intentions, and that ye approve, or at least dinna object.”

The silence stretched, thick enough to choke. Jamie forced himself to hold the lad’s eyes, though his heart hammered like a drum in his chest.

Finally, Alexander spoke, slow and measured. “You’d give her a husband again. A name. A home.”

Jamie swallowed hard. “Aye. And more than that — I’d give her the truth of my heart. She’s carried enough sorrow. If she’ll have me, I’ll spend every day I’ve left tryin’ to give her joy.”

Alexander’s jaw tightened, his arms folding across his chest. “Ye say it plain enough. But she’s been hurt before. I watched it, mind. I watched her cry when she thought no one heard. I watched her wear herself thin tryin’ to carry grief that wasna meant for one person alone. She’ll not survive it again if you break her.”

Jamie felt the words like blows, because he knew they were true. He stepped closer, his voice rough but steady. “Lad, hear me now. I’d sooner cut out my own heart than put her through more pain. I canna undo the years she’s lost, nor the hurt she’s carried. But I can promise ye this: if she lets me, I’ll spend the rest of my life makin’ certain she never carries it alone again.”

Alexander studied him, the kind of look that weighed a man’s very soul. He was silent a long while, his expression shifting from suspicion to something more thoughtful, more vulnerable.

At last, he said, “She still looks at you, you ken. Like a lass looks at her first love. I didna want to see it, but… I’ve eyes. I see the way she softens when your name’s spoken. The way she listens for your step.”

Jamie’s throat tightened. He hadn’t dared hope it was so plain.

“She deserves happiness,” Alexander went on, his voice quieter now. “And maybe you’re the man who can give it to her. But understand this—” His gaze hardened. “She’s my mother. She’s all I have. If you hurt her, I’ll not forgive it.”

Jamie’s lips pressed thin, his voice shaking with the force of his oath. “And I’d not deserve forgiveness if I did. You’ve my word, lad. On my life, on my honour. I’ll cherish her, all her days.”

Alexander let out a slow breath, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. Finally, he gave a short nod. “Then you have my blessing. Not given lightly, but given true. Because I think… she’s loved you all her life. And maybe she deserves to have what she’s wanted all along.”

Jamie’s breath left him in a rush, his chest loosening, relief flooding through him so fierce it near buckled his knees. He inclined his head, voice rough. “Thank ye, lad. More than ye ken.”

Alexander only nodded again, steady, though there was something softer in his eyes now.

The path home seemed shorter that day, though she knew every bend and stone by heart. There was a lightness in her step she couldn’t quite name, something buoyant in the air around her. The sky itself felt nearer, its blue stretched wide and endless over the hills, and even the breeze seemed to carry some secret it was aching to tell.

She knew the feeling. She’d felt it before.

The morning she’d been told she was to be married — that rush of possibility, terror and hope twined so tightly she could scarcely breathe. The day she discovered she was with child — her palms trembling, heart racing, as though the whole world had tilted on its axis. And, cruelly, the night Alan had died — the stillness in the air, the heaviness that pressed down as though the earth itself braced for the blow.

That same feeling brushed at her now, but softer. Not dread. Not grief. A kind of quiet certainty, as if the ground beneath her feet was shifting again, carrying her somewhere she had not dared imagine.

By the time she reached her gate, her pulse had quickened. The door was ajar, voices drifting faintly through the gap.

She stepped inside, heart in her throat.

Jamie was there.

He stood in her kitchen, broad shoulders relaxed, one hand braced against the edge of the table. Alexander sat opposite him, leaning forward with that half-smile he wore when he was listening but pretending not to be charmed. They were laughing — quietly, easily, as though they had always belonged in the same room.

Jamie turned at the sound of her step. His face lit, the smile blooming quick and unguarded, the kind that reached his eyes and made him look years younger.

And in that instant — seeing him there, at her table with her son, as if it had always been so — she knew the feeling had been right. Something was about to change.

Something already had.

Y/N lingered in the doorway a moment longer than she should have, caught between the warmth that rose in her chest at seeing him and the sharp sting of memory. Last night still lived in her skin — his hands, his mouth, his stopping. The flush of mortification threatened, but she pushed it down, forcing herself to smile as she stepped inside.

“Ye’re here,” she said lightly, though her voice carried more weight than she intended.

Jamie straightened, almost as if he’d been waiting for her. “Aye. I should’ve come by sooner.” His eyes flickered, earnest. “I’m sorry, Mo Sheillean. Lallybroch’s been… well, it hasna given me much time to call my own.”

