#eloise x reader

It starts innocently enough.

You’re in the Bridgerton garden, tucked beneath a flowering tree, your legs stretched out on the grass, an old book opened across your lap. The sun is gentle this afternoon, soft on your skin, and the quiet hum of bees in the distance adds to the tranquility. You don’t even hear her coming until there’s a dramatic thud beside you and a familiar groan of impatience.

“They sent fruit,” Eloise declares, as though this is the greatest injustice of the day. She tosses a tangerine into your lap with theatrical disdain.

You glance at the fruit, then at her. Her bonnet is askew, cheeks flushed from wherever she’s come rushing in from. “Is it meant to symbolize fertility or something else even more scandalous?”

“If it is, I’ll never eat another,” she retorts with a scoff.

And yet, a beat later, she’s peeling it with swift fingers. She works quickly but methodically, the smell of orange juice releasing into the air, a sharp sweetness that clings to you. Her nails dig into the rind, fingers stained and sticky, but she doesn’t complain. Instead, she begins to segment the fruit, turning each quarter over with care.

When she offers you the neatest slice (not the first, not the last, but the best one) you blink in surprise. But you take it. Your fingers brush. Neither of you pulls away.

You both look down at the fruit in your hands like it's suddenly taken on a new meaning.

No one says a word.

Then, after that, it becomes a thing.

A strange sort of ritual that repeats without explanation. A silent offering between chapters of conversation or shared glances. Sometimes it’s her pressing a tangerine into your hand mid-walk, with a wink and no context. Other times, it’s left waiting on your windowsill, perfectly round, with a note beside it that simply reads, In case you missed me.

No one else seems to notice. Or if they do, they don’t ask. Not Daphne, who raises an eyebrow once before moving on. Not Penelope, who likely suspects everything but wisely says nothing.

It becomes comfort. It becomes habit.

You begin to associate the smell of oranges with her laugh, with her skirts brushing against yours, with the sound of her boots running through the halls as she hunts you down to share some ridiculous bit of gossip. It follows you into your dreams, into the creases of your pillow, into the way your heart quickens when she sits too close.

It’s silly, of course. It’s just fruit.

But it’s never just fruit when it comes from her.

And as the days slide into weeks, and spring slips lazily into summer, you begin to wonder if you’ve ever shared something so small that felt so impossibly big.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

It rains for hours.

The kind of rain that softens the world around you, turning the estate into a haze of grey. Thunder rolls lazily in the distance, and the windows fog from the warmth inside. You’re glad you made it to the Bridgerton house before the rain descended. You’ve resigned yourself to a slow day, curled up on the chaise with a fresh book in hand, the scent of old paper and damp leaves drifting in through the cracked window.

Eloise appears with all the force of a minor storm. She slams the door behind her, kicks off her boots, and flops, quite literally, beside you.

“There’s nothing to do,” she announces, dramatically. “Mother has commandeered the parlour, Colin’s snoring in the library, and someone,” she glances sideways at you, “has been hiding in here like a ghost.”

“I’m reading,” you reply, not looking up.

She ignores you. Or rather, she ignores your protests. Instead, she scoots close, peering over your shoulder at the page. Her chin nearly rests against your shoulder, and you can feel her breath on your collarbone, warm and steady.

“You always smell like oranges now,” you murmur, not entirely teasing. "I like it."

She grins, and without missing a beat: “You'll never eat an orange without thinking of me." Her breath falters momentarily, "Not that you need any help, you're always thinking of me, no?"

You choke, on your breath, on the weight of that sentence, and she just laughs, full and delighted.

She doesn’t move away.

Instead, she reaches up, fingers brushing a stray curl from your forehead and tucking it carefully behind your ear. Her touch is casual, but her fingers linger, just long enough for your heart to betray you.

“Sticky fingers,” she whispers. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Your throat tightens. You don’t know if she’s talking about the citrus, or the closeness, or the way she keeps looking at you like she’s memorising something. Maybe all of it.

You shake your head. A quiet gesture. But the meaning is loud in your chest.

Outside, the rain continues. Inside, time slows.

She reaches into her skirt pocket, and, as if by magic, produces another tangerine. “You know,” she says idly, “if I were a different sort of girl, I’d make a grand romantic gesture out of this. Perhaps declare that each fruit is a token of my undying devotion.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And what sort of girl are you?”

She shrugs, smiling faintly. “The kind who prefers slow rituals. Quiet things. The kind who peels fruit on rainy days and hopes you’ll let her stay close.”

You don’t answer. Not with words.

Instead, you rest your cheek lightly against her shoulder.

She peels the tangerine in slow, curling spirals, the scent of citrus curling around you like a secret. One by one, she offers you slices, fingertips brushing your lips, touch feather-light, like punctuation to everything unsaid.

You eat each one.

You don’t look away.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

It’s a Bridgerton garden party, the kind with too many guests and not nearly enough places to hide. The lawn is a sea of pastels and parasols, laughter bubbling from corners, children darting between grown-up conversations.

You’re standing near the edge of it all, holding a glass of lemonade and pretending to admire the rosebushes. It’s easier than weaving through endless introductions or enduring yet another matchmaking attempt from a well-meaning aunt.

Then he appears. A young gentleman. He’s polished, affable, with the kind of smile that suggests he’s memorised it in a mirror.

“You looked like you could use company,” he says smoothly.

You raise a brow. “Do I?”

He chuckles. “Only because I felt the same.”

To his credit, he’s charming in that easy, practiced way. He talks about music and travel, leans in just a bit when he laughs at your jokes. You’re still half-listening when a sudden weight hits your side, not hard, but deliberate.

Eloise.

She appears beside you like a thunderclap in human form, eyes narrowed and expression coolly unimpressed.

“Hello,” she says flatly to the gentleman. Then, to you, “You’ve been terribly hard to find.”

“I’ve been standing in the same place for fifteen minutes,” you say mildly.

“Precisely. Who lingers by rosebushes when there’s fresh lemonade and scandal near the terrace?”

The man attempts to recover the conversation. “Miss Bridgerton, is it? I was just telling your friend here about my travels-"

Eloise cuts in, sweetly venomous. “How lovely. Did your tailor travel with you? That cravat looks freshly traumatised.”

You nearly spit out your drink. The gentleman blinks, excuses himself with a stiff nod, and walks off with as much dignity as he can salvage.

Silence stretches between you and Eloise. Then, “Jealous?” you ask, teasing, curious.

Her brows lift. “Don’t be absurd.”

You turn to face her fully. “He was just being polite.”

“He was being dreary, and your time is far too precious for tedium,” she replies, arms crossed.

“You’re protective now?”

“I’m always protective. Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed.”

Before you can respond, something small and firm hits your chest. You glance down.

She’s already turning to go, satisfied and smug. “You forgot this,” she calls over her shoulder. A tangerine is rolling softly away.

