#bridgertonxreader

“That… woman,” Anthony muttered, seated at the long dining table, newspaper clenched firmly in his hand.

“If you had no intention of marrying, I might agree that she is mad,” Benedict replied, laughter dancing in his voice as he leaned back in his chair. “But honestly? That woman is a genius.”

“Do not say another word, brother,” Anthony snapped. “I will not allow my perfectly reasonable intentions to marry to be turned into gossip by some idle, quill-wielding aunt.”

“Oh, of course you won’t,” Benedict said, grinning. “But now the entire ton will be watching you. I doubt you’ll have a single moment of peace.”

And so it was that you met Anthony Bridgerton.

“Would you care to dance with me, miss?”

You looked up to find Lord Bridgerton standing before you, polite and composed, though his eyes betrayed a certain urgency. You had noticed him earlier. How he had danced with nearly every eligible young woman in attendance. You had stopped counting long ago.

Your own dance card remained empty, clutched tightly in your hand. You had prepared many polite refusals over the course of the season.

Your aunt answered for you before you could speak.

Of course she did.

“You look wonderful this evening, miss,” Lord Bridgerton said, bowing as he extended his hand.

“You have already said as much, my lord,” you replied coolly. “But thank you.”

“I find it bears repeating,” he said, then paused. “Tell me, what are your thoughts on marriage and the building of a family?”

You stiffened. “I do wish to marry one day, my lord. And I believe I would be happy with a family of my own.”

It was not a lie. You simply had not told him everything.

“Very well,” he said at once. “How many children would you desire?”

“That,” you replied sharply, “would be a matter for my future husband and myself.”

He barely seemed to notice your irritation. “Would you prefer a large family?”

“And do you enjoy reading?”

You stopped dancing.

“My lord,” you said, looking up at him, “may I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Have you ever considered that you will never find a wife by interrogating women as though they are contracts to be negotiated?” Your voice was calm, but your words were not. “If you wished for someone exactly like Cassandra, you might simply marry her. Yet you are clearly searching for something different, so I would advise you to behave like a gentleman rather than a man tallying assets.”

His expression faltered.

“I allowed you to ask me deeply personal questions, though you know nothing of my life or my losses,” you continued. “And now that I wish to ask something in return, you offer nothing.”

You stepped back.

“You, Lord Bridgerton, have made this evening unpleasant. I suggest you cease dancing with half the ton if you wish society to take you seriously.”

And with that, you left him standing alone in the center of the ballroom.

The next morning, the drawing room was filled with flowers.

An impossibly beautiful bouquet, overflowing with blooms, silk ribbons, and nestled among them, a small, delicate card. You did not need to read it to know who had sent it. There were very few men in society with both the means and the audacity.

Still, you took the card from where it was tied to a rose and opened it.

“As I was so unpleasant last evening…”

The handwriting was precise and elegant.

At least, you thought, he knows how to apologize.

You tucked the card into your diary.

Your parents had once spoken often of your future marriage. Then your mother fell ill.

And everything changed.

You took over the household, directing the maids, hosting teas and balls, maintaining appearances. More importantly, you stayed by your father’s side, soothing the grief that had hollowed him out after losing the woman he loved. You learned how to hold a home together while your own heart learned restraint.

You lived comfortably, privileged even. Your father ensured finances were never a concern. But it had always been your mother’s wish to see you married. “Well secured and in good hands,“ she used to say.

Now that responsibility had fallen to your father and your aunt.

You did not have to marry. You were not even certain you wished to.

All you wanted was to care for your family. For your father.

Love, you knew, was a dangerous thing. Every lord who appeared suitable revealed himself to be arrogant, dismissive, more interested in acquiring a wife than building a life. They sought security, not partnership, and you refused to condemn yourself to a lifetime of quiet misery.

You wanted a life on your own terms.

Chapter 1 - The intention

Chapter 2 - The idea

Chapter 3 - soon

A few days later, you unfolded the latest Lady Whistledown paper with mounting dread. The words burned hotter than embarrassment itself. You had never wished to dance with Lord Bridgerton in the first place and now the entire ton was convinced you had taken a romantic stroll with him.

Perhaps it was not entirely unfortunate. If society believed you were destined for marriage, perhaps other suitors would finally leave you in peace.

Still, it had all begun rather unexpectedly.

Anthony Bridgerton saw you before you saw him. It was a warm morning. A walk in the park was the right thing to do.

That was good, he thought.

“Miss Y/N,” he said, his voice betraying a nervousness he did not quite understand.

Why, indeed, was he nervous?

“Good day, Lord Bridgerton,” you replied coolly.

“Have you received my apology?” he asked, far more curtly than intended.

“I have,” you answered.

After a brief pause, he continued, “Might you permit me a walk along the promenade?”

Before you could respond, your aunt interjected with alarming enthusiasm.

“Y/N, you look in need of fresh air. A walk would do you wonders.”

And so you found yourself strolling along the promenade, maids trailing dutifully behind, while you attempted, unsuccessfully, to determine exactly what Anthony Bridgerton was plotting.

“Your aunt seems quite eager to see you married,” he remarked.

“She only wishes to help,” you said firmly.

“And you?” he countered. “You seem eager yourself, Lady Y/N.”

You lifted your chin. “Have you found someone, Lord Bridgerton?”

“I do not wish to marry you,” you said shortly, well aware such a statement was most improper.

“Oh,” Anthony replied, never once breaking his gaze.

“Then why is it you wish to marry at all?” he asked.

You exhaled slowly. “Unlike most women of society, I possess prospects others do not. I have a manor to manage, a loving father, capable staff, everything I could wish for. To marry merely to become a wife would be fatal to my freedom.”

There it was.

The truth.

“Strong words, Lady Y/N.”

“There are things I cannot tell anyone.”

“I seek a loyal wife,” he said quietly. “One who will live a long life.”

You scoffed softly. “To live a long life sounds utterly dreadful, Lord Bridgerton.”

His lips twitched. “Do you wish to marry for love?”

“No,” he said, stern and unwavering.

That night, sleep refused to come.

Anthony Bridgerton haunted your thoughts. The way he had looked while helping that young woman from the water. The way he had sat across from you in the carriage, so ordinary, as though his clothes had not been entirely ruined and transparent.

The way he had escorted you home, bid his parents farewell, and ensured you were safely inside before leaving.

Perhaps he was not as terrible as you had first believed.

To you, he seemed a man carrying far more upon his mind than he ever allowed the world to see.

And you could not help but wonder what, precisely, that might be.

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