Her heart fluttered at the easey use of her old nickname. 

She waved it off, moving toward the table, pretending busyness. “I understand.”

But he didn’t let it rest. He leaned slightly forward, hands braced on the wood, his voice quieter now. “Still — I should’ve come.” His eyes held hers, unflinching. “Let me make it up to ye. A walk, maybe? Just the two of us.”

Her heart lurched, all at once thirteen again. It was like standing in the glen with a scrap of paper in her hands, reading words she’d pressed close to her chest, promises whispered in ink. Her throat tightened, but she found herself nodding, the corners of her mouth tugging upward before she could stop them.

“I’d like that,” she said, and it was the simple truth.

Jamie’s smile spread, small but genuine, softening the lines that time and hardship had carved into his face. Alexander glanced between them with a spark of quiet amusement, but Y/N scarcely noticed. Her palms were damp, her pulse quick, the whole of her alive with anticipation she hadn’t felt in years.

A walk. Just a walk. But she could already feel the ground shifting beneath her feet.

The air was golden when they set out, the sun dipping low enough to bathe the fields in that soft, forgiving light that made everything look like it belonged in a memory. Y/N walked beside Jamie with her shawl tucked close around her shoulders, though she hardly felt the chill. Her cheeks were already warm, her pulse light and fluttering, like she’d swallowed the whole of spring and it was trying to escape.

For the first few minutes, they didn’t speak much. The crunch of their boots over the path, the distant bleating of sheep, the laughter of children still carrying faintly from Lallybroch’s courtyard, it all wrapped around them like a blanket. It felt easy, companionable, the way it used to when they were young. But now there was something else, something heady that sat beneath her ribs and made her grin at nothing at all.

Jamie glanced sideways at her once, then again, before clearing his throat. “Ye ken, ye still walk the same way.”

She blinked, startled. “The same way?”

“Aye.” He gave her a little half-smile. “Ye put your left foot down harder, just a touch. Used to drive Jenny mad when ye were bairns, said she could hear ye stomping half a mile off.”

Her laugh burst out quick and surprised, and she lifted a hand to cover her mouth, cheeks burning. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

“I remember everythin’,” he said simply. His voice was soft, but there was a weight to it, one that made her breath catch for a moment, her heart giving a silly flutter that reminded her of being thirteen again, reading secret notes by candlelight.

She looked ahead, afraid that if she looked at him she’d forget how to breathe. “I’m sure there are some things best forgotten.”

“No by me.”

The words slid under her skin and lodged there, leaving her stomach in knots. She wanted to ask what exactly he remembered—what else he carried in that great heart of his—but she didn’t trust herself not to melt into a puddle if he answered.

Silence again, though it was warmer this time. Their hands brushed once, then again, until Jamie finally offered his arm, the old-fashioned courtesy of it making her heart twist. She hesitated just long enough to feel foolish before slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow. The solidness of him nearly undid her, how easy it felt, how right.

They talked, then, about little things. Jenny’s new hens that refused to lay in the nesting boxes. Fergus’s endless complaints about boots that wore out too quickly. Alexander’s clever tongue and how he’d begun to charm even the most hard-hearted of the tenants. Y/N laughed more than she had in years, the sound spilling out light, unguarded, almost girlish. And each time, Jamie watched her with that quiet awe, as though she were something rare and precious. It made her insides tremble, made her cheeks ache from smiling so much.

At one point, she stumbled over a root hidden in the path. Jamie’s arm tightened, steadying her instantly. His hand covered hers where it rested against his sleeve, warm and sure. The contact lingered a beat longer than necessary, sending a hot rush up her neck. She swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how near they stood, how the world seemed to have narrowed to the heat of his body beside her.

“Ye’re safe,” he murmured, almost absently, as though it were the most natural promise in the world.

Her knees nearly buckled. She wanted to laugh at herself, at how ridiculous she felt, but instead she only nodded, afraid her voice would betray the ridiculous giddiness bubbling inside her. The words rang in her chest long after he let go.

They wandered on, the light softening to a dusky blush, her laughter still lingering in the air. Y/N felt as though she were half-floating, half-running to keep up with her own joy. Every glance, every brush of his shoulder against hers, every small joke, it was too much and not nearly enough. She was so full of him, of the moment, of the strange, dizzying joy of being alive, that she hardly paid attention to where he led her.

The path was familiar, but she was too wrapped up in the rise and fall of their conversation, in the way his smile seemed to draw one out of her in turn, to notice. For the first time in years, she let herself feel young again—silly, giddy, unguarded.