You pick it up, cradling it like a secret. It smells like her, bright and defiant.

Later, you’ll find it in your pocket still, slightly bruised from the day. You won’t be able to bring yourself to eat it. Not because you don’t want it, but because some part of you is waiting for her to peel it for you.

Because somehow, the ritual is only complete when it’s hers to give.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

It’s late and Eloise sits beside you on the blanket, legs tucked to the side, skirts rumpled with careless grace.

Neither of you speak at first. The silence is comfortable, tinged with the familiar scent of citrus that you have grown to expect, and love.

Eloise pulls a tangerine from the pocket of her dress. She holds it up between you like a peace offering, like a question. You nod once.

But this time, she doesn’t peel it quickly, doesn’t chatter while doing so. Her fingers are slower, more thoughtful. She works the skin off in long, deliberate spirals, the scent of it rising between you like something ancient and sweet.

You watch her, the way her brow furrows slightly in concentration, the way she separates the fruit into even quarters as always but with uncharacteristic gentleness.

Then, instead of placing one in your palm as usual, she turns to you, her eyes searching your face, slowing down.

She gently lifts the piece, soft, sticky, perfect, against your lips.

You freeze.

Her hand pauses there, fingers grazing your cheek now, breath catching like she’s just realized what she’s done, or what she’s about to do. You gently part your lips, taking the piece of fruit, hoping she keeps her hand there.

“You always let me feed you,” she says, quiet. Vulnerable. “Even though you pretend it’s silly.”

You swallow… the fruit, the emotion, all of it. “It’s not silly.”

“Then neither is this.”

She leans in. Slowly. Carefully. Her lips meet yours like a question she already knows the answer to. It tastes like tangerines and sunlight, and something else entirely, something soft and sharp and real.

She pulls back just a little, her eyes still closed. “Sorry,” she murmurs. “I’ve been trying not to do that for weeks.”

You shake your head. “Don’t be.”

The words are barely a whisper, but they land heavy in the space between you. Your forehead touches hers. You don’t know what happens next, if it’s the beginning of something, or the tipping point of everything you’ve been pretending not to want.

But for now, there’s this.

The scent of citrus on her fingers. The warmth of her beside you. And the quiet, undeniable truth of a kiss you’ll never forget.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The next day is a mess.

Not outwardly. The sky is bright, your breakfast unburnt, your dress ironed, the Bridgerton estate humming with its usual chatter. But inside, everything feels off-kilter. You see Eloise at a distance, speaking animatedly with Benedict. She glances at you once. Quickly. Then looks away.

It stings more than you’d like.

You retreat to your usual spot in the garden, book in hand but unread. The page blurs from how long you’ve been staring at it. You think of her fingers, sweet with citrus, pressed to your mouth. Of her lips on yours, not demanding, but hopeful. Like a beginning.

What does it mean, now that it's happened?

You’re just about to get up, maybe wander aimlessly until the feeling fades, when you hear footsteps behind you. A familiar shuffle of boots, an annoyed huff, the rustle of skirts. Eloise.

She appears beside you, holding out a tangerine in both hands like a peace treaty.

“Still friends who eat fruit together?” she asks, voice too breezy to be casual.

You take the tangerine slowly. Turn it over in your palms. “Friends who kiss, perhaps?”

Eloise’s face shifts, wariness first, then wonder. Then she lights up like the damn sun. “Well,” she says, voice lighter, “that’s considerably more fun.”

You peel the tangerine this time. It feels like a statement. The skin comes off in clumsy chunks, and your fingers get sticky but you manage.

You pull apart the first quarter and hand it to her.

Her grin is a little crooked, a little shy. She takes it, but doesn’t eat it right away. She just looks at you.

“Does this mean I’ve been replaced as chief peeler?” she asks.

“Only temporarily,” you say. “You’re still my favorite citrus supplier.”

She hums, then pops the fruit into her mouth. “I should hope so. I’d be dreadfully jealous of myself.”

You both laugh. The sound is easy, light, and beneath it, something deeper. Something settled. Her foot bumps against yours and doesn’t move away. She doesn’t lean in for another kiss. Not yet. But the way her gaze softens when it lands on you says more than enough.

You sit there like that for a while, passing quarters back and forth, letting the silence speak where words can’t.

You’re not just friends anymore.

You’re something else now.

And whatever it is, it tastes like oranges and possibility.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

It’s late afternoon, the sun soft and golden, filtering through the trees. You and Eloise are curled beneath one of them, tucked into a quiet corner of the Bridgerton gardens where the world feels far away.

Your legs are tangled together, not deliberately, but not accidentally either. A half-peeled tangerine rests in Eloise’s lap. You’re lying with your head against her shoulder, and she’s absently threading fingers through your hair between bites of fruit.

“You taste like summer,” you murmur, half-asleep.

Eloise hums a pleased little sound, then leans down and kisses your forehead, your cheek… and finally, your lips. The taste of oranges lingers, familiar now. Yours.

She rests her chin atop your head. “You’re terribly distracting, you know. I used to get so much reading done before you.”

“You were always reading near me,” you point out.

“Well, yes,” she concedes. “But that was different. You weren’t quite mine yet.”

You shift so you can look at her. “And now I am?”

“Entirely,” she says, matter-of-fact.

You smile into the next kiss. It’s lazy, content, slow, not the heart-racing kind, but the steady sort that says this is home now.

Later, Daphne finds the two of you there and smirks knowingly. “Is there a reason all the fruit disappears when you're together?”

Eloise waves her off with a dramatic sigh. “We’re cultivating a citrus-based courtship, obviously.”

Daphne just rolls her eyes and leaves the two of you to it, not wanting to wade in to whatever peace you have found.

You snort. “You’re the most ridiculous person I’ve ever met.”

“And you’re the one eating oranges under a tree with me like it’s a Shakespearean love story, so what does that say about you?”

“That I’m in love with someone who peels fruit like a menace and kisses like it’s the only language she knows.”

Eloise’s smirk falters. Just for a second. Something in her chest seems to twist, loosen.

She blinks fast. “Well. That’s… wildly unfair of you to say without any warning.”

You just kiss her again.

And this time, it tastes like forever.

extra (epilogue)

You find the letter tucked inside the cover of your favorite book, the one Eloise always pretends she hasn’t borrowed (but absolutely has).

It’s folded in thirds, the parchment a little wrinkled, clearly written in haste. And love. Her handwriting is as chaotic as her thoughts. It is slanted and uneven, but unmistakably hers.

