#anthony x reader

Everyone in the ton knew two things the moment Anthony Bridgerton married you: first, that you were the one woman capable of softening him in a way nobody had ever managed before, and second, that nothing on this earth, not God nor king nor country, could ever stop him from protecting you with his entire soul, which - unfortunately - only made certain men, desperate, jealous, or foolishly curious, even more determined to test the boundaries of the Viscount’s temper by seeking your attention, your smile, your presence, as though you were a prize rather than a person, as though they did not fear the consequences of stepping too close to the edge of the man who had already proven himself willing to burn for the ones he loved.

Tonight, at Lord Hawthorne’s spring ball, their hunger became a little more obvious, their gazes lingering too long, their whispers too bold, their nightly drinks loosening the caution they should have held close to their chests; and while Anthony was called away by his brothers for a brief discussion about some estate matter, you felt it - an unease settling under your ribs, a prickle up the back of your neck - until a man whose name you barely remembered but whose reputation was well-known for arrogance and indulgence stepped too close, his breath thick with drink, his smile sharp in a way that made you instinctively step back, only to find the ballroom too crowded to move freely.

“Lady Bridgerton,” he drawled, eyes flicking over you with a familiarity he had not earned. “Your husband… always leaves you unattended. A pity, truly.”

You stiffened, keeping your voice polite. “The Viscount will return shortly. If you will excuse me-”

But his hand shot out, fingers clamping around your wrist with a strength heightened by drink and entitlement, his nails digging in just enough to make your breath hitch as he tugged you forward with a force that left the floor tilting slightly beneath your feet.

“No need to scurry away,” he murmured, his grip tightening even as you attempted to twist free. “We are quite alone here, aren’t we?”

You swallowed. “This is highly inappropriate-”

“Oh, come now,” he whispered, leaning too close, his breath fanning over your cheek, “surely the Viscount cannot blame a man for admiring beauty when it is so very tempting.”

You jerked your arm back, but he only laughed, guiding you, step by step, toward the terrace doors - dark, half-open, unguarded - until the cool night air spilled over your skin and the room disappeared behind you, the sounds of violins muffled as he closed the door with a slow, deliberate click.

“Let go,” you said, your voice shaking despite your attempt to remain steady.

He did not.

Instead, he crowded you against the stone balustrade, the pressure of it pressing coldly into your lower back, his fingers sliding up your arm until they reached your jaw, tilting your face toward his with a horrifying gentleness that made your stomach drop. “You deserve someone who sees you,” he whispered, his thumb brushing the corner of your lip in a gesture that made revulsion crawl up your spine. “Someone who is not too busy being Viscount to remember he has a wife.”

You twisted your head away just as he dipped toward your mouth, his lips skimming the edge of your cheek, damp and unwanted, sending a jolt of panic straight through your chest as his other hand seized your waist, pulling you closer, closer-

And something inside you broke.

You reacted without thinking, teeth sinking sharply into the skin of his cheek, just below his lip, tasting copper, hearing the hiss of pain as he reared back, shock flashing across his face before it twisted into something dark, ugly, dangerous.

“You little-”

The slap came before you could brace for it, white-hot and stunning, snapping your head sideways, the world tilting violently as his hand shoved you, hard, sending you stumbling into the stone railing, pain blooming along your ribs as your breath punched out of your lungs in a strangled gasp.

You barely had time to catch yourself before he grabbed your shoulders, shaking you once, twice, his grip unforgiving as you tried to push him away, voice trembling: “Stop… please… stop-”

And then-

A sound you had never heard from Anthony before tore through the night.

It wasn’t a shout.

It wasn’t a call.

It was a roar.

Animal.

Raw.

Murderous.

“TAKE YOUR HANDS OFF MY WIFE.”

The man barely had time to turn before Anthony collided with him, the impact so violent you heard the air punched from his lungs as they hit the terrace floor, Anthony’s fists already swinging, relentless, punishing, each blow a horrific crack of knuckles against bone as he straddled the man’s chest, eyes wide and wild, breathing like a man who had been denied oxygen for too long.

“You touched her,” Anthony growled, voice low and shaking with rage so deep it bordered on madness. “You dared lay a filthy hand on her-”

Another punch.

“And you think you will breathe after that?”

Another.

Your voice scraped out of your throat. “Anthony-”

He didn’t hear you.

He couldn’t.

He was gone.

Lost.

You watched with trembling limbs as Anthony seized the man by the collar, dragging him upward only to slam him back down, the sickening thud echoing in the night as the man whimpered, blood already streaking down his chin.

Anthony’s hands moved to his throat.

“No-” you gasped, stumbling forward, “Anthony, please-”

But Anthony’s fingers tightened, squeezing, pushing the man’s head back into the stone, his jaw clenched so hard the veins in his neck stood out, his entire body shaking with the sheer force of his fury as he leaned over the man, voice low and lethal: “I should end you for touching her. I should end you right here.”

The man choked, struggling weakly.

Anthony pressed harder.

“ANTHONY!” Benedict’s voice cut through the night like a blade.

Suddenly there were hands grabbing Anthony’s shoulders, arms wrapping around his torso, pulling, tugging, fighting him; Benedict on one side, Colin on the other, both straining from the sheer strength of a man gone feral with fear and rage.

“Anthony! Stop! You’ll kill him-”

“Let go of him, brother- he cannot breathe-”

“He hurt her,” Anthony shouted, voice cracking with something guttural and shattered. “He hurt her, let me go… LET ME GO-”

But his brothers held him, panting, grunting with the effort, until at last his hands slipped from the man’s bruised throat, leaving him gasping and coughing on the ground.

And then Anthony saw you.

Finally saw you.

The bruises forming on your arm, the reddened handprint on your cheek, the tear tracks you hadn’t even realized were there.

Anthony froze.

Everything inside him - rage, movement, breath - stilled.

He stumbled toward you, eyes wide, horrified, devastated in a way that made your heart twist because you had never seen him look like that, never seen him genuinely afraid.

“Sweetheart…” he breathed, voice breaking, “my love- what has he- what did he -”

He reached for you, then stopped, hands hovering inches from your skin as though he feared he might hurt you simply by touching, his chest rising and falling too fast, too sharply.

“Anthony,” you whispered.

He crumpled.

Quite literally - his knees hit the stone as he pulled you into his arms with a gentleness that contradicted every violent breath he’d taken moments before, his hand sliding behind your head, his other sweeping around your waist, holding you as though he feared you might disappear if he loosened his grip even slightly.

“I’m here,” he whispered into your hair, his voice shaking as tears slipped down onto your shoulder. “My darling girl, I am here, I am here, you’re safe, you’re safe now, I swear it-”

You trembled in his hold, fingers curling into the fabric of his coat, breathing him in, grounding yourself in the scent of sandalwood and clove and the warmth of his chest pressed tightly against yours.

Benedict and Colin exchanged a look - relief, horror, pity - before stepping away to retrieve their mother, who emerged moments later with a gasp of horror, hands covering her mouth, her eyes shining with sympathy and devastation as she hurried to your side.

“My dear,” Lady Bridgerton whispered, cupping your uninjured cheek with a mother’s tenderness. “Come, let us get you home.”

But Anthony was already rising to his feet, scooping you into his arms without hesitation, his jaw set, his eyes burning, his voice firm and low as he addressed his mother:

“I am taking her home. No one else touches her. No one.”

His mother nodded softly, surprised by neither his protectiveness nor the terrifying certainty in his tone.

You buried your face in Anthony’s shoulder as he carried you through the house, ignoring the shocked gasps and murmurs that spread like wildfire through the guests. He did not slow. He did not explain. He did not acknowledge anyone.

He simply held you.

As though you were the only thing that existed.

————————

The carriage ride home felt strangely silent despite the pounding of hooves, the creak of wheels, the frantic rhythm of your own heart. Anthony had you gathered in his lap the entire time, one arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head as though you were made of glass and he feared even the vibration of the road might cause you more pain. His chin rested against your temple, his breath shaky every few seconds - he tried to hide it, but he couldn’t, not like this, not when the adrenaline had faded and left nothing but fear and guilt in its wake.