And she couldn’t help but think, with her heart thrumming like a girl’s, that if this was what it meant to walk beside him again, she never wanted it to end.

When at last they stopped, it was only because Jamie slowed, his stride faltering as though the earth itself had tugged at his boots. His gaze lifted, fixed ahead, and Y/N followed it—her breath catching in her throat before she even understood why.

The cherry tree.

It stood just as it had all those years ago, and yet impossibly changed. Its branches were heavy with pale blossoms, a thousand small lanterns glowing in the twilight. A breeze stirred, scattering petals through the air until they fell around them in soft drifts, delicate as snow. The ground was dappled with them already, a pale carpet that glowed faintly in the fading light.

Her heart thudded painfully, each beat sharp and insistent. She hadn’t even realised where they’d been walking. Too lost in him—his voice, his presence, the steady heat of his arm beneath her hand. And now here they were, standing at the edge of everything they had been and everything they had lost.

Jamie turned to her then, and the look on his face nearly undid her. His eyes were soft, but behind them there was weight, years pressed into the lines at their corners, grief that had shaped him, love that had refused to let go.

“Do ye remember?” he asked quietly.

The words were simple, but they cut straight through her.

She opened her mouth, but no sound came. Her throat was too tight, her chest too full. All she could do was stand there, staring up at the branches heavy with bloom, and feel the past and present collide like the closing of a circle.

Memories rose like ghosts. Two children with scraped knees, laughing as they chased each other through the grass. A promise spoken in earnest beneath this very tree, when the world seemed wide and certain, and tomorrow nothing but a gift waiting to be unwrapped. Her wedding day, the ache of being given to another man when her heart was still tethered here. The quiet mornings of motherhood, the grief of empty arms, the nights spent wondering what might have been if the boy beside her then had grown into the man beside her now.

And still, against all reason, against the tide of years and wars and loss, here he was. Here they both were.

Tears stung her eyes, but she did not look away from him. How could she? Jamie Fraser, older now, harder in some ways, softer in others. A man shaped by battles and grief and guilt—but still, unmistakably, the boy who had stood with her beneath this tree and sworn she was his future.

Her voice was raw when it came. “Aye. I remember.”

He breathed out, a sound that was half relief, half sorrow. His hand lifted, hesitant for only a heartbeat before his fingers brushed hers, twining gently, reverently.

“So do I,” he murmured. “Every day since.”

The weight of it nearly broke her. That all the years, all the distance, all the sorrow they had carried separately, had not been enough to snuff out the promise made here. That somehow, impossibly, the thread had held.

Petals fell around them, caught in his hair, clinging to the wool of his coat. Y/N’s chest ached with it—the beauty, the grief, the sheer unbearable tenderness of standing with him here again.

For a long moment, neither spoke. There was no need. The air between them was thick with everything they had lost, and everything they still might find.

At last, Jamie’s thumb brushed over her knuckles, slow and steady. “It was always you,” he said, voice low, rough with truth. “Even when I couldna have you. Even when I thought I’d lost ye forever. It was always you.”

Her breath shuddered out of her, the weight of two decades pressing against her ribs, breaking apart, loosening. The blossoms above seemed to tremble with it too, as though the world itself recognised what had come to pass—that something long buried was stirring again, alive, inevitable.

And as she looked at him, at the man who had waited in his heart even when he hadn’t known he was waiting, she felt it too.

A beginning. At last.

The petals kept falling, soft as breath, as though the cherry tree itself bore witness. Y/N’s hand trembled in his, but Jamie held it steady, his thumb brushing over her skin as though trying to memorise her, to carve the moment into bone.

For a long beat, he only looked at her. His eyes traced her face as though every line was both known and newly discovered, the way a man might look at land he had dreamed of returning to but feared he’d never see again.

Then, slowly, he bent one knee in the grass.

Her heart lurched, her breath catching hard in her throat.

“Jamie—”

“Hush, lass,” he murmured, gaze steady on hers. His voice was rough but sure, like a man standing on holy ground. “Let me speak.”

The world went quiet around them. Even the birds seemed to pause. Only the soft drift of petals broke the stillness, dusting his shoulders, his hair, the ground where he knelt.

“I’ve carried ye with me all my life,” he began. “Since we were bairns, runnin’ wild over these hills, since the day we stood beneath this very tree and made promises we were too young to ken the weight of. Through every mile I walked, every battle I fought, every night I thought I’d never see ye again—ye were there. In my blood. In my bones. In every breath I drew.”