Dearest (and most vexingly irresistible) Y/N, If I am to fall in love (and I am not saying that I have, mind you, because declarations are dramatic and terrifying and prone to being misunderstood) BUT IF I AM TO FALL, Let it be with someone who peels fruit better than I do (you do), who laughs when I am the least funny (you do), and who doesn’t mind that my opinions are louder than church bells (you really don’t, and it’s suspicious). Let it be with someone who shares my oranges, my secrets, my dreadful metaphors, and who lets me steal their warmth on cloudy days. Let it be you. Yours in citrus and chaos, Eloise (P.S. I have fallen, in case that wasn’t obvious. Do something about it, please. Preferably with fruit, my supplies are running low.)

You don’t hesitate.

The next day, you show up at the Bridgerton household with a basket full of tangerines, a ridiculous number of them in truth. You’ve even tied a ribbon around the handle.

When the butler announces you, Eloise bounds into the entryway like a girl summoned by magic. She sees the basket, then you, and stops short.

“I wasn’t sure how many I’d need to bring,” you say, voice soft but certain, “to say it right. Officially.”

She looks at you like she wants to kiss you and bolt in equal measure.

“To say what? Officially.” she manages, her voice just barely steady.

You set the basket down gently. Step closer. “That I’m yours. That I want to be wholly yours. That you were right in your letter.”

Her face breaks into a smile in the most beautiful way. “I’m...” she trails off, unheard of from her.

You smile anyway and nod. “I know.”

“I love you,” she blurts. “In the… wanting-to-share-every-tangerine-I-ever-eat-with-you sort of way. Which, for me, is quite serious.”

You reach for her hand. “Then let’s be serious. And silly. And everything in between.”

She stares at you for a beat, eyes bright.

Immediately taken back by the heat. Violet clicking her tongue for his tardiness. Giving him a scowl for being too hasted. Edmund cleared his throat, setting the cup of tea on the round table beside him. Anthony entered the drawing room with one thought in his mind.

“Has Y/n not arrived yet?” his ask made several of his siblings sigh loud. “What?” Anthony questioned confused. “We’ve all been wondering the same thing. It’s nothing new.” Gregory responded leaning back in the sofa. Eying some of the left over sweets from calling hours.

Already reaching for it. Anthony caught eyes of it, rushing over to give him a slap on the hands. One warning glance from him was enough to get rid of the idea in Gregory’s mind. “We wait for Y/n.” Anthony made clear in a hushed tone. He shuddered out a breath, feeling hands slide over his shoulders.

A smile appearing at the sight of his wife. His shoulders untensed with ease with a simple sight of her. Kate let her hand slide in his, letting her chin rest on his shoulder from behind. “I’m sure he will be here any moment.” Reassuring all for she knew they tend to be nervous about such things. Anthony gave her a kiss on her head, giving her hand a soft squeeze.

“Perhaps we can wait for him at the diner table?” Colin suggested. “No!” Anthony and Edmund called out at the same time. Making Colin gulp. “I am just hungry.” He sighed out, seeking comfort with his mother. Violet rubbed his back soothingly. “Maybe we could play a little game in the meantime?” Violet suggested.

The room filling with groans of protest. Slightly shocked, she remained silent. Overruled by her children. Edmund decided to give his tea another try. Smiling at how enough it had cooled down. Eloise moved towards the window, tapping her finger impatiently against it. Kate soothed Anthony so he wouldn’t get too agitated by the waiting. Gregory had snuggled up against his father.

You were panting. Running as loud as you could for you knew how late you were. If only your house-maid had not taken so much of your time, you would actually be on time. The Bridgerton household but a few streets away. Turning the corner, you nearly tripped over your own feet. Stumbling through a couple, breaking them apart. “Apologies!” calling out, taking little time to linger. The woman had gasped loud as the man grunted deep.

Turning your head back in front of you, you nearly bumped into another gentleman. Darting to the side, slamming right by a shop. Tripping over potted flowers. Breaking a few on your way. Losing your balance, falling in dirt, pots and flowers. The owner came at you blazing. “I’ll pay for it!” you called out, throwing some coins at them. Getting up quickly, you shook the dirt of you.

Quirking your brows up with a curious hum. Plucking some flowers from up your head. The steels bend, but still usable. Taking them in your hand, you held on tight to them. Continuing your run, you tried to shake your clumsiness away. With the Bridgerton household in sight, you ran up to the door. Knocking rapidly with loud pants. The door opened as you quickly announced yourself whilst entering. The doorman barely having the time to respond, staring with shocked eyes at you.

You opened the door to the drawing room, the poor flowers in your hand. “I apologize for making you all wait.” You breathed out. One of the flowers bend down, making you chuckle sheepishly. “Goodness Y/n.” Violet called out, coming over. You presented the flowers to her. She pushed them aside, coming to touch your shoulders.

“What happened? Are you alright?” the softest touch from her on your chin. Sheepishly, you scratched the back of your head. “Oh yes… just had the misfortune accident with a flower shop.” Laughing at your own silliness. “Brother! I… I uhm mean Y/n.” Anthony corrected himself immediately once the shock had worn off. Approaching you as well. “Truly I am alright.” You reassured them.

You held the flowers to Violet once more. “Sorry… next greeting I’ll bring you more suitable one’s.” you apologized for the terrible flowers. Violet accepted them, leaving a tender kiss on your cheek. “They are just perfect.”

She left to place them in a vase, along with others. Colin clasped his hands together. “Diner? Who’s starving? I’m starving.” He spoke, making you chuckle. Gregory ran up to you, grabbing your hand and pulling you forwards. You followed him without a struggle. The others joining too.

Eloise came at your side, pulling your chair back. You thanked her with a smile. Taking your seat. Edmund and Violet at the head of the table. You stared curious at the empty seat at the table. Edmund noticed you staring at it. He softly cleared his throat.

“That… that is for my son… it’s… it’s his birth day today… I hope you don’t mind…” Edmund explained with a saddened smile. “It’s how we remember him… like he’s still here…” Anthony filled in, moving his hand to the empty plate beside him.

“Oh,  joyous birth day Bridgerton.” You spoke with a nod at the empty seat. “And to me.” You added with little thought. Not that you cared much for it. Edmund nearly choked in his drink. Violet’s fork clattered on her plate. The entire Bridgerton family staring at you.

Making you slightly uneasy. “Have… have I said something wrong?” you wondered and asked. Not meaning to offend them, certainly not on the birthday of their belated son. “Y/n.” Edmund asked with a rub over his chin. “Yes, Lord Bridgerton.” You responded still nervous.

“Am I to assume that today is also your birth day?” Asking, wanting to be certain. You replied with a soft ‘yes’. Their eyes widening. “That is why I was later, my house-maid kept bugging me with cake. Saying the man of the household should be home for his birth day. Not that it is anything special. I mean what is there to celebrate when it’s just you and your staff…” you rambled on, falling still at their persisting gaze. “Did… did I say something wrong again?” Uncertain, their looks made you so uneasy and question every word out of your mouth.