“Tell me if anything hurts,” he whispered into your hair, voice hoarse. “Tell me the moment you feel discomfort, and I will stop the carriage, I’ll carry you the rest of the way, I do not care how many miles remain.”

“I’m alright,” you murmured, your voice still trembling from what had happened. “You don’t need to-”

Anthony flinched. Actually flinched.

“Do not say I don’t need to,” he whispered, pulling you tighter, “because I do. I need to hold you. I need to touch you. I need to know you’re still here. I nearly-” His voice cracked, the words breaking apart. “I nearly lost myself entirely when I saw him shove you. If Benedict and Colin had not-”

You felt his throat move as he swallowed hard.

“…I don’t know what would remain of me,” he finished in a whisper.

You tightened your grip on his waist, and Anthony made a sound - low, raw, relieved - burying his face in your shoulder.

When the carriage finally stopped outside Bridgerton House, Anthony didn’t wait for the footman. He simply stood, lifting you into his arms with a strength that was gentler than anyone would have expected from a man who’d been moments away from killing someone with his bare hands.

The maids rushed toward the door the moment he crossed the threshold, but Anthony’s voice was firm, icy, brooking no argument.

“No one touches her,” he ordered. “No one enters our room. I will tend to her myself.”

They curtsied and disappeared quickly, wide-eyed and whispering - but none dared disobey.

Anthony carried you through the halls with steps that grew faster the closer he came to your room, as though the only place he trusted the world with you was behind that locked door. When he reached it, he nudged it open with his shoulder and set you down only when he had no other choice, his hands sliding slowly down your arms as though afraid you might dissolve the moment he let go.

“Sit, my love,” he whispered, guiding you to the edge of the bed. “Let me… let me take care of you.”

Your throat tightened at the way his hands trembled as he reached for the laces of your gown. Anthony Bridgerton - your husband, your steady, fierce, impossibly controlled husband - was shaking.

“Anthony,” you whispered.

“Please,” he murmured, eyes dropping to your bruised cheek like it physically hurt him to look at it. “Let me do this.”

So you let him.

He unlaced your gown with slow, reverent hands, peeling away the fabric inch by inch, murmuring apologies every time you winced, even when you insisted the pain was mild. His jaw flexed when he found the bruise forming on your shoulder from where you had been shoved. His breath hitched when he saw the angry red marks around your arm where you had been grabbed.

And then he dropped to his knees.

Just… dropped.

As though the sight of the damage had pulled the ground out from under him.

“Anthony-”

“I should have been there,” he whispered, his hands hovering just above your skin. “I should never have let you walk away alone. I will never - never - allow such a thing to happen again.”

“Anthony, it wasn’t your-”

“It was,” he said sharply - not angry at you, but angry at himself, furious in a way that trembled beneath the surface. “Your safety is my charge. Your wellbeing is my duty. Your happiness is-” He broke off, dragging a shaking hand through his hair. “I failed you tonight. I failed my wife.”

You lifted his chin gently.

His eyes were wet.

“Anthony,” you whispered, “I’m not afraid of you.”

He froze.

Actually froze.

You cupped his face more firmly, bringing his forehead to yours. “Look at me,” you whispered. “I’m not afraid of you. Not your anger. Not your temper. Not your fists. Not your voice. Not anything you did tonight. You were protecting me.”

He inhaled sharply, a wounded sound that split your heart in two.

“You cannot know how that comforts me,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “You have no idea what a mercy that is to hear.”

You brushed your thumb over the corner of his mouth. “Come here.”

He climbed onto the bed slowly, almost cautiously, as though afraid he might break something by moving too quickly. You lay back, pulling him with you until his body was half draped over yours, his head on your chest, his hand pressed over your heart like he needed proof it was still beating.

For a long time, he didn’t speak.

He simply breathed you in, his fingers tracing your ribs, your waist, your thigh, as though reacquainting himself with every piece of you he had feared losing.

When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were soft, vulnerable, shattered in the way only a man deeply in love can be shattered.

“May I… kiss them?” he whispered, nodding to the bruises.

You nodded.

So he kissed them.

Every one.

Your cheek.

Your shoulder.

The marks on your arm.

The small bruise forming on your hip.

Each kiss was slow, reverent, full of apologies he didn’t have the words to say.

When he reached your lips, he paused, his forehead against yours.

“Tell me what you need,” he whispered. “Name it, and I will give it to you.”

“I just need you,” you murmured, threading your fingers into his hair. “Stay with me. Lie with me. Hold me.”

Anthony exhaled shakily, the relief in his eyes almost painful to witness.

“Always,” he whispered.

He slid beneath the blankets with you, pulling your body against his chest, wrapping himself around you as though trying to form a shield with his own limbs. His hand splayed over your back, warm and steady. His lips brushed the crown of your head again and again, murmuring soft reassurances between breaths.

“You’re safe.”

“You’re mine.”

“I’m here.”

“I won’t let anything hurt you again.”

“I love you. God, I love you.”

The room grew quiet.

Your breathing steadied.

His heartbeat settled.

And in the darkness, with his arms tight around you, with his breath warm against your skin, with the weight of his devotion pressing softly into your bones-

You felt safe.

You felt protected.

You felt loved.

And for the first time since the terrace, the terror finally melted away.

———————

When you debuted at eighteen—two years after Anthony had become the head of his house—he immediately began to court you. It was no surprise to his family or yours, they knew it was going to happen eventually.

As the years passed, the ton remained enthralled by your marriage. Even Lady Whistledown had nothing bad to say—although Penelope wouldn’t dare wish for yours or Anthony’s downfall anytime.

Of course, over the years, you and Anthony bared children for the Bridgerton succession: Nicholas and Jane Bridgerton. Perfect six years apart from one another.

They were lovely children—both indulging in hobbies that their parents loved and carrying manners that were far more superior than some of the brutes that were considered men in the ton.

You were the ideal family. Well, as far as the ton knew.

Behind closed doors, your family was a handful of pure chaos and mess—curtsy of your family’s overachieving traits. You may be poised and ready on the outside, but inside the walls of the Bridgerton House, who knows what your family would be up to that day.

As the light slowly trickled in from the slits of the curtain, you bury your head into Anthony’s shoulder, hiding from whatever the day had to offer. You knew this day was going to be a living nightmare with all the stuff you had lined up, but there was no one to blame but yourselves for all the planned activities.

A moment of quietude passed before you felt Anthony get up from his side of the bed, causing you to groan at the loss of comfort and pulling the blanket over your body in compensation.

You heard shuffling coming from the right side of the bedroom as the curtains were peeled back, the sunlight shining right onto your face. You tossed an arm over your eyes and turned away from the light, grumbling under your breath.

“Anthony, come back to bed.” You murmur, blindly reaching out for him before you felt him take your hand and kiss the back of it. You groaned, pulling him into the bed yourself. “It’s too early to get up.”

He trailed his kisses higher and higher until they met your rosy cheek, his voice gruff with morning exhaustion. “We have a long day ahead of us. I think it’s time to get up.”

You sigh tiredly and peel your eyes open, meeting his baby browns. “I don’t want to, Viscount Bridgerton.”

“But you have to, Vicountess Bridgerton.” He teased and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Nicolas and Jane will be knocking on our door soon.”

For a second, you simply stared at him in annoyance, eyebrows creased in disbelief at the day ahead before pushing yourself up. Anthony grinned and tucked stray pieces of your hair away, chuckling when you swatted his hand.

You grumbled something about the busy day and tugged on your silk robe, ignoring your husband’s attempts at getting you to smile. He wrapped his arms around your waist and kissed the spot right under your ear, swaying the two of you gently.

“Don’t be like that.” He murmured softly, still pressing kisses across your skin. “You love teaching our children, especially teaching Jane piano forte.”

You resisted a little longer before letting your body relax into his, resting your head back onto his shoulder. “I will forever curse you for making me such a happy woman, Anthony.”

He grinned and met your eyes, “You say it like it’s a bad thing.”

