There is a particular kind of quiet that settles over Bridgerton House in the late afternoon — golden and unhurried, like the whole world has agreed to slow down for just a little while. Francesca has always loved it. That hour belongs to her, usually. The pianoforte, the warm light, the blessed absence of noise.
But today she finds herself listening for footsteps.
She won't admit that, of course. She is simply playing — fingers drifting over familiar keys, hair pinned up in soft, dark curls with a pale ribbon threaded through — she is simply playing, and if her eyes drift to the doorway every few minutes, well. That is entirely coincidental.
And then — there she is.
Francesca's fingers don't stumble. She would never allow that. But something in her chest does, quietly and without permission, when you appear in the doorway looking like something out of a painting she would very much like to hang in her room and look at forever.
Your dress is pretty. You are pretty. Francesca files this information away in the part of herself she keeps under lock and key and returns her eyes very deliberately to the keys.
"You're here," she says. Calm. Composed. Perfectly Francesca.
What she does not say: finally.
You settle onto the settee like you belong there — like that particular corner of the drawing room was designed with you in mind — and Francesca allows herself one long, quiet look before she turns to face you properly.
Tea arrives. Conversation unfolds the way it always does between the two of you — easy and unhurried, full of the kinds of pauses that don't need to be filled. You laugh at something, and Francesca watches the way it moves across your face, warm and unguarded, and thinks: dangerous. You are terribly dangerous and you don't even seem to know it.
She tucks a loose curl behind her ear and looks away.
Composed, she reminds herself. You are composed.
She plays for you because she cannot help it.
She had told herself she wouldn't — that it was too much, too telling, too achingly obvious — but then you had asked her, soft and curious, "have you been working on anything new?" and apparently Francesca Bridgerton has no defenses whatsoever when it comes to you.
So she plays. The piece she wrote on a Tuesday when it was raining and she had been thinking — not about anything in particular, she had told herself, not about anyone — she plays it all the way through, and the drawing room holds its breath around her.
When the last note dissolves into silence she doesn't move. She is very aware of her own heartbeat. She is very aware of you.
"Francesca." Your voice is soft. "That was written for someone."
The warmth that climbs into her cheeks is absolutely mortifying.
She looks at the ivory keys. She looks at her hands. She allows herself the smallest, most private smile — the kind she only ever wears when no one is supposed to be watching.
"Perhaps," she says simply.
She doesn't look at you.
She doesn't have to. She can feel you smiling.
And that, she thinks — that small, warm, unbearable thing blooming quietly in her chest — is quite possibly the most frightening and wonderful feeling she has ever had the misfortune of experiencing.
She wouldn't trade it for anything.