Edmund scraped his chair back, coming round the table at you. You readied an apology in your mouth for if he would throw you out. For mocking his son’s birth day when you truly didn’t mean too. Eyes widening when instead of throwing you out, he wrapped his arms around you.

“A joyous birth day Y/n.” he said with a sniffle. More chairs scraping back over the floor. More arms joining in on the hug. “Joyous birth day Y/n.” hearing left and right along with sniffles and sobs. It even made you teary. For the first time in a very long time, you felt it was a day worth celebrating.

You knew it must feel double for the Bridgerton’s. Not even did you resemble their lost son / brother, you even shared his birthday. You knew it felt like a second chance to them. So embrace with happiness, you accepted it. Accepted them. Edmund pulled away from the embrace, wiping his cheek dry.

“Let us have cake!” Calling out to one of the maids. She nodded, hurrying back to the kitchen. The Bridgerton’s all settled back in their chairs. You took your glass, raising it at the empty spot at the table. To us. For may you celebrate it surrounded by flowers and old loves one’s. Giving a last greeting to those who couldn’t be here. Cake got brought as sorrow made way for happiness. Sharing stories and laughter over the diner table. Never forgotten but feeling blessed for new opportunities.

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

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You shuffled closer and placed your small hands upon her skirts, urging her to bend down. When she did, you leaned in and whispered, as though the walls themselves might be listening.

“I think I like girls,” you confessed. “Just like Reynolds and Brimsley likes eachother.”

You drew back at once, eyes fixed firmly on the floor, your breath coming far too quickly for such a small declaration.

“Is that… all right?”

Queen Charlotte did not hesitate. She bent fully, lifted you onto her lap, and wrapped her arms around you with regal certainty.

“I’ll make sure it is,” she said.

---

Looking back now, it almost feels as though royal blood does not truly run in your veins—

even if you are, technically speaking, a princess, the daughter of Queen Charlotte’s brother.

When you were still quite young, he made the decision to leave you in London, under the watchful care of his sister, so that you might receive the very best education a young lady could hope for.

You found the arrangement entirely agreeable, as you were mostly freed from 'princess expectations'.

Your days were filled with books read cover to cover in long afternoons, languages learned with diligence, and subjects explored that polite society insisted were unsuitable for women. Charlotte, naturally, disagreed.

She cared for you deeply, granting you the greatest freedom she believed possible—while remaining unwavering in her expectations of excellence.

And whenever she allowed it, you sought out the company of your dearest friend: Francesca Bridgerton.

At the mere mention of her name, the Queen had smiled knowingly and declared,

“A Bridgerton? How delightful.”

Society, of course, had its own opinions. Francesca was said to be too quiet, too reserved—odd, even. But you knew better. The girl with the angelic face and remarkable talent for the fortepiano observed the world with a sharpness that bordered on ruthless, though she delivered her judgments entirely in silence.

Over the years, you learned to read her expressions with precision, discovering the precise moments when a foolish remark would earn you a reluctant smile—or, on particularly fortunate days, a laugh.

And after so many years of friendship, so many visits to the Bridgerton home, it became increasingly difficult to keep secrets from the person who knew you best.

---

You had rehearsed the conversation endlessly during afternoon tea, imagining every possible response. In reality, it unfolded quite differently—though, given Francesca’s nature, perhaps it should not have surprised you.

“I like girls,” you said at last.

“Hm.”

She did not look up from her sheet music.

“I fancy your sister.”

That earned a pause. Francesca’s gaze dropped to the keys as though the answer might be written there.

“Which one?” she asked calmly. “Daphne or Eloise?”

You sank deeper into the sofa and shoved a biscuit into your mouth, mumbling an “Eloise” that emerged with all the elegance of a sighing grunt.

“Oh,” Francesca said lightly.

“How wonderful.”

And that was that.

Months of worry.

Months of fear—of scandal, of rejection, of losing the most important friendship of your life.

Dismissed in a single sentence.

---

You—foolishly, as it turned out—believed that such a simple moment in the tea room would not have any lasting repercussions on your daily life among the Bridgertons.

You were mistaken.

Francesca, it seemed, possessed an unparalleled talent for surprise.

Every time you passed Eloise in the corridor or crossed paths in the drawing room, Francesca would stifle a giggle, her shoulders shaking just enough to be noticed—and just little enough to be infuriating.

After a few weeks, you began to notice something worse.

Francesca and Penelope—Eloise’s ever-present best friend—were exchanging knowing smiles whenever the three of you shared a space. Smiles that lingered far too long. Smiles that suggested far too much.

With every passing day, your unease grew. Eloise Bridgerton was not a woman who allowed gossip to pass unchallenged. Nor was she one to abandon a mystery once she had caught its scent.

So, naturally, the fateful day arrived.

You were strolling through the park when you encountered Eloise and Penelope approaching from the opposite direction. And, as if rehearsed, Francesca and Penelope immediately began to giggle—softly at first, then with increasing enthusiasm, their amusement swelling with every step closer.

Eloise halted abruptly.

“Why,” she demanded, folding her arms, “do you two insist on laughing every time we meet? Is there something you would like to share with the rest of us?”

At that precise moment, you developed an intense and profound interest in a duck floating upon the lake. A truly fascinating creature. You focused on it with great determination, doing everything in your power to avoid the scene unfolding beside you.

“No, Eloise,” Penelope said sweetly. “It’s just that the other day Francesca told me something that amused me greatly. And every time I see her, I am reminded of it.”

Francesca nodded at once.

“Yes, sister. That is all,” she added, very clearly fighting laughter.

“Oh, really?” Eloise stepped closer—and before you could protest, she reached out and grasped your arm. “Why don’t you tell us, then? We should like to know as well, should we not?”

She turned those bright, inquisitive eyes on you.

You took an embarrassingly long moment to respond, far too distracted by her proximity and the warmth of her hand at your arm.

“Yes,” you managed at last. “Of course.”

Francesca raised an eyebrow, unmistakably challenged by your hesitation, but Penelope—bless her—leapt into action, inventing a joke on the spot. It was not a particularly good one, but it served its purpose.

Eloise, apparently satisfied, released your arm, bade you goodbye, and continued her walk with Penelope.

The moment they were out of earshot, Francesca turned to you with a grin.

“I wager you enjoyed her being quite that close.”

“Shut up, Fran.”

---

When you asked your aunt for permission to spend a week at the Bridgertons’ country house, she insisted—quite firmly—on first speaking with Lady Bridgerton. This was, she said, to ensure not only your safety, but also the continuity of your studies, a phrase that somehow managed to sound both caring and vaguely threatening.

Once every detail had been arranged—and Lady Bridgerton had even guaranteed riding lessons—you thanked your aunt profusely and packed your bags with more enthusiasm than dignity.

