Fuck it I can’t sleep cuz of the meds I’m on and my ADHD brain apparently is unable to survive not juggling a gajillion things so here’s a kingdon x bridgerton au bc I am but a prisoner to my own free will:
“Go on, sweetling. Let’s see you be the diamond you were always meant to be.”
Dana nudges her out the carriage door, fussing with the final touches to her hair. “Hurry up, now, love, you know your father will be back before the deathly hour.”
“But, what if—“
“Miss Melissa King,” she pinches at her side lightly, though she can’t feel it through the thick corset she wears. “I did not spend the greater part of my afternoon sewing this fine dress, only for you to doubt yourself. You, my darling,” and she shoves her out the carriage, right into the arms of a waiting Mateo, cleverly disguised as a footman, “look astoundingly beautiful. And it is my hope that even if you cannot find a love tonight, you will at least have a lovely time relishing all the merriments the rest of us are not permitted to. Go. Please.” She pinches her cheek, then pulls back into the carriage. “For me, at least.”
“Alright,” she whispers, and takes Mateo’s offered arm.
“‘Tis an awful evening to trip over one’s feet,” he murmurs, looking quite ill. She rubs a hand over his upper arm, then stops herself when she remembers that ladies of fine etiquette do not treat their footmen like so.
“Thank goodness that we’ve good footwear, then,” she makes an attempt at a joke, nudging his side, and clinks her heels against his leather bound shoes. He grins back at her, looking quite dapper for a footman, and then they’re ushered into the most lavish estate she has ever set foot in.
She tries not to gape at the alarming opulence of it all; the abundance of wealth spread so lavishly, so carelessly, across bannisters and pillars, in colours of white, gold, and red. Beautiful, foreign-looking bouquets paint colours across the hall, drawing a stunning — and, perhaps, intentional — guide into a ballroom. She cannot help but turn this way and that, admiring the decorations before her, not even noticing the line moving until she hears a womanly voice behind her say, “Miss, I believe you are meant to follow the line, not withhold it.”
She whirls around, hand to her throat, blushing furiously.
The woman before her is an exquisite creature. She appears to be made of marble, perfection sculpted by the very gods themselves; gorgeous, magnificent red locks — glowing even under the thousand candlelights that are their only lighting — frame a seraphic face, so heartbreakingly beautiful that Melissa could weep.
She nearly whimpers, nearly whines. How unfair, truly, it is, for such beauty to exist?
Her nose is small, lips full, eyes doe-like and a disarming stormy grey. She is soft, but weathered, her pale skin contrasted by the crimson red dress she adorns, and she looks like the personification of a brilliant red rose. Next to her, Melissa is but a dying wisp of a carnation, dulled by time.
“Miss,” the woman says, quite testily, and she looks away from her, atrociously embarrassed.
“Forgive me,” she curtsies, though she does not know if she is meant to do that, “I am not of the right mind at present.” She keeps her eyes on the end of the woman’s gown. “I am quite nervous. It is my first ball.”
“Is it now?” The woman taps her foot, and Melissa turns swiftly, hurrying along the distance that has grown between herself and the couple in front of her and Mateo. “You seem rather . . . old to be a debutante. And I do not recall seeing you at the presentation to the queen a fortnight ago.”
She turns back to face the woman, “I was not present, no, for I have only just returned from the Americas with my father.” She goes to formally introduce herself, “Forgive me for being so forward, miss, I should like to introduce myself — I am Lady Melissa King.”
“King?” Says the man beside her, and she finally realises that the goddess is not alone. She flickers her gaze to him, and nearly faints at the sight.
If the woman is a goddess sculpted by the gods, the man appears to be one.
He has a broad, devastating handsome face tethered to time, marked by the rigid lines of his jaw, his cheekbones. His nose is strong, lips not quite full yet not quite thin, and they serve only to draw attention to how critically disconcerting his Grecian features appear to be.
His eyes, however.
Melissa reaches back, tries to find Mateo’s arm.
His eyes pierce through her, like a sword, taking her very breath away. “King,” he says her last name again, “that is the name of His Grace, Lord Robert King, is he not?”
“Lord Robert King?” The woman whispers, eyes widening in recognition. “The war hero?”
She puts a hand to her throat, presumably in shock, and that is when Melissa sees the ring on her finger. Ah, she thinks, and quickly allows propriety to save her, “Yes, ma’am,” she curtsies again, though she is not meant to, “that is my father, yes.”
“And where is Lord King?” The man questions. “I imagine he would not wish to miss his daughter’s debut into English society.”
She is a horrible liar, as she’s known herself to be throughout all the years she lived in the King estate, so she steels herself and attempts to stay as close to the truth as possible, “He is unwell for the evening, my lord. But he did not wish for me to miss on Lady Shamsy’s ball, seeing as it is the first of the season, and had granted me leave to attend with a chaperone.”
“How thoughtful,” the woman sighs, looking inherently changed now that her last name is revealed.
Melissa feels rather ill, yet, she smiles pleasantly, lying through her teeth, “Indeed, my lady.”
Thankfully, they call her and Mateo next, and she loses the odd couple behind them when they past the great hall.
The ballroom before them stretches on for eternity, in more embellishments that she can count. Melissa stares at the chandeliers, and the massive amount of floral arrangements, and starts turning giddy with excitement — there is so much to see! To his credit, her friend merely pats at her hand when she curls it around his elbow, and leans down to whisper, “If you wish to leave, milady, just say the word.”
“I will,” she squeezes his arm, then releases him and makes her way down the staircase, gathering her skirts. Before she manages the first step, however, there is a gloved hand that extends to her, and she blinks at it dumbly before looking up.
It is the dashing man from before. “Take my hand,” he advises cooly, his back militarily straight, in that same, trained way she recognises from her father; a habit that has grown into instinct. “A lady like yourself should not be seen wandering alone.”
She glances around, hesitant. “I do not think it is quite proper for a married man to escort unmarried ladies.”
He takes her hand anyway, and Melissa’s heart races in her chest. His fingers curl around hers gently as he guides her down, step after step, and with every bit they go, she cannot help but feel all the more flustered. It is as if she can feel the heat of a dozen stares, all trained on her, and their clasped hands. “You will grant me your first dance, yes?” He demands, more than asks, and Melissa looks up at him again, trying to decipher his mood.
He’s smirking, face settled into confidence. There is a slight twitch to his left eye that betrays his performance, however, and that tells her he is anything but self-assured. She bides her time, drawing her hand from him as they reach the ballroom floor. “I do not think it proper, sir,” she takes a deep breath. “For I do not even know your name.”
“I am Baron Francis Langdon,” he tells her, then grabs at her wrist, where her dance card lies empty. “And I should warn you, my lady,” he dips his hand into his dress coat, procuring a pen. He proceeds to sign his name on all the records, and when Melissa realises this, she tries to snatch her wrist back, only to be stopped by the shackles that are his fingers, “that I do not give a damn about society.”
He lets her go.
She stares at him, feeling heat creeping all over her body at his admittance, at the sheer vulgarity he implies. It spreads from her cheeks, down to her chest, across her stomach, and down to the apex of her legs.
He grins, eyes hooded, and she feels very much like a bee that has been caught in honey, drowning in the sweetness of his gaze. “Come, Lady Melissa,” he croons, and places one hand on the small of her back, igniting the heat into an inferno that blazes through her, leaving her wanting more. “And I will show you what pleasures our world affords you.”
