her chin tilts, the smallest, laziest dip, as if caught by a passing fragrance, when she feels the air shift behind her. ❛⠀that is a sorry excuse for a mask, ❜ christine says under her breath. his frame aligns with hers without ever quite touching, a gloved hand ghosting across her back, before withdrawing that inch of delicious warmth from her. lord bridgerton, ever so proper. ❛⠀ you promised me a game. ❜

not particularly, but it was too late to stop now. the wheels were in motion, metaphorically and physically, the carriage groaning in the uneven ground of the road between them, leaving behind london and possibly her only choice to reunite with the doctor in this century.

but it was done now.

the first hour or so had been spent pleasantly enough - he danced twice with caroline, met some of her friends, listened dutifully as she whispered names in his ear... but now he's found a quiet corner to sip punch in peace. it is only when he meets his wife's eye across the room and she nods pointedly towards the man near him that he realizes what he's done. for the past twenty minutes, he'd stood in silence, ignoring one of their hosts... caroline's eyes twinkle with mischief and her brow lifts in challenge, as if daring him to remedy the error. and he knows better than to believe he can deny her...

he clears his throat awkwardly. " lord bridgerton, " he says at last, offering a polite smile. " i must thank you for including my wife and i in your invitation... " he doubts the man knows who he is. his smile becomes a slight smirk of amusement. " i'm afraid cornwall does not offer her such refined entertainment. "

PROMPTS FOR ORDINARY THINGS THAT FEEL INTIMATE. always accepting.

It’s another long night in the study of scratching away at his father’s seemingly endless correspondence, his head leaning further on his hand. The eldest Holmes feels his eyes close more frequently as the minutes while away into hours, finding it harder to pull himself back into awareness and the task at hand. 

The next thing Elijah knows he’s weightless and small. It’s a completely alien sensation but not at all an unwelcome one, especially paired with the melodic sound of footfall against wood, the rain on the windows and roof, and the familiar scent and warmth against his cheek. He smiles— light, easy, and unguarded— and inclines his head, attempting to press closer. 

“Anthony,” he breathes, dreamy and reverent. He thinks he hears a shushing sound, perhaps the rumble of words through his chest, but lets himself be lulled by his heartbeat. 

It’s only when he feels himself being laid down, the comforting weight and coolness of the sheets and blankets being drawn over him, a lingering kiss pressed against his temple, that his eyes open at half mast, hand reaching out to cup Anthony’s cheek.

" lord bridgerton! " there is a touch of disdain in her voice when she calls to him - perhaps more than would seem warranted from a stranger. but if she does not know him personally, she certainly knows him by reputation. indeed, everyone who works in the opera house is aware of him. and of how - until recently - he'd been quite the devoted patron of the arts... it is not a reputation that has especially endeared him to his former favorite's colleagues. but here he is, at the gala opening of the opera season, rubbing elbows with artists and society matrons alike. surely, it would be remiss of her to ignore him, would it not? not when there was entertainment to be had... " i'm delighted you came tonight. i confess, we'd all despaired of ever seeing you within these walls again. " there is the ghost of a smirk on her lips. " we'd all been led to understand that your taste for the opera had... soured. "

clara counts down the seconds in her head. waits, frozen in character until she hears the click of a door at the end of the hallway to look at anthony, just in case the sight of him — puffed up like a peacock, cravat tied in an ahistorical manner, made her giggle.

again.

her annoyance with him, luckily, stifles her humor. the sight of him only instigates a smirk at the corner of her lips. a curled little thing which left nothing for interpretation, the malicious thoughts brewing at the back of her mind sketched out in the arch of her brow, the purse of plush lips.

❛⠀⠀your presence thaws the icy cage around my heart. i gotta give it to you, bridgerton, tut, it’s hard to beat you in the worst line of the week competition, ⠀ ❜ ⠀ ⠀ she says, lounging on the couch in a less-than-dainty pose, slipper-clad feet resting on arm of the couch. gone is the crisp accent she’s been sporting for the past hour, replaced by a low northern brogue that doesn't bother to hide her contempts. her true accent, deemed unsuitable for an austen setting, amplifying the playful taunt.