After the carriage ride, you arrived at the familiar country house and entered in high spirits, nearly colliding with several Bridgertons who were running past for reasons known only to themselves.

It was then that you caught sight of Francesca’s face.

She had the expression of someone who had done something.

You became instantly alert.

The truth revealed itself moments later, when Lady Bridgerton briskly announced the room arrangements.

Anthony and Kate would, of course, have their own room, as would Daphne and Simon. Lady Bridgerton would take her usual chamber.

“And,” she continued pleasantly, “as the east wing is currently under renovation, some rooms will need to be shared.”

Your stomach sank.

“Girls, you may share the two rooms on the left,” she said, turning to you, Francesca, Eloise, Hyacinth, and Penelope. “Boys, you will take the rooms on the right.” She gestured toward Benedict, Colin, and Gregory.

Hyacinth reacted immediately.

“Mother! That is entirely unfair. There are three of them and five of us. We ought to have an extra room.”

Lady Bridgerton smiled serenely.

“My dear, I cannot even begin to imagine what would become of a room forced to house the three of them together.”

You glanced at the brothers, who were already arguing over who deserved the single room most.

As the rest of the family dispersed, leaving the five of you to sort matters out, you considered—purely in theory—the most practical way to strangle Francesca.

---

Later, you sat on the edge of the lawn, watching another heated game of Pall Mall unfold. You yourself had been banned for two rounds after striking a ball with such alarming force that it had nearly taken Benedict’s head off. Group safety, apparently.

You turned to Penelope.

“How did you manage that?”

Earlier, she and Francesca had been loudly disputing the best room assignments, talking over one another in a chaos of half-sentences and misplaced logic. The argument had ended when Eloise lost her patience entirely, seized your arm, dragged you toward one of the rooms, and declared, “I’ve decided.”

Penelope stirred her tea, a mischievous smile playing at her lips.

“We knew Eloise would lose her patience,” she admitted. “We merely wagered she would pull you, not Hyacinth.”

“All right. Fair,” you said, perfectly content to pretend the conversation was finished and return your attention to Daphne threatening to strike Colin with her mallet.

Penelope, however, had other plans.

She continued to look at you expectantly. When you failed to speak, she did.

“You know… we are rather similar.”

You turned to her, puzzled.

“Well,” she continued, “we both like a Bridgerton.” She pointed to herself. “Colin.” Then, barely containing a giggle, she pointed to you. “Eloise.”

Francesca is the worst friend in existence, you decided.

“I never asked you about that, Pen,” you said quietly. “You truly don’t mind?”

“Oh, dear,” she replied gently, “it is impossible to live with the Bridgertons and not learn that love is the most beautiful force in existence—regardless of the form it takes.”

She met your gaze, her eyes kind.

“And it is equally impossible not to find Eloise’s obsession with avoiding marriage peculiar, especially given how difficult she finds it to take her eyes off you—or to tolerate jokes made at your expense.”

You exhaled slowly.

“Pen,” you said sincerely, “you truly are the greatest Featherington.”

---

“I can sleep on the floor, if you would prefer,” you offered the moment Eloise entered the room, her hair still damp from her bath.

She stopped short, stared at you for a moment, and then snorted.

“Do stop being ridiculous,” she said briskly, crossing the room and throwing herself onto the bed. She shifted decisively to one side, leaving more than enough space. “The bed is perfectly large. We shall share it.”

“Truly, it would not trouble me,” you insisted, though the idea of lying beside the very source of your sleepless nights and wandering thoughts made your heart beat entirely too fast.

Eloise propped herself up on one elbow and regarded you with a crooked smile.

“And what sort of host would I be if I allowed my guest—who also happens to be royalty—to sleep on the floor?”

You sighed, defeated.

Carefully, you lay down on the very edge of the mattress, positioning yourself as far from her as possible without risking a fall. The room fell quiet, the darkness settling gently around you.

As you stared up at the ceiling, you thought—not for the first time—of a childhood promise.

I hope you keep your word, Lottie.

---

Sometime during the night—perhaps because of the cold, perhaps because sleeping bodies are inclined toward betrayal—you and Eloise became entangled.

Not scandalously so.

Just enough to make one’s cheeks warm at the mere realization.

When you woke to find your fingers nearly intertwined with hers, you could not bring yourself to pull away.

So you did not.

You lay there, acutely aware of every sensation: the warmth of her hand, the faint brush of her fingers against yours, the steady presence of her leg close enough to be felt without truly touching. You committed each detail to memory, as though you might be required to live on the recollection alone.

Then you felt it—the subtle shift that signaled wakefulness.

Panic seized you at once. You stilled your breathing, forced your body into stillness, and pretended to sleep, willing your unruly heart to calm itself.

You waited.

You waited for Eloise to notice.

For her to pull away.

For the moment to end.

It did not.

Instead, Eloise stirred, became aware of your intertwined hands, of the closeness of your bodies—and moved closer still.

Her fingers tightened gently around yours, lacing fully this time, deliberate and unmistakable. She lifted your joined hands and pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles.

The gesture was brief. Unremarkable, one might say.

It was also devastating.

After a few moments of quiet, you heard her sigh. Then the bed shifted as Eloise rose, moving about the room before slipping out and closing the door behind her.

You remained where you were, staring at the ceiling, heart racing, mind spiraling.

Four more nights, you thought.

And no idea at all how you were meant to endure them.

---

That same afternoon, you attended your riding lesson. Which, if one were being entirely honest, amounted to nothing more than a mandatory hour-long excursion on horseback. Even more so when paired with the remarkably docile animal Lady Bridgerton had selected for you—an excellent creature, but hardly inclined toward adventure.

Still, it proved a pleasant enough ride.

You encountered Kate along the path, and the two of you spoke of agreeable, inconsequential matters: the weather, the family, small observations about the Bridgertons that required no particular investment of the heart. And yet, despite the lightness of the conversation, you could not help but sense that Kate knew more than she was saying.

As you neared the stables, you came upon the youngest of the Bridgertons, who was waiting with unmistakable purpose.

You had not even dismounted before Hyacinth spoke.

“Can you take me for a ride?” she asked promptly. “Penelope and Francesca have expelled me from the room, and I have no desire whatsoever to play Pall Mall again.”

You swung down from the saddle.

“Of course,” you said easily. “Come along.”

You helped her onto the horse, taking care not to disturb her impeccably arranged dress, and set off once more. You made the ride lively—quickening the pace at unexpected moments, weaving between trees, reaching for fruit along the way—until Hyacinth’s laughter rang freely.

Then she said something that was neither laughter nor thanks.

“You know,” she remarked casually, biting into an apple, “if you wished to court Eloise, I believe everyone would be in favor.”

She glanced at you sideways.

“I certainly would.”

You did not react at once. Instead, you led the horse a few more steps, allowing yourself the luxury of thought.