Her vision blurred, tears threatening, but she didn’t dare blink. Didn’t dare lose a single word.

“I thought I’d lost ye,” Jamie went on, his voice breaking just slightly, raw with years unsaid. “When I heard ye’d wed another, I swore I’d no begrudge it, that I’d be glad ye had a good man to keep ye safe. But Christ, Y/N… my heart hasna known a day’s peace since. And when I heard ye were widowed—” He broke off, swallowed hard. “I’ll no lie, I prayed forgiveness for the joy that near split me in two. For the thought that maybe… maybe God hadna meant for us to end.”

Tears slipped hot down her cheeks, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, her body trembling with the force of holding herself still.

Jamie lifted his hand, reached for hers again, and pressed her palm flat over his heart. The beat of it thundered beneath her touch, strong and desperate.

“I’ve dreamt of this moment since I was thirteen years old,” he said, voice low, reverent. “Of standing before ye, not as a lad full of promises, but as a man who kens the weight of what he asks. And what I ask is this: let me spend the rest of my life makin’ up for the years we lost. Let me love ye the way I should have all along—open, honest, wi’ nothing hidden, nothing held back.”

Her lips trembled, her breath ragged, but he pressed on, every word pulled from the marrow of him.

“I canna give ye back the time that’s gone. I canna undo the grief we’ve both carried. But I can promise ye this: every day I draw breath, every hour God grants me, I will spend it lovin’ ye. Protectin’ ye. Cherishin’ ye. If ye’ll have me, Y/N, I’ll be your husband—faithful and true, as I should have been all my life. Marry me.”

The silence that followed was unbearable in its fullness. Y/N could only stare at him, this man who had haunted her dreams, who had held her heart even when oceans and years had stretched between them. Every loss, every ache, every moment of joy stolen from them—it all hung here now, suspended between his question and her answer.

Her chest heaved. Her knees gave way beneath her, and she sank down into the grass before him, heedless of the petals that clung to her skirts. She reached for his face, both hands cradling him, her tears falling freely.

“Jamie Fraser,” she whispered, her voice breaking, “aye. A thousand times, aye.”

The sound he made was half-sob, half-laugh, as though the air itself had returned to his lungs. He pulled her against him, his arms wrapping tight around her as though he’d never let go again. She clung to him with equal desperation, her tears soaking into his shoulder, her heart so full it hurt.

Around them, the blossoms kept falling. The same tree that had once borne witness to their childhood vow now stood as witness again, to a promise remade—not the innocent dream of two children, but the binding of two souls that had been tempered by loss and yet endured.

Y/N.

The name settled on his tongue like a sin and a salvation both. It was her eyes he saw, wide and searching in the candlelight. Her breath, caught between them. Her voice— Christ , her voice—trembling and true, as if speaking those words had cost her something. And him, he’d taken it. The confession. The closeness. The kiss.

He hadn’t meant to. He hadn’t planned it. But the moment her lips brushed his, the world tilted off its axis. The years between them vanished, the war, the blood, the graves. For one suspended heartbeat, he was young again, untouched by loss, with his heart wide open and nothing to lose.

And then it ended. And the weight returned.

He pressed his palm hard over his mouth, as if he could trap the memory there, stop it from flooding him again. But it surged up all the same. Her laugh, the one he’d known since they were bairns, echoing from some dusty corner of his soul. That low, lilting sound that had always undone him, even when they were young and foolish and playing barefoot by the river.

He could still see her then: hair tangled, cheeks smudged with dirt, daring him to climb higher, run faster, jump further.

And now—now she was a woman grown. Stronger. Softer. Scarred.

And he wanted her. He wanted her.

He wanted to bury his hands in her hair and hold her like an anchor in the storm. He wanted to unspool the years from her skin and learn them one by one, where it hurt, where it healed, what she’d lost and what she still dreamed of.

But more than that, he wanted to be known again.

Truly known. Not as the warrior. Not as the ghost of a husband. Not as a man clinging to memory. But as Jamie .

Her Jamie.

God help him.

He opened his eyes to the fog settling low in the field, the air thick with dew and silence. But his chest was louder than any battlefield. Desire, grief, guilt—all thrashing together in a tangle too heavy to hold.

How could he want again?

How could he dare ?

And yet—he did.

And still— Claire .

Her name struck through his mind like a blade, swift and unforgiving. A flare of pain. A memory too tender, too sacred to hold for long without it searing his hands.

Claire.