“It should be.” You smile softly before turning in his arms and looping your own arms around his neck. “You know you’re practically fencing with Nicolas all day, right?”

“I do know that, thanks for reminding me.” He nudged your nose with his, warm hands firm on your waist. Anthony thumbed the silk before pulling you into a hug, kissing the top of your head. “Are you still taking Jane to the modiste with you? Or will she be accompanying me and Nicolas for horse riding?”

You inhale and exhale slowly, “Can’t you take me horseback riding with you?”

He narrowed his eyes at you before rolling them in amusement, “Even if I did, Madame Delacroix would come after my head because you would have moved your appointment for the third time this month.”

“Fine,” You drawl in displeasure and remove yourself from him, watching him shrug on his cream shirt. You move to the dressing screen, trading the silk robe for the beautiful, blue dress. “Just tell me you don’t love me next time.”

“You’re a minx.” Anthony shook his head.

You poke your head from the dressing screen, voice light and airy. “You didn’t deny it— Hey!”

Your laughter filled the air when he caged you in his arms, peppering your face in kisses. He nearly toppled the both of you over if you didn’t manage to wiggle yourself free of his sudden attack. Short bursts of laughter spilled from your lips as you cupped his face, his brown eyes staring lovingly into yours.

“You’re still waiting for me to say it, are you not?” He asked, his smile widening when you nodded ever so slightly. Anthony looked between your eyes before speaking softly, “I love you.”

You try hiding the growing smile but lose terribly, letting him pull you into a tender kiss before the door to the bedroom creaked open. You feel yourself smirk into the kiss when you hear fake gagging coming from the entrance, separating from Anthony just as Jane came into view.

Anthony raised a brow at his son before shaking his head, pressing one last kiss to your head.

“You are one judgy boy now that you’ve gotten older, Nicolas.” You say to your eldest as he wanders into the bedroom, Jane following closely behind. You instinctively wrap an arm around Jane and lead her over to your vanity, “How did you two sleep?”

“I had a dream that we played pall mall all day at Aubrey Hall.” Jane answered and giggled when you pretended to dust blush onto her cheek with your finger.

Anthony watched the two of you from the mirror before grabbing the cuff links from Nicolas and adjusting them onto his sleeves. “Who had the mallet of death?”

Jane wore a cheeky smirk at the question, squealing when Anthony took a tiny step in her direction. She ducked under the bed covers, voice coming out muffled when she spoke.

“Mama had the mallet! And she won!” She laughed and held the covers tightly around herself.

Nicolas went to stand by you, handing you the jewelry you were reaching for. “Of course mother won. She’s better at father and everyone else in our family.”

Anthony looked at his son like he had been betrayed—a faux frown tugging at his lips before he fell back on the bed, knowing he would collapse onto his daughter.

“My own son, wounding his father’s precious ego!” He called out with a dramatic hand to his forehead. “I shall never recover!”

Jane’s laughter grew louder as she squirmed underneath her father’s weight, her head poking out from under the covers. “Papa! Get off of me!”

Anthony gasped, “My own daughter doesn’t even want her own father!”

More laughter came from your bed, and before you knew it Nicolas had disappeared from your side.

You couldn’t recall how long that entire performance went, but all you knew was that both Nicolas and Jane found themselves trapped underneath your bed covers while Anthony continued to recite a monologue from one of Shakespeare’s plays.

“Okay, Bridgertons, I’m starving—“ You start and peck Anthony’s cheek as he continued to recite Shakespeare. “—So if you three don’t mind, I’ll be at our dining table eating breakfast.”

You took maybe three? four steps? before you heard clambering of heavy feet and shouts of who got what food first. You stood against the right wall as Nicolas and Jane zoomed past you, their voices echoing against the walls.

“I’m blaming you for all that energy.” You point out as Anthony shuts the door behind him, looping an arm around yours.

“Must you blame me for everything this morning?” He asked in an amused manner, tilting his head to the right.

You mirror his actions, a smile adorning your lips. “Only because I love you.”

He shook his head once more and unexpectedly scooped you off your feet, chuckling when you wrapped your arms around his neck in surprise. He kept his gaze locked onto yours as he spoke, his voice steady with pure emotion. “It’s a good thing I love you too.”

You press your cheek against his shoulder, letting his words sink deep into your heart along with all the other words he offered over the years. No matter how many times you both said those three simple words to each other, no matter where you said those words, it would always feel the same. You loved Anthony with all your heart—and in extension—loved your children with every single fiber of your being.

You were stuck with the Bridgertons and the ridiculous mornings that came with them, but you would never trade your husband—nor your children— for the world.

Anthony lifted his head up, hand remaining by your waist. – “Hungry for me?” – he asked with a teasing smile. You stared in shock back at him. – “For food.” – you responded giving him a playful slap.

“Shame for I could devour you.” – he let out, pressing his hand deeper onto your waist. – “Anthony!” – you called out to shush him. To dim his idea’s full of lust. Curling up a smile to his adoring wife. You smiled cheeky back at him.

He came leaning forwards. Opening his mouth to deepen a kiss onto you. Taking his time to fully explore your lips. Explore them as if he hadn’t explored them a thousand times before. Hearing you laugh against his lips made him curl up a smile as well.

Kissing you over and over again as your laugh filled his heart with excitement. It was a sound he could never get enough off. You tapped him against his shoulder to break the kiss off. Needing a little breather. Anthony stared lovingly down at you.

Eyebrows quirking curiously up at the growling of your stomach. – “I informed you that I am hungry.” – you reminded him. Anthony chuckled. Lowering his head to leave a kiss on your stomach. – “Then I must feed my beautiful wife.”

Slapping him playfully against his arm for speaking so fondly of you. Another growl left a silence between the two of. This time you looked down at your husband with intriguing eyes. He glanced down at his own chest. Chuckling cheekily at the growling of his own stomach.

Both of you rolled out of bed. Getting dressed. Anthony couldn’t stop staring at you. Barely getting a move on with himself in utter awe of you. With his shirt still unbuttoned, he walked over to you. – “Allow me.” – he whispered out. Leaving a tender kiss in the nook of your neck before tying your corset up.

Smiling over your shoulder, you turned around to him. Pressing your hands against his cheeks. Your smile was enough to make him melt. Your gaze lowered as his remained lingering on your face. Watching your focused expression. Brows furrowed whilst you buttoned up his shirt.

“What would I do without you.” – he muttered out. You batted your gaze up to him, head slightly tilted with a faint smile on your lips. You let your arms go around his neck. Taking in a deep breath, pulling your shoulders a bit up. You kissed him tenderly. Patting him against his cheek afterwards to get a move on.

Both of you went downstairs. Anthony walking as closely as possible to you. Needing his body to be in contact with yours. He felt empty without it. After breakfast, you remained in the drawing room. Sitting in the sofa with Hyacinth beside you. Anthony stood behind you, keeping his hands on your shoulders.

“Have you read the latest Whistledown yet?” – Hyacinth asked. You turned to her with a mischievous smile. – “You, young lady should not be reading Whistledown yet.” – you told her, spotting the edition underneath her bottom. Having tried to hide it. You plucked it from underneath her. – “Hey!” – Hyacinth called out.

You moved your hand up, allowing your husband to take the edition. – “Y/n is right, Hyacinth. You are far too young to be reading such gossip.” – he reminded her with a soft glare. Hyacinth crossed her arms grumpily back at her brother. You poked your fingers against her cheek to make her laugh. The door to the drawing room opened. Colin entering with loud pants.

“Y/n!” – he called out upon seeing you. He walked over to you, holding one of his trousers. – “You must help me. Can you mend my trousers?” – he asked. Showing you a little hole in it as he stuck his finger through it. – “Colin, ask one of the maids.” – Anthony insisted upon. – “But Y/n is the best with a needle.” – Colin responded, arguing with his brother.

“Oh hush.” – you said to Anthony taking the trousers from Colin. – “It will only take about two minutes.” – you informed him, getting up. You walked towards the closet, feeling a presence behind you. Glancing over your shoulder, you noticed your husband had followed you. – “The needles and thread are not in here.” – he spoke. You opened the closet as they indeed were not there.