“Who else knows?” you asked at last. “About my… affection for Eloise?”

Hyacinth reached out to pluck a leaf from a low-hanging branch, clearly far more interested in the scenery than the weight of her words.

“I think everyone,” she said lightly. “Except Eloise, of course. She would not recognize admiration even if it shouted directly at her.”

“Oh.” You hesitated, then asked quietly, “Any advice? On how to… encourage reciprocation?”

Hyacinth turned to look at you properly this time.

“Oh, no,” she said with utter confidence. “The feeling is mutual. She simply has not realized it yet.”

You waited—surely she would elaborate.

She did not.

“You must help her see it,” Hyacinth added at last, as though that explained everything.

And then she smiled.

---

The first part of the plan was, naturally, to inform your aunt.

Accordingly, you wrote her a letter—carefully worded, respectful, and unmistakably honest—laying out your feelings for Eloise Bridgerton and inquiring whether there might be any hope of success in pursuing what could, perhaps, be called a courtship.

You sealed it.

Then, before sending it, you made the questionable decision to visit the tea room, where Lady Bridgerton was known to be waiting.

You hurried down the stairs, letter in hand, only to lose your nerve entirely just before the door. You stopped short, suddenly reconsidering how one properly explained such matters to the mother of the sharp-tongued girl who occupied your thoughts even in your dreams.

You were still lost in this dilemma when the door opened.

Francesca emerged first, followed closely by Daphne and Kate.

Daphne blinked in surprise upon seeing you lingering there.

“Oh! Hello,” she said warmly. “Were you hoping to speak with Mama?”

Kate raised her eyebrows at Francesca in a manner that strongly suggested your name had already featured in the preceding conversation.

“Yes,” you said quickly. “I shall go in now. Thank you.”

There was no retreating now. Hyacinth would never permit it—and besides, you were already inside the room.

Lady Bridgerton looked up at once and set down her teacup.

“Hello, dear,” she said cheerfully. “We were just speaking about you.”

She gestured to the armchair opposite her, and you sat, your posture considerably less composed than usual.

“Only good things, I hope,” you ventured.

She poured you a cup of tea, and you briefly considered abandoning your purpose entirely in favor of discussing the beverage’s ideal temperature.

“Of course,” she said lightly. “Now—what is it you wished to speak with me about?”

You drew in a deep breath.

“Well,” you began, “Hyacinth spoke to me earlier today about something she believes everyone in the family knows… except one person.”

Lady Bridgerton froze mid-lift of her teacup.

“Oh!” she exclaimed brightly. “You and Eloise, I assume!” She clasped her hands together. “Really, how can she be so dense? It is so obvious!”

You stared.

How was this family taking it so calmly? It had been astonishing enough that your aunt had accepted the truth with such ease—but all the Bridgertons?

“Um—yes,” you said carefully. “I wished to ask what you would think of me… beginning to court her.”

Lady Bridgerton leaned back against the sofa, hands folded with satisfaction.

“That is wonderful! I am so very happy for you both.”

She reached for her teacup again and continued speaking, quite conversationally, as though she were alone.

“I suspected this moment would arrive—particularly after the Queen spoke with me about arranging matters.”

You looked at her in complete disbelief.

“Oh yes,” she continued pleasantly. “Sending you and your future beloved—whom she always imagined would be a Bridgerton, after the beginning of your friendship with Francesca—away to live in a house slightly removed from the rest of the family, all under the pretense of attending to affairs of the Crown.”

She smiled serenely.

“Quite brilliant, really.”

Somehow, you managed to bid her farewell and retreat to your quarters. You sent the letter at once, then sat upon your bed, absorbing the revelation that not only had your feelings been noticed—

—but they had been anticipated.

---

<A/N> This is the first piece of fanfiction I have shared with anyone so it might be a bit rough, but if you have any feedback don’t be afraid to comment! Also, English isn’t my first language, sorry about any spelling errors :P

…

It was already past dark and most of the Bridgerton household had retired for the night. Only one person remained, curled up on a small sofa in the drawing room, her nose buried deep in a book. You could not help but stare. You were not sure you could ever get enough of it. Eloise’s hair, which had previously been pinned up, now hung loose around her face, and a burning candle cast a gentle light on her face.

You walked up to her, drawing her attention away from the yellowed parchment. “May I speak to you about something?” You said hesitantly, suddenly too nervous to meet her gaze.

She laughed “Of course you may. You can always come to me.” Her smile was as warm as always, and her eyes looked like deep blue waters in the flickering candlelight. You suddenly felt hot, as if you skin was burning, and you forced yourself to look away.

“If we are to remain friends-“

Eloise cut you off; “Of course we are, what makes you believe that we would not?” She tried to make it sound light hearted, but the words came out sharper than she had intended.

“If we are to remain friends” you started again “I can not keep secrets from you”

You looked down on your friend. Her face had settled in a worried expression. You suddenly regretted bringing up the topic but that was to no avail. You must finish what you started.

“I have these - feelings - that I would like to discuss. And I do not expect you to feel the same way…” at this point you had started pacing back and forth like a trapped animal.

“… but in these past few weeks I have come to know you as someone who is not quick to judge others, and I sincerely hope you will grant me that kindness…” Your steps slowed.

“For I hope I have not misjudged you, ms. Bridgerton.”

As you turned to look at her, your eyes meeting for the first time since you started you rambling, you knew you had to tell her. You could not keep a friendship build on lies.

Her eyes were wide and her lips were parted slightly as if she was wanting to say something. You stood in silence for a moment allowing her time to intervene. But she just tilted her head slightly, her eyebrows furrowing into an expression of worry and confusion.

You realised you had dragged this out for far too long. And you suspected your nervous fidgeting had not helped soothe your friend’s worries.

“Every time I look at you, Eloise, it’s as if my whole world disappears and I am left with nothing but blank space; I am left grasping to find my way back to reality because if I am alone with you my mind will wander to places it should not.” You could not afford to stop talking, for if you did you might not find you way back.

“I am willing to throw away whatever dignity I have if it means I get to hold you, and it scares me. Because I- I have never felt like this before.” That last sentence came out more as a whisper.

Eloise sat still as a statue, unchanged, and for a second you started to wonder if you had imagined the whole thing, but then she moved. She straightened her posture, looked down at the book laying on her lap and hesitated for a moment before fixing her gaze back onto you. You suddenly felt unable to breathe, as if a weight was put on you chest.

Eloise, without breaking eye contact, untangled her bare feet from her nightgown and slowly stood up, meeting you at eye level.

Her face was impossible to read as her expression seemed to change constantly.

“Eloise, I-“ You started to apologise, but all words left you as you felt her hand reach for yours. Her touch was warm, like a small spark that quickly grew into a burning fire. She held onto your hand, still with her eyes fixed on you. And without thinking you took a single step, almost closing the distance between your bodies.