His wife. His heart. The echo that had kept him breathing when he should have broken apart. Even now, years on, her absence was not absence at all. She lingered. Not just in memory, but in the marrow of his bones. In every choice he’d made since. In the way he still turned his head when he caught the scent of mint. In the way he slept curled away from the centre of the bed, leaving space for a body that would never return.

She was gone. And yet, she haunted him, loved him still, he imagined, from wherever she was. And hadn’t he promised her? That he’d never love another. That his heart was hers, even if it meant he’d live the rest of his life with it half-missing?

His throat clenched. His eyes burned.

How could he stand here now, aching for another woman? How could he let himself want? To love again—to press his mouth to Y/N’s skin, to whisper into her hair, to lay claim to a future when the past still clawed at his heels?

Would that not be a betrayal? Of all he had once been? Of the man who had loved Claire Fraser with every shattered piece of his soul?

He’d left her behind.

Not by choice. Never by choice. But still, he’d ridden away knowing she might not survive. Knowing that part of him was dying with her. That he might one day live again, and that, somehow, felt the greatest cruelty of all.

And yet—

Hadn’t he mourned her?

Hadn’t he bled for her?

He remembered the days after. The months. The years. The nights when he lay in the damp and the dark, whispering her name until his voice gave out. He had carried her like a torch through every corner of hell, and somehow come out breathing.

But he had not come out whole.

Until now.

Y/N.

Her name steadied and wrecked him all at once. She had always been there— Christ , she had. In every childhood memory that wasn’t soaked in war. She was laughter and skinned knees and crooked braids and whispered secrets under the cherry tree. She was letters tucked beneath the floorboards and ink-stained fingers and promises they hadn’t known were real until now.

And last night— last night —she had looked at him not with pity or caution, but hope .

Like he wasn’t ruined.

Like he was still worth choosing.

Jamie’s grip on the fence tightened until the wood groaned beneath his fingers.

He didn’t want to forget Claire. He never could. She would live in him as long as he drew breath—his first great love, his fire-forged sorrow. He owed her that.

But he was tired of being a ghost.

Tired of living in the shadows of what he’d lost. Of waking up in a body that remembered joy but refused to reach for it.

Tired of sleeping beside an absence and pretending it was enough.

And in Y/N, he saw light again. Not the same kind Claire had been. Not to replace her.

But to remind him that he was still alive. Still capable of softness. Still capable of wanting , not out of hunger or loneliness, but something far quieter. Far deeper.

He wanted to love again.

And maybe… he was allowed to.

He was tired of sleeping beside grief and waking with guilt. Tired of living with a heart that only looked backward.

He opened his eyes, staring at the place where the mist clung to the grass. His breath caught, the weight in his chest slowly, slowly , loosening.

“I’ll no let go of her,” he murmured aloud. “But I can carry her beside me. No ahead of me.”

His voice was hoarse, his eyes stinging. But the words settled in him like truth.

He could love again. Not because his grief had vanished, but because Y/N deserved all the light he had left to give.

And, perhaps, he did too.

He straightened, exhaling slow and long into the quiet.

It was time.

Jamie felt lighter than he had in years.

It wasn’t that the grief was gone. It would never truly be. But something had settled inside him, like a stone finally placed where it belonged. Not discarded. Just… set down .

He paused near the barn, dragging his sleeve across his brow, the cotton damp with sweat and the sharp scent of earth and iron. The sun had finally broken through the stubborn veil of clouds, warming the crown of his head and casting long golden streaks across the grass. It was the first proper warmth he’d felt in days, and for once, he didn’t move from it.

Instead, he leaned back against the rough stone wall and let the heat seep into him. Let the stillness settle into his chest like something sacred.

And without meaning to, he smiled.

Small. Quiet. Like a secret.

Because he was thinking of her .

Y/N.

She came to him now not as a ghost of what might’ve been, but as something real . Solid. Here.

He saw her laugh in his mind’s eye, that kind that took her whole body with it, shoulders shaking, head thrown back. The kind that always made him feel like he’d just done something worth doing. He used to live for that sound when they were bairns. Would do the daftest things just to earn it. Climb trees too tall. Tell stories too wild. Fall into rivers just to see her smile when he came out soaked and sputtering.

He saw her now through the smoke of memory and the softness of reality, her grown hands tangled in her hair, trying to tame it as she always did. Her eyes, no longer the reckless fire of youth, but a steady, flickering hearthlight. Warm. Deep. The kind of gaze that didn’t flinch when it looked at him. That made him feel seen, wholly, and somehow still wanted .

Her mouth, soft and parted in the stillness between them, had tasted like forgiveness.

He closed his eyes.