“I have some in my room.” – you told Colin. – “Our room!” – Anthony corrected, looking down at you. You gave him a slight annoyed expression. – “It won’t take long.” – you spoke to Colin. Colin moved his hand to his heart, bowing his head to you.

You took a few steps towards the door, noticing Anthony was following you. – “Anthony darling, I would only be a minute.” – you told him, holding the door in your hand. He only hummed loud. When you moved to head further, he remained close.

Rolling your eyes playfully at him, you let him be. He followed you through the hallway, up the stairs back to your quarters. You opened the drawers in search of needles and thread. Anthony came sitting on the bed, watching you. Staring.

“If you might stare any harder, I would turn to rock.” – you called out teasingly. – “Ahh…” – Anthony responded in a long breath, adverting his gaze away. He hadn’t noticed he was staring so intensely at you. He simply couldn’t help it.

Always wanting to gaze upon his beautiful wife. For you were the bane of his existence and the object of all his desires. You sat down by the vanity, mending Colin’s trousers. Anthony drummed his fingers impatiently on his knees. Looking up at the ceiling. – “Almost done.” – you let out, keeping your focus on the trousers.

Anthony kept drumming his fingers for you to hurry up. – “Done.” – you said holding the trousers up. Anthony jumped up from his position. Walking up to you. Sneaking in a kiss, leaving your gaze wide for a second. It had felt like eternity since he had kissed you.

Both of you returned to the drawing room where you returned Colin’s trousers. He thanked you with a hug and a kiss against your cheek. – “Alright, alright.” – Anthony called out, shooing his brother away from you. It made you laugh loud at his jealousy towards his brother.

“You must know I only have eyes for you.” – you declared turning his chin to you. Seeing how his expression softened around you. His eyebrow lightly raised with a curled up smile. Anthony slid his arm around you when you came leaning against his shoulder with your head. He kissed the top of your head.

“Shall we go for a walk, Lady Bridgerton?” – he suggested. – “We shall, lord Bridgerton.” – you responded. Hyacinth got up with a loud gasp. – “Can I come too!” – she exclaimed. You nodded as she came hurrying over. Following the two of you for a stroll.

-------------------------------------------------

You learn of his marriage the way most things arrive in your life, quietly, and all at once.

A letter. Not from him. From someone else.

The paper is expensive. Thick. Embossed. The kind of paper that carries announcements meant to echo through drawing rooms and ballrooms and polite society.

Viscount Anthony Bridgerton is to be wed…

You do not read the rest at first. You cannot.

Because the name alone is enough to hollow something out inside you, something fragile and foolish that had believed, despite everything, that he might choose differently.

That he might choose you. He doesn’t, of course he doesn’t. Anthony Bridgerton was never meant to belong to something as reckless as love.

There had been a time when you thought he did.

When his letters came like breath, constant, necessary, impossible to live without.

You write too honestly, he had once told you. And you read them anyway, you had replied. I read them because I cannot stop.

You had smiled at that, foolish and soft, pressing the paper to your chest as though you could feel the echo of him through ink and parchment.

You had written back the same night. You always did.

---------------

You never stopped writing.

Even after the letters slowed.

Even after they became shorter, more restrained, more careful, as though every word had to pass through some invisible filter of duty before it reached you.

Even after the day his letter came, stiff and formal, with none of the warmth you had memorized.

It is no longer appropriate for us to correspond.

That was all. No explanation. No apology.

Just an ending, clean and merciless.

You had stared at it for hours, waiting for something more to appear, as if the ink might shift, rearrange, reveal the truth he had been too afraid to write.

It never did. Still, you wrote one last letter.

You told yourself you wouldn’t send it. You told yourself it was only to empty your heart of him, to give your grief somewhere to go.

You told yourself many things.

And yet, somehow, it found its way to him.

---------------

Anthony does not burn your letters.

He tries. God, he tries.

On the night before his wedding, the house is quiet in a way that feels almost unnatural, like the world itself is holding its breath in anticipation of the life he is about to step into.

He stands alone before the fire, the glow casting long, unsteady shadows against the walls. The room smells faintly of smoke and polished wood, of something warm and grounding, everything he has been taught to value.

Everything he is about to choose.

And still, his hands tremble.

Your letters are gathered there, bound together, worn at the edges from being unfolded too many times, read too often, held too tightly. The ribbon slips slightly beneath his fingers, loosened by years of quiet revisiting.

He unties it. He tells himself this is necessary.

That this is the moment he becomes the man he is meant to be.

One by one, he separates them, the soft rasp of paper loud in the silence. The top letter is yours, of course it is always yours, and he does not need to read the name to know it.

He knows your handwriting the way he knows his own thoughts.

His thumb brushes over the ink, just briefly, as though he might feel something of you still lingering there.

The fire crackles.

Waiting.

All he has to do is let go. Just one motion. One decision.

Duty, he reminds himself. Responsibility, the future of his family.

The words echo in his mind, firm and practiced, the same ones he has used to justify every step that led him here.

The flames flicker higher, as though urging him forward.

As though they understand.

He lifts the letter slightly and holds it over the fire. The heat curls against the edges, threatening, insistent.

And then, his eyes catch on the first line.

I saw something today that reminded me of you…

His breath stutters.

He shouldn’t read it again. He has read it enough. Memorized it, even.

But something in him falters, weakens, fractures under the weight of everything he is about to lose.

His gaze drops further.

You would have laughed at this…

He exhales slowly, unsteadily.

There had always been laughter in your letters. Even when you wrote of ordinary things, you made them feel brighter, lighter, as though the world was something to be shared, not endured.

As though he could be something more than what was expected of him.

His grip tightens. The paper trembles.

I wish you had been there.

That line is the one that breaks him.

Because he had wished the same thing, more times than he could ever admit.

In crowded ballrooms.

In quiet studies.

In every moment that should have felt complete but never quite did.

His jaw tightens, he cannot breathe.

The fire snaps sharply, a burst of sparks rising, impatient. Waiting.

He lowers the letter an inch closer. The edge darkens, just slightly. One more second, that is all it would take.

One second to erase you from his life.

One second to become the man everyone believes him to be.

His hand falters. Stops.

Because the truth, unbearable and unrelenting, is this, burning the letters would not undo you.

It would not silence your voice in his mind, nor erase the way your words had carved themselves into something permanent inside him.

It would not make him forget. It would only leave him emptier.

Slower, now, almost reluctantly, he pulls the letter back from the flame.

The heat fades.

The moment passes.

And with it, something final.

He stares at the page for a long time, his expression unreadable even to himself.

Then, he folds it.

Carefully. Gently.

Like something sacred. Not to be destroyed. But to be preserved.

He gathers the rest, his movements deliberate now, resolute in a way they had not been before. Each letter is stacked, aligned, returned to the order he knows by heart.

He ties the ribbon again, though it sits looser than it once did.

Time has changed it.

Just as it has changed him.

But not enough.

Never enough.

He does not look at the fire again as he turns away.

Because he knows, with a certainty that will follow him into every day of his marriage, this is the one choice he will never be able to undo.

So he hides them. Every single one.

Your letters, tied together with a ribbon that has long since lost its color, tucked away in a drawer no one thinks to open.

Not even his wife.

---------------

Kate Sharma is not a fool.

She notices things.

She notices the way Anthony is attentive, polite, dutiful, everything a husband should be, and yet there is a distance in him that never quite closes.

A space she cannot cross.

She does not press him at first.

Marriage, after all, is an adjustment. A learning of rhythms, of silences.

But there are moments.

Small ones.

The way his expression changes when he hears a certain phrase.

The way he lingers over letters longer than necessary.

The way he sometimes looks as though he is remembering something he cannot afford to speak aloud.

She tells herself it is nothing.

Until the day it isn’t.

---------------

It happens by accident.

It always does.

A misplaced key. A drawer left slightly ajar. A curiosity that would have meant nothing on any other day.

Kate does not expect to find anything of consequence.