She was close enough for you to feel her warm breaths against your skin and you could not pull your eyes from her face. You were desperate to memorise every freckle on her face, the way the flickering shadows from the candlelight softened her features and then there were her eyes. They were like a frozen lake; idle on the surface, but beneath it lies a deeper water, constantly moving with the current. They wandered across your face before settling on your lips.

“Tell me…“ She trailed of, her voice was low and husky. A shaky breath escaped your lips and she took that as an invitation to start slowly guiding your hand upward until your palm rested against the bare skin right below her collarbone. “…tell me if you want me to stop.”

And with that she fully closed the distance between you, and as your lips met hers you knew that you never wanted her to let go.

—————

The dingy room, nestled above a tavern in the west end of London, was filled with many familiar faces. After almost a year of attending these bi-weekly meetings, you felt comfortable in this crowd. The mixture of gender, colour and age were comforting. Nothing like you see in your day to day life, and you were all the better for it.

A chance led you to these meetings of like-minded people. You accidentally stumbled on your valet, a sweet man around your age of one and twenty, talking about it with a maid from a few households down. Your interest was imeadiately peaked and reluctantly he divulged about the meetings he regularly attended. More convincing and he was letting you read issues of the groups pamphlets. It was world altering. Sure, you views were always rather outside of the standard norms… but knowing you weren’t alone in them was monumentos.

You quickly decided that these meetings were where you needed to be, and sneaking out with a borrowed set of clothes from one of your handmaidens became a normal occurrence. The first meeting was terrifying, feeling so out of place and underprepared. It was a shift going from believing yourself to be radical to realising how naive and conservative you are. However now you felt at home, discussing the newest issues with members that became your friends.

This meeting was your first of the year, your family had just returned from the Devon countryside for the tons new season that started a few days earlier . This year you were reluctantly debuting, despite having no desire for marriage. Your family were late to arrive, missing out on your presentation to Queen Charlotte thanks to your father being stuck in business negotiations with the neighbouring estate in Devon. You were just glad this had allowed you to have time get all your feelings out to friends at this meeting before you say something you would regret to your family, or worse the Queen.

While settling into your seat in the back row as the official meeting began you saw an unfamiliar late comer make her way into the room. The figure was a brunette girl who looked to be of similar age to yourself. She looked as you imagined you did at your first meeting, a mixture of terrified and exciting. You saw her glance at the spare seat beside you, your shawl neatly placed on it. You quickly moved it to your lap and gave her a reassuring smile.

“Thank you” she whispered as she slipped into the seat beside you.

“You’re welcome,” you whispered back, “I’m Y/N, is this your first meeting?”

“Eloise. It is, how can you tell?”

“I can sense the fear,” you joked causing a look of horror to pass across her face. “I’m kidding, I just attend regularly and have never noticed before. That and you are sporting the same expression I wore the first time. Don’t worry it will quickly change to one of awe. The speakers today are all wonderfully empowering, you’ll love it”

———————-

The meeting passed quickly, and you spent a fair chunk of time sitting side by side speaking to Eloise and answering any questions she had. You quickly realised how much you enjoyed her company, and couldn’t wait to spend some time with the witty young woman. That would have to wait until the next meeting, because unfortunately today was the day of your first ball. Your handmaidens had been poking and prodding you all day to get you ready for Lady Danbury’s ball to officially open the season. You could feel the pressure you father to be at your best behaviour, in fact it seemed to manifest in the pressure on your ribs from your corset.

All too soon you were exiting your carriage on the arms of your father, his tight grip ensuring you could not escape. The ball was in full swing, couples twirling, gaggles of women huddled together gossiping and men clearly rating the appearance of potential partners with drinks in hand. It was everything you dreaded. Your father led you in and was not so subtly pointing out all those worthy of talking to, men with titles from rich families. Eyes looked over you from all directions, raking up and down your figure. You felt like a prized cattle for sale, not a human being. You felt your heart race increase and your breath become rushed as your father introduced you to more men. Just as you thought you would be sick in the middle of the ballroom you got lost in a pair of grey eyes.

You breath calmed as you gazed into the eyes of a stunning woman standing in a gaggle of people near the refreshments. She looked almost shocked to see you, and it took a second before your realised this was the same girl from the meeting. You gave her a gentle smile. She turned to one man and two women beside her and spoke quietly to them, all four giving her a confused but agreeing nod before heading in your direction.

“Lord Y/L/N, it’s lovely to see you again,” the elder lady spoke to your father, the words accompanied by a polite bow.

“Lady Bridgerton, you likewise. This is my daughter Y/N, this is her first season.”

“Miss Y/N, lovely to make your acquaintance. This is my son Vicount Bridgerton and his lovely wife Vicountess Kate Bridgerton”

You bowed at both as they gave you polite smiles.

“Lord Y/L/N, would you allow me to accompany your daughter for a moment. I wish to introduce her to the rest of my family,” Lady Bridgerton asked. Your father nodded, knowing he had little choice unless he wanted to slight a powerful family of the Ton. You gratefully accompanied the three Bridgertons away from your father who went in the opposite direction towards some old business acquaintances.

“We are terribly sorry to bother you Miss, but my sister wanted to get to know her fellow debutant” Vicount Bridgerton said as you all headed towards the refreshments, where the said sister was waiting impatiently. “Miss Y/N, this is my sister Eloise Bridgerton.”

You smiled, happy to see Eloise again even if no one knew you two had ever meet before. She looked beautiful in her baby blue ballgown, but you couldn’t help think she looked just as good at the meeting where she could show her true personality.

“Thank you mother, siblings. I’m going to show Miss Y/N around,” Eloise said as she gently tugged your arm and led you away.

“Since when did she want to make friends?” You could hear the Vicount whisper to his just as bewildered wife.

—————

Eloise silently led you around the ballroom before sneaking outside the French doors as a large group came in. She pulled you down into the dark garden, stopping to pull you onto a bench hidden amongst the extravagant topiaries.

“Y/N, I can’t believe you’re here! I had no idea you were a member of the Ton,” She exclaimed once she was sure no one was around, giving you a tight hug.

“Unsurprisingly I don’t like speaking about it, at the moment it feels like the marriage mart goes against everything I believe in. I feel like I’m being paraded around to be sold to the highest bidder, my feelings never being taken into account” you grumbled. You grounded yourself again by looking into her eyes before whispering “It’s lovely to see you again El,”

“I’m truly sorry, you don’t deserve this. While I understand the pain of being a debutant I at least have the comfort of knowing that my family will not force upon me a marriage I don’t want. We will just have to do our best to find you a love match,”

“I appreciate that El, but I don’t think that will happen. In honesty I can’t see myself ever falling in love with a man,” you whispered baring your soul to her. You knew what her values were, and could only hope that she would support you with this secret.