Certainly not a bundle of letters, worn at the edges, handled too often to be forgotten.

Certainly not something hidden.

Her fingers pause as she lifts them.

There is no name on the outside.

Only the ribbon.

She hesitates.

Then, she unties it.

---------------

You do not know the moment your life is unearthed in another woman’s hands.

You are somewhere else, living a quieter version of what you once imagined, your days no longer punctuated by anticipation, your nights no longer filled with ink-stained confessions.

You have learned to exist without him.

Or at least, you have learned to pretend.

---------------

Kate reads the first letter.

Then the second. Then the third.

She tells herself she will stop.

She does not.

Because the voice in those letters is not the man she married.

It is someone else entirely.

Someone softer.

Someone undone.

Someone who writes “You must not write to me like this. Not when I find myself waiting for your letters as though they are the only honest thing in my life”.

Her breath catches.

She turns the page.

I do not believe in love. I have made that quite clear. And yet, when I read your words, I begin to understand why others do.

Kate’s hands tremble.

This is not duty.

This is not obligation.

This is something far more dangerous.

She keeps reading.

Because she has to know.

Because she has to understand.

Because she has to see just how deeply her husband has been shaped by someone who is not her.

---------------

Anthony finds her with them.

Of course he does.

There is no universe in which this ends quietly.

He knows something is wrong the moment he steps into the room.

The silence is too heavy. Too deliberate.

And then he sees the letters. In her hands.

Open. Exposed.

Everything he buried, laid bare in a single, devastating moment.

“Kate,”

His voice falters.

He has faced down grief, responsibility, the weight of an entire family on his shoulders.

But this is something else entirely.

She looks at him.

And for the first time since their marriage began, there is no softness in her gaze.

“Who is she?”

The question is quiet.

But it cuts deeper than any accusation.

Anthony does not answer. Because he cannot. Because saying your name aloud would make it real in a way he has spent years trying to avoid.

Kate rises slowly.

The letters remain in her hands, but she does not clutch them, she holds them as one might hold evidence.

Proof.

“You kept these,” she says.

Not a question. A realization.

He swallows.

“Yes.”

The word feels like a confession. Her jaw tightens.

“For how long?”

He doesn’t need to think. “Since the beginning.” Since you.

---------------

There are many things Kate could say.

Many ways she could react.

Anger. Hurt. Betrayal.

All of them would be justified.

Instead, she asks the only question that matters.

“Do you love her?”

The room stills.

Anthony closes his eyes. For a moment, he considers lying, it would be easier.

Kinder. Safer.

But he has already done enough damage with silence.

So he tells the truth.

“Yes.”

---------------

The word does not shatter the room.

It does something worse. It settles.

Heavy. Final.

Kate inhales sharply, as though the air itself has betrayed her.

“And yet you married me.”

It is not an accusation. It is a statement.

Of fact.

Of reality.

Of the life she now understands she has stepped into.

Anthony opens his eyes.

There is something broken in them.

Something that has been breaking for a very long time.

“I married you because it was my duty.”

The honesty is brutal. Unforgiving.

“I thought…” He exhales shakily. “I thought it would be enough.”

Kate lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh.

“Enough for whom?”

He has no answer. Because there isn’t one.

---------------

You receive a letter.

You almost do not open it.

You have trained yourself not to hope for things that cannot belong to you.

But something in you, something stubborn and aching, refuses to let it go unopened.

So you break the seal.

Your hands tremble before you even read the name.

Viscountess Bridgerton.

You frown, confused. Then, you read.

---------------

Kate’s letter is not what you expect.

It is not cruel.

It is not bitter.

It is something far more unsettling.

It is honest.

I found your letters.

Your breath catches.

I did not intend to read them. But once I began, I could not stop.

Your grip tightens on the page.

You should know that he kept them all.

Your heart stutters.

Every single one.

There is a pause in the ink, as though she hesitated before continuing.

I asked him if he loves you.

Your vision blurs.

He said yes.

The world tilts.

For a moment, you cannot breathe.

Cannot think.

Cannot exist outside of that one, impossible truth.

And then, the final line.

I thought you deserved to know.

---------------

Anthony does not know she wrote to you.

Not at first. Not until he sees the way something in your expression changes the next time your paths cross.

Because of course they do.

This is the cruel symmetry of your lives, you are never quite free of one another.

You stand across the room, surrounded by people, noise, and expectation, and yet it feels like it is only the two of you.

Your eyes meet and everything that was buried rises to the surface.

He sees it in you.

The knowledge.

The understanding.

The grief that never truly left.

“You know,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nod.

You do not trust yourself to speak.

For a moment, neither of you moves, because what is there to say?

What words could possibly bridge the distance that duty has carved between you?

Anthony takes a step closer. Then another.

He stops just short of you, as though there is an invisible line he cannot cross.

“I never stopped-”

He cuts himself off.

Because finishing that sentence would be a betrayal of everything he has chosen.

Everything he has sacrificed.

Everything he is still trying to uphold.

You swallow.

Your voice, when it comes, is soft.

“I know.”

That is the tragedy of it.

You always have.

---------------

There is no grand resolution.

No sweeping declaration that changes the course of your lives.

Because some choices cannot be undone.

Some paths cannot be rewritten.

Anthony returns to his wife.

To his duty. To the life he chose.

And you carry on. With the quiet, persistent knowledge that somewhere, hidden away, there are pieces of you that he could never let go.

Letters that refused to fade.

Just like the love they held.

And perhaps that is the cruelest thing of all.

Not that he did not love you.

But that he did.

And still he let you go.

--------------------

The grand chambers of Aubrey Hall, transformed into a haven for the newlyweds, flickered with the warm embrace of beeswax candles, casting golden shadows across the canopied bed. Anthony Bridgerton, Viscount and now devoted husband, watched his wife with bright eyes with unconstrained affection as she fidgeted with the ribbons of her nightgown. The festivities of their wedding day lingered in the air like a sweet perfume, but a shadow of concern dimmed her radiant smile.

"Anthony dearest," she murmured, her voice a delicate thread in the quiet room, "I must confess something most improper. My courses have arrived this very night. We cannot... we cannot consummate our union as tradition demands. It would be unseemly."

He approached her with the grace of a man who had waited lifetimes for this moment, his strong hands enveloping hers, drawing them to his lips for a reverent kiss. "My love, my wife," he replied, his tone rich with sincerity and a hint of intense desire, "nothing shall stop our joy. I crave you in every form—your laughter, your spirit, and yes, your body, even amidst this natural tide. But I would never press you. Say the word, and we shall wait. Do you wish to join with me so?"

Her gaze met his, the vulnerability in her eyes yielding to the trust they had forged through stolen glances and whispered vows. "Yes, Anthony. I want you. I want us to be one, no matter the circumstance."

A triumphant smile curved his lips as he claimed her mouth in a kiss that began soft and exploratory, tongues dancing in a slow, sensual waltz. His fingers deftly unlaced her gown, letting the silken fabric whisper to the floor, revealing the soft curves he had dreamed of. She trembled slightly, and he paused to fetch a folded length of linen from the bedside, spreading it beneath the sheets with a gentle murmur. "For our comfort, my darling. Nothing shall spoil this night."

Anthony relieves himself of his attire, his cock standing rigid and eager, veins pulsing with need as he guided her onto the bed. She lay back against the pillows, parting her thighs to welcome him, her pussy glistening with arousal blended with the subtle warmth of her monthly flow. He settled above her, the tip of his cock nudging her entrance, teasing her folds with languid strokes. "You are perfection," he breathed, easing inside her with exquisite slowness, savoring the tight, wet clasp of her walls enveloping him inch by inch.

She gasped, her hands clutching his broad shoulders, nails pressing into his skin as her body adjusted to the intimate intrusion. Anthony moved with measured thrusts, his hips rolling in a rhythm designed to stoke her pleasure without haste—deep, grinding presses that brushed her clit with each inward glide. "Feel how I fit you, love," he whispered against her ear, his breath hot and reassuring. "I desire you wholly, blood and all. Your essence only deepens my devotion." He trailed kisses down her throat to her breasts, capturing a nipple between his lips, sucking gently while his tongue swirled, drawing a moan from her.

One hand braced beside her head, the other ventured between their joined bodies, his thumb finding her swollen clit and circling it with tender insistence. "Tell me of your sensations, my heart," he urged, voice husky with restraint.

"Divine," she sighed, her legs encircling his waist, urging him closer. "You stretch me so fully, Anthony—it's as if we were made for this." Her pussy fluttered around his cock, the slick heat building as he praised her ceaselessly: "My exquisite wife, so responsive, so mine. Let pleasure claim you."

The coil within her tightened, and with a shuddering cry, she shattered, her orgasm rippling through her in waves, walls milking him as her release mingled with the stains on the cloth below. Anthony groaned, his control fraying at the pull, thrusting once more to the hilt before his cock throbbed, spilling his seed deep inside her in hot, pulsing shots. He collapsed gently atop her, their hearts thundering in unison, his lips brushing her temple. "See how beautifully we align, in every way."

After lingering in the afterglow, their limbs entwined and breaths steadying, Anthony rose, drawing her with him. "Let us cleanse ourselves." The adjoining bathing chamber boasted a grand porcelain tub, already filled with steaming water infused with lavender and jasmine. He entered first, then drew her into his lap as she straddled him, the liquid warmth caressing their skin like a lover's sigh.

Her pussy, still sensitive and slick from their joining, welcomed his cock once more as she lowered herself upon him, a shared sigh escaping their lips. "Take what you want from me, sweet wife," he encouraged, his hands steadying her hips as she began to rise and fall, her movements fluid and unhurried at first, building to a sensual cadence. Water surged over the tub's rim with each descent, across the marble floor.

Anthony reclined against the tub's edge, his gaze devouring the sight of her—breasts bouncing with hypnotic grace, water droplets tracing paths down her curves. His palms glided over her wet skin, kneading her ass to angle her deeper, then ascending to lavish her nipples with pinches and caresses that provoke whimpers. "You are a vision, my love," he declares, words pouring forth like vows. "Riding me so, your pussy so hot and tight around my cock—I am undone by your beauty, your passion. I shall cherish you eternally, in tub or bed or beneath the stars." He captured her mouth, the kiss deepening as she ground against him, her clit pressing firmly to his base.

She accelerated, water frothing around them, and he countered with upward surges, his cock striking that hidden spot within her. "Come for me again, darling." His fingers dipped to her clit, rubbing in firm, devoted strokes, his free hand tracing her spine in soothing touches. Her climax crashed over her, pussy convulsing in measured spasms that drew him to his own peak. With a guttural moan, Anthony erupted, his cum surging deep into her, warm and abundant amid the bath's embrace.

They clung in the cooling water, his touches now feather-light, tracing her jaw, her collarbone. "I love you beyond measure," he confesses, pressing a kiss to her damp forehead. "This night cements our forever." Revived and sated, he lifted her from the tub, enveloping her in a plush robe before sweeping her into his arms, cradling her as if she were the rarest treasure.

Back in the bedchamber, he settled her upon the crisp linens, joining her and drawing the covers over their forms. "Rest now, my love. Our honeymoon begins with endless promise, and I am the happiest of men to call you wife." She curled against him, their fingers laced, the bond of matrimony sealed in sweet tenderness and desire.

There was a log fire in Anthony’s office for two thirds of the day. His office wasn’t overly large, just the right size for his dark stained oak desk, a couple of bookshelves and a couch by the fireplace. For most of the morning, if you couldn’t find your husband, he could be found in his office, pouring over ledgers and accounts of the farmers that held tenancy on his land.

Truthfully, Anthony wasn’t financially minded. But upon the death of his beloved father, Anthony had to come to terms with the accounting of the estate. It was his responsibility; something he shouldered alone, and it bored him immensely.  

He’d just rubbed his eyes for the fourth time when there was a light knock at his door. A groan was his acceptance of entry, but his mood significantly lifts at the sight of you stood at the door.

“Darling,” He smiles; warmth flooding his veins as a smile graces his face. “How are you?”

“I should be asking you that,” You murmur approaching Anthony’s desk. “You look exhausted my love.”

Anthony settles back against his chair, accepting defeat for now against the blasted mathematics and calculations that taunted him from the pages of the leather-bound ledgers. “I hate this part of it all,” He complains, his voice close to a whine. “I panic I’m doing it all wrong, that I’m overcharging or undercharging or just messing everything up.”

“Oh love,” You murmur, wandering around the back of his chair, placing your hands to his shoulders and beginning to massage the tense muscles there.

Anthony’s muscles immediately give in to the pressure and relax. He melts further into the chair, his eyes closing in a brief reprieve. He brings a hand up to cover yours, bringing it to his lips to kiss it quickly before settling back onto his shoulder.

Silence descends momentarily before you speak softly. “You worry too much, my darling. The accounts always balance in the end, but if you’re overly concerned this year, have you considered asking for help from the accountants in the village? I’m sure they wouldn’t mind sending an apprentice to help.”

Anthony stares at the fire roaring in the fireplace. He considers your idea, mulling it over in his head before stating, “I think that’s a fine idea. I’ll send a missive to them in tomorrow. For now, I am done with business and ledgers and calculations.”

“Oh?”

Anthony nods, standing from his chair and gathering you into his arms. You melt into his touch; revelling in his warmth and the feel of his toned body pressed against you. Your beloved husband presses kiss after kiss to your hair, silently thanking you for your help with today’s problem.

“What, pray tell, are you to do with the rest of your day?” You question, curiosity getting the better of you.

A slow, relaxed smile spreads across your husband’s face. He leads you to the couch by the fire where he situates you both. Anthony hands you a book from the side table before settling himself with his head on your lap. You grab the blanket from the back of the couch, covering the both of you as best as you can.

Anthony looks up at you with happy eyes and a bright grin. “Satisfied?” You tease, brushing a hand through his soft, brown hair.

“Very,” Anthony states plainly, wiggling a little to prove his point.

A giggle leaves your lips. You lift the book in question. “Am I to read this to you, my lord?”

Anthony winks and blushes slightly at the sound of his title leaving your lips. “Please. I love your voice, it’s soothing.”

Your expression softens and your heart skips a beat. “Well, with that compliment, how could I refuse?”

Anthony’s eyes slip close as you turn to the first page in the book.

“No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy would have supposed her born to be a heroine. Her situation in life, the character of her father and mother, her own person and disposition, were all equally against her…”

As the log fire continues to burn, you both continue to sit. The words of the novel wash over Anthony, sending his worries somewhere else for a fleeting moment. His body sinks into the couch as he feels the warmth of the fire and your voice start to send him to sleep. Your hand takes hold of his, fingers tangling together and resting on his stomach. You continue to read; moving through the paragraphs and pages as the minutes and hours of the day slip by in some heavenly passage of time.

"Perhaps," you say softly, setting your cold tea aside, "you'd have better luck with the light if you moved closer to the window." You shift slightly on the window seat, making room beside you, the invitation clear in the gesture.

Benedict's eyes meet yours again, and a slow smile curves his lips. He rises with that casual grace that seems inherent to all the Bridgerton brothers, gathering his sketching materials. "An excellent suggestion," he murmurs, settling into the space you've created. "Though I warn you, you'll be trapped here until I finish."

"Trapped?" you echo, watching as he adjusts his position, his knee barely brushing yours. "That implies I have somewhere else I'd rather be."

The rain drums steadily against the glass, casting shifting shadows across his features as he opens his sketchbook again. "And do you?" he asks, his voice low enough that only you can hear. "Have somewhere else you'd rather be?"

Before you can answer, Eloise's voice cuts through the quiet. "Oh, for heaven's sake. Benedict, if you're going to sketch her, at least be honest about it."

A flush creeps up your neck, but Benedict merely grins at his sister. "I am being perfectly honest. I'm capturing the light."

"The light," Eloise repeats flatly, "just happens to fall exactly where she's sitting?"