“Oh,” Eloise whispered back, processing what you meant. “I truly understand”. She tentatively grabbed your hand stroking her thumb softly over your palm. While your heart broke knowing she’d be subjected to the same pain due to a cruel society you couldn’t help the hope that bubbled up.

“You feel it to right? As soon as I saw you today I felt like I could finally breath again,” you bared your soul, praying to every deity she wouldn’t run. For a moment she was silent, and you could feel your stomach drop as you tried to pull your still joined hand away in embarrassment.

“Yes, I feel it,” she finally said softly, tugging at your hand so you’d stay put. “I think I knew what it was when I first met you at the meeting, even as you teased me. The feeling was like how my mother described her first interaction with my father. I’ve been thinking about you ever since. Y/N, I know this may be improper…. but may I kiss you?”

You nodded slowly and lent in, closing your eyes as your lips gently met. Her lips were soft and silky against yours as you joined together. Neither of you fought for dominance, instead the kiss deepened instinctively your tongues dancing against each others. You could almost feel the fireworks, and you quickly realised you’d face whatever the consequences to be able to do this again and again.

Eventually you parted, both breathing heavy but with wide grins over your face. You stayed hands interlaced, side by side for as long as possible.

“Don’t worry, we’ll work something out. I won’t allow you to be separated from me.” She whispered to you as you rested your head on her shoulder.

A moment later she whispered again “do you believe in soulmates?”

FIN

Hi all, hope you enjoyed! Please let me know what you think, this is my first Bridgerton imagine so writing more formal conversations was not the easiest to wrap my head around. Hopefully minimal 21st centurisms appeared in our earlier 1800s England setting.

Feel free to send in any requests, I’m particularly looking forward to writing some Reader x Benedict works as well as getting a little more *x rated* because isn’t that half the fun of Bridgerton?!

Eloise tightened her gloved hands on the balcony wall, partially to resist the temptation to leap ahead and greet those who waited on the other side and partially to wake herself from the nightmare to come.

Winter air cools against her skin, the long gown doing little against the harsh country noir exterior that was Aubrey House at night. Buried deeply into the evergreen stitch of her corset, her heartbeat ragged against the confinement. If birds were not built for cages, surely the same logic would be applied to herself? Bare feet making a swift sloshing sound aggravating the gravel below, debris digging into the pads of flesh deeper than any weapon she had known before.

The gardens seemed alive with light as every inch of ground bubbled with people and for a fleeting moment, as more carriages approached the castle. A warmth raised within her chest as undeniable anxiety, familiarity. Turning her back to the on coming guests, the small of her back pressed deadly against the barrier. Shadows filtered through the historic windows, as the dust licked walls still seemed to cling onto the fleeting light of Friday as though an old friend they had yet to have finished talking to. A shaking breath escaped the mouth, caught in a brief moment of admiration towards the dripping sun - for out of all the fires she had seen this hideously biblical form was one she had grown fond of; or rather the flashes of red from within its last moments as through snippets of the passing day mere memories now. Only the future night was imminent.

She was running unusually late, she could tell by the main entrance to the building growing peacefully desolate; as the other inhibitors congregated within the ballroom. Her eyes squeezed shut, desperately clinging to those final moments of silence.

“You’re not considering jumping are you?” A voice asked the approaching footsteps drew closer, heart edging to her throat.

“What would that help? Death has no use for me yet, although I do wish he would.”

“What makes you so sure death is a man?” The voice asked again, their body finding rest beside Eloise.

“Surely only a man could be so cruel, as to hover such a fate in my peripherals.”

“I see.” The voice hummed as though mulling the conversation, “And clearly you see so much with your eyes practically melted closed.” Eloise’s laughter was a welcome sight to her visitor, the brunette's eyes finally opening as her head found rest against the woman’s shoulder. Her mother – Violet. A buoyant woman; complimented heavily by her Angelically crow-like features - coils of ash tamed in a formal updo so different to the style had grown accustomed to as she usually pottered away her hours within the castle greenhouse. Fingers never without the soil beneath them, a relationship with a ghastly old nail brush that lay upon the kitchen sink heavily established. She'd always lecture upon the importance of soil, on how each particle of the earth somehow held its own story and origins - for soil had seen more love, more pain than any human. As she'd place lumps of the material within their hands "Rub it in then the memories never leave you".

It was reminiscent of her father, of his death. Violet hadn’t allowed anyone to tend to the lilacs since.

“Is everyone here?” Eloise asked after a moment, basking in the comfort of her material figure.

“All the ducks are in rows my dear, now they await a leader.”

“You’re their leader.” mumbled the familiar scent of gardenia flowing past her, upon the open air.

“Now for long my little swan.” Violet sighed, a perfectly delicate hand raising to card its way through the princess’ hair.

“Is he here?”

“Your suitor? Yes dear unfortunately for you he has shown” The queen laughed hoping to lighten her daughters mood.

"We have a nasty habit involving men in this family" her mother would often say whilst winking at her father Edmund across the room. He had passed on almost ten years ago; he'd been the best hug giver and secret magician, never failing to pull a coin from an awaiting child's ear. A sometimes overbearingly traditional yet progressive man, his head still surprisingly full of hair till the day of his early demise. Collins is seemingly thinning already.

His passing had wrecked the family. His wife, all the more scornful and ironically loving; the clone of her mothers, and the replica of herself - Lady Violet was no elementary being, her voice like bathwater, every syllable effortless and wise. She played the piano as though it were second nature to breathe air; embraced few but loved many under the guise of something to be feared. Eloise’s most loved and favoured person in the entire world… unless you asked Benedict.

Then there was Eloise, Lou and 'Flower' on the not too rare occasion, for as her mother was prone to say and the people continued, was the "one of the most precious examples of life to ever grow within these gardens.” with her uncontrollable ripples of dark hair, ill radiance and sea filled eyes, the procurement of two fine specimens to create the most poorly formed swan the world was ever to behold.

“I wish he were here.” Eloise mumbled gently, Violet’s lips falling to kiss the crown of her head.

“I know my dear, as do I.”

Father had died in these very Gardens during her seventh year. Leaving behind Anthony as the elder brother to ascend the house.

“Come now. Best to hit the ground running, keeping your guests waiting is a terrible introduction.” Violet stated, stepping towards the balcony doors.

The set of grand doors that almost shook with vigour with the level of presence behind it, the noise and voice of many locked behind it. Eloise came to her mother’s side – she could not run from this, this was her home.

The doors were opened with one swift movement of the awaiting footmen, revealing a ballroom, many familiar inhibitors of the neighbouring families huddled around in festivities, laughing. Drinks not far from hand, and children in clear scheming mode begging their respective guardians to stay up late; while others could be seen playing games in each corner, the low light shining on each face – new and old.