"Precisely," Benedict says, and though his tone is teasing, his eyes when they meet yours are serious, almost intent. "Some things are simply meant to be illuminated."

You lean slightly closer, your voice barely above a whisper. "And what exactly are you hoping to illuminate with this sketch, Mr. Bridgerton?"

Benedict's hand stills on the paper, his eyes lifting to meet yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch. "Truth," he says simply, though there's nothing simple about the way he's looking at you. "Art has a way of revealing what we try to hide."

"And what am I hiding?" you ask, heart quickening at his proximity.

His fingers brush yours as he adjusts his sketchbook, the touch so light it could be accidental – except nothing about Benedict feels accidental right now. "That's what I'm trying to discover," he murmurs. "Though I suspect it's the same thing I am."

From across the room, Violet clears her throat pointedly. "Benedict, dear, perhaps Lady Ryann would like to see some of your finished works?"

"Oh yes," Eloise chimes in with poorly concealed glee, "show her the ones from Italy. The ones with all the...illumination."

Benedict shoots his sister a look that manages to be both amused and warning. "I prefer to focus on the present," he says, turning back to you. "The past can wait for another day."

The rain seems to drum louder against the windows, matching the rhythm of your pulse as you realize just how close you've drawn together over his sketchbook.

"Perhaps," you say, voice soft as the rain against the windows, "we could sketch together." Your fingers brush his as you reach for the pencil. "Share your perspective, as it were."

Benedict's breath catches, almost imperceptibly. "Share my..." He glances down at where your hand rests near his, then back to your face with an intensity that makes your chest tight. "Yes," he says finally, shifting the sketchbook so it bridges the space between you. "Though I warn you, I can be rather particular about my tools."

"Can you?" you murmur, accepting the pencil he offers. Your fingers overlap his for a moment longer than strictly necessary. "How fortunate that I have a steady hand."

A quiet laugh escapes him, warm and low. "Do you? Even with me watching?"

You begin a light stroke across the paper, hyperaware of his presence beside you, of how he leans closer to observe your work. "I suppose we'll find out."

"Benedict," Eloise's exasperated voice cuts through the moment, "if you make her draw the entire room while you just sit there staring—"

"I am providing artistic guidance," he protests, though his eyes never leave your hand as it moves across the paper.

"Is that what we're calling it now?" Colin mutters from his place by the fire.

You focus on the sketch, trying to ignore how Benedict's arm presses against yours as he adjusts his position, how his breath stirs the loose strands of hair near your ear. The rain drums steadily outside, creating a private rhythm that seems to exist only for the two of you.

It's fascinating," you murmur, your pencil pausing on the paper, "how different everything looks from here. The shadows, the way the rain makes patterns on the floor..." You gesture subtly toward where Penelope sits reading, framed by the grey light. "She looks like she belongs in a painting."

Benedict follows your gaze, and you feel rather than see his smile. "You have an artist's eye," he says, his voice dropping lower. "Most people see only what they expect to see. You notice the stories hidden in plain sight."

Your hands have stilled on the paper, the pencil forgotten between you. "And what story do you see right now?"

He turns to you then, and the intensity in his eyes makes your breath catch. "One that's still being written," he murmurs. "Though I find myself rather invested in how it ends."

A sudden burst of laughter from Colin breaks through the moment, and you realize with a start how close you've drawn together, how the sketchbook has somehow shifted to rest against both your knees, creating a bridge between you.

"I believe," Benedict says, carefully taking the pencil from your loosened grip, "this perspective deserves more attention. Perhaps..." He pauses, glancing toward the terrace doors where the rain continues its steady fall. "Perhaps when there's better light."

You understand the invitation in his words, the promise of a more private continuation. "Yes," you say softly. "Better light would make all the difference."

"Do you often find inspiration in the rain?" you ask, watching droplets trace abstract patterns on the windowpane. "It seems to bring out different qualities in everything it touches."

Benedict's hand moves across the paper, adding soft shadows to the sketch between you. "The rain has a way of washing away pretense," he says thoughtfully. "It reveals things as they truly are." His eyes meet yours, and there's something almost confessional in his gaze. "Though sometimes what it reveals is... unexpected."

"Unexpected," you echo softly, "or simply overlooked until the right moment?"

He sets down his pencil, and you notice how his fingers linger near yours on the sketchbook. "Both, perhaps." His voice drops lower, meant only for you. "Like how the same view you've seen a hundred times can suddenly become..." he pauses, searching for the word.

"Illuminating?" you offer, remembering his earlier comment.

A smile touches his lips, genuine and warm. "Precisely." He glances toward the terrace doors, where the rain has begun to ease into a gentle mist. "Though I find some revelations are better appreciated in solitude."

You understand the subtle invitation in his words, the promise of a more private conversation to come. "Yes," you agree quietly. "Some things deserve to be viewed without an audience."

From her seat across the room, Eloise sighs dramatically. "If you two are quite finished discussing the artistic merits of precipitation..."

"Never," Benedict replies cheerfully, though his eyes remain on you. "There's always more to discover in the rain."

"I should rest before dinner," you say, carefully rising from the window seat. Your fingers brush against the sketch as you stand, a deliberate whisper of contact. "Though I imagine the rain will continue to provide... inspiration."

Benedict's eyes meet yours with quiet understanding. "Some inspirations are worth pursuing," he murmurs, closing his sketchbook with careful precision. "Even in less than perfect weather."

You feel the weight of his gaze as you move toward the door, your steps measured and unhurried. "The terrace can be quite lovely in the evening mist," you observe casually, though your heart beats a little faster at the implicit invitation.

"Indeed," he agrees, and though his tone is light, there's an undercurrent of anticipation that makes your pulse quicken. "One might even call it... illuminating."

As you leave the room, you catch Eloise's exasperated sigh and Colin's poorly concealed chuckle. But it's the sound of Benedict shifting in his seat, the subtle rustle of his sketchbook being set aside, that follows you up the stairs.

The evening air carries the lingering scent of rain as you step onto the terrace. Candlelight spills from the drawing room behind you, creating a warm glow that battles with the misty darkness. Your heart quickens as you hear familiar footsteps approaching.

Benedict emerges from the shadows, his evening jacket slightly undone, dark curls dampened by the evening air. The artistic disarray of his appearance makes your breath catch.

"I thought everyone had retired for the evening," you say softly, though you both know this isn't true.

He moves closer, moonlight catching the intensity in his eyes. "How could I? The evening wasn't finished." His voice drops lower. "The light wasn't quite right."

You smile, remembering your earlier conversation. "And now?"

"Now..." He steps nearer, close enough that your sleeve brushes his. "Now everything is perfectly illuminated."

The garden stretches before you, silver puddles reflecting moonlight like scattered mirrors. A distant rumble of thunder echoes your heartbeat as Benedict's hand finds yours in the shadows.

"The rain changes everything," you murmur, watching moonlight glint off the wet roses. "It strips away all the careful artifice, leaving only what's real." Your voice grows softer. "What's true."

Benedict's thumb traces a gentle pattern on your wrist, making your breath catch. "Truth can be dangerous," he says, his voice low and intimate. "Especially on nights like this."

You turn to face him, emboldened by the shadows and the lingering scent of rain. "Is that why you're here? Searching for dangerous truths?"

His free hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from your face, the touch deliberate and lingering. "I think I've been searching for you," he confesses, the words barely above a whisper. "Even before I knew what I was looking for."

The candlelight from the drawing room catches his profile, highlighting the intensity in his expression. You're acutely aware of how close he stands, how the damp air makes everything feel more immediate, more vital.

"Show me," you breathe, though you're not sure if you mean the truth, or himself, or something else entirely.

His response is to guide you deeper into the shadows, where the vine-covered wall meets the terrace steps. The privacy here feels absolute, intimate - a pocket of space where the world narrows to just the two of you, the rain, and whatever truth you're both about to discover.

"Have you found it?" you whisper, your voice barely carrying over the patter of rain. "The composition you were seeking?"

Benedict's eyes darken as he studies you, his artist's gaze taking in every detail of your face in the shadowed light. His hand, still holding yours, tightens almost imperceptibly. "Almost," he murmurs. "But something's still... constrained."

You feel the heat of his body, so close now that the edge of his coat brushes against your skirts. "The constraints of propriety?" you suggest, your heart thundering against your ribs.

"No." His free hand comes up to trace the line of your jaw, and you can feel the slight tremor in his fingers. "The constraints of pretense. Of holding back what wants to be expressed." His thumb brushes your lower lip, sending a shiver through your entire body. "I don't want to paint this moment with careful strokes, (Name). I want to capture it exactly as it is."

The air between you feels electric, charged with possibility and the threatening rumble of distant thunder. "Then show me," you breathe, echoing your earlier words but with new meaning. "Show me how you'd compose this truth."

His eyes, dark and searching in the moonlight, hold yours for one endless moment. "Are you certain?" he asks, his voice rough with restraint. "Once we step past this line..."

You answer by letting your fingers find his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath the fine linen of his shirt. "I think we crossed that line the moment you followed me out here."

You take half a step back, your fingers still resting lightly on his chest. The sudden space between you feels charged, electric with possibility and restraint. "Perhaps we should maintain some... artistic distance," you murmur, though your racing pulse betrays your true desires.

Benedict's response is immediate and devastating. He moves forward, matching your retreat until your back meets the cool stone wall. His hands come to rest on either side of you, not touching but effectively caging you within the circle of his arms. The vine-covered trellis above casts dappled shadows across his features, making him look wild, untamed.

"Distance," he says, his voice rough with barely contained emotion, "is the last thing I want between us right now."

You can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the lingering scent of rain on his skin. His face hovers inches from yours, his breath warming your lips. "And what do you want?" you whisper, your last pretense at resistance crumbling.

"To lose every careful line I've ever drawn," he murmurs, one hand moving to trace the curve of your neck. "To create something real. Something true." His thumb brushes your pulse point, feeling its rapid flutter. "To paint you exactly as you are in this moment – breathless, beautiful, and completely unleashed."

"Then paint me," you whisper, your fingers finding his and guiding them to the delicate laces at your back. The touch sends shivers down your spine, each point of contact burning through the thin fabric of your gown.

Benedict draws in a sharp breath, his artistic hands stilling against the intricate knots. "Are you certain?" he asks, though his voice has dropped to a dangerous octave. "Once I begin this composition..."

You turn slightly, pressing his palm more firmly against the laces. "I trust your vision," you breathe, feeling the tremor that runs through him. "Show me how an artist loves."

His control splinters. With agonizing slowness, he begins to work the laces free, each loosened knot accompanied by the brush of his fingers against your skin. You feel the gown gradually loosening, the cool night air kissing your newly exposed flesh.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, his lips finding the curve of your neck. "Every line, every shadow..." His free hand slides around your waist, drawing you back against his chest. "You're the masterpiece I've been waiting to create."

The last lace comes free, and your gown whispers a promise of surrender.

The silk slides from your shoulders like water, pooling at your feet in the moonlight. Benedict's breath catches audibly, his hands stilling on your waist as he drinks in the sight of you. The night air kisses your exposed skin, raising gooseflesh that his fingers quickly trace.

"Perfect," he breathes, and there's reverence in his voice. "Like a Titian come to life." His hands ghost over your stays, finding the edges with careful precision. "But even these lines need freeing."

You lean back against him as his clever fingers work at the restrictive garment. "Show me," you whisper again, feeling the thundering of his heart against your back. "Show me how an artist loves."

The stays loosen under his touch, each small release of pressure making you feel lighter, more real. When they finally fall away, you take your first full breath of the night air, feeling truly unveiled before his gaze.

Benedict turns you slowly in his arms, his eyes dark with appreciation and barely contained desire. "The composition improves," he murmurs, one hand sliding up your bare back while the other cups your face. "But I think..." His thumb traces your lower lip. "I think we need to move this masterpiece somewhere more... private."

"The composition is perfect," you breathe, your fingers finding the buttons of his waistcoat. "Right here, where the moonlight knows how to paint us." The shadows of the vine-covered wall create a natural sanctuary, the distant rumble of thunder masking any telltale sounds.

Benedict's eyes darken with understanding and barely restrained desire. "Here?" His voice is rough as he shrugs out of his jacket, letting it fall silently to the damp stone. "Where anyone might discover us?"

"Here," you confirm, bold in the silver darkness. "Where it's real. Where we're true."

He groans softly, his control finally shattering. His mouth claims yours with artistic passion, tasting of rain and desire. His hands, usually so precise with a pencil, now map the curves of your body with desperate appreciation. You arch into his touch as he guides you back against the cool stone wall, the contrast of temperatures making you gasp.

"My masterpiece," he whispers against your throat, his fingers working quickly at his own remaining clothes. "Let me worship every line, every shadow..."

You help him shed the last barriers between you, your hands trembling with equal parts nervousness and desire. When he finally stands before you, bare in the moonlight, you understand why the old masters painted their gods this way.

"Compose me," you breathe against his mouth, surrendering to his artist's vision. "Show me how this masterpiece ends."

Benedict's response is immediate and overwhelming. He lifts you onto a low stone ledge beneath the vines, the cool surface a stark contrast to the heat of his skin. His hands, so precise with a pencil, now trace your body with deliberate intention, each touch drawing soft gasps from your lips.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, his mouth following the path of his fingers. "Every line, every curve..." He kisses the hollow of your throat, then lower, mapping you with lips and tongue. "You deserve to be worshipped like this."

You arch beneath his touch, fingers tangling in his dark curls as he explores your body with artistic devotion. The distant rumble of thunder masks your soft cries as he finds particularly sensitive places, his talented hands drawing pleasure from you like he would draw beauty from a blank canvas.

When he finally rises to claim your mouth again, you feel the hard length of him pressed against you. "Please," you whisper against his lips. "Complete the composition."

He enters you slowly, reverently, both of you gasping at the exquisite sensation. Your legs wrap around his waist as he begins to move, each thrust carefully measured like brush strokes on canvas. The vine leaves whisper above you, providing shelter from prying eyes as you lose yourself in his artistry.

You surrender completely to his artistry, letting waves of pleasure build with each precise movement. Benedict's hands grip your hips, holding you steady against the cool stone as he drives deeper, harder, his control finally fracturing under the weight of shared desire.

"Let go," he whispers against your throat, his voice rough with passion. "Let me see you come undone. Show me your masterpiece."

The words, combined with a particularly deep thrust, send you spiraling over the edge. You cry out softly, the sound lost in the rumble of distant thunder as pleasure courses through your body. Benedict follows immediately after, your name a broken prayer on his lips as he finds his own release.

For several long moments, you stay perfectly still, connected in every way possible. The night air cools your heated skin as his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing heavily. The scent of rain and roses mingles with the musk of passion.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, pressing soft kisses along your jaw. "Absolutely perfect."

The rain continues its gentle percussion against the terrace roof as you lie beside Benedict on the stone ledge, his coat draped carefully over both of you. The urgency of moments before has mellowed into something softer, more intimate. Your body hums with lingering pleasure as the cool night air kisses your heated skin.

"Well," Benedict murmurs, his voice deliciously rough, "that may be the first time I've ever finished a piece and immediately wished to start it again."

A laugh bubbles up from your chest, surprising in its lightness. "Ever the artist—never satisfied."

He shifts onto his side, propping himself up to look at you properly. In the moonlight, his dark curls are painted silver, his eyes holding a warmth that makes your heart flutter. "That's not dissatisfaction," he corrects softly. "That's admiration."

You arch an eyebrow at him, feeling playful despite your state of undress. "Is that what you call it?"

His fingers find your face, brushing away a strand of hair with infinite tenderness. "I call it inspiration. Though I suppose it's the same affliction that's ruined countless painters before me."

You catch his hand before it can retreat, pressing a kiss to his palm. "If I recall, most of them managed quite well despite their muses."

Wanna make your own choices and see what happens next? READ/PLAY HERE! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

🎮interactive fanfic "Duty & Desire" by Neaphant