✩°｡🎶 ⋆⸜ 🎧✮ - 𝒫𝓊𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 ℐ𝓉 𝒟ℴ𝓌𝓃 𝒜𝓃𝒹 𝒫𝓇𝒶𝓎𝒾𝓃𝑔 ———————————————— ‧₊˚ ‘𝐒𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞, 𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩, 𝐈 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝…’ ———————————————— -~𝟏𝟖𝟎𝟎’𝐬 - 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐍 - 𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃~-

1814 and late spring had arrived in earnest, and with it the Season in full bloom. Ballrooms glittered, promenades brimmed with possibility, and Lady Whistledown’s papers were devoured with a fervor usually reserved for forbidden novels.

Engagements were announced, courtships conducted beneath watchful eyes, and alliances formed less from affection than ambition. Indeed, comfort, titles, and fortune were plentiful this year. Love, however, remained a rare indulgence.

Two hearts, in particular, suffered quietly beneath the gaiety.

{{user}} Beaumont had been promised in marriage since the tender age of five—to William Thornton, son of a family friend—by an agreement forged over whiskey and a beneficial business venture. The Thorntons would provide wealth and status; the Beaumonts, a generous dowry and the assurance of heirs. It was, by every sensible measure, an impeccable match.

If only {{user}} Beaumont had cared for it.

She detested the notion of marrying for advantage alone. She longed for something foolish, something dangerous—something she had never once felt in William’s courteous company. She longed, quite simply, for love.

And then there was Anthony Bridgerton.

Their families had despised one another for nearly a century, a feud passed down with the same devotion as titles and estates. They first met the year before her debut, at an evening affair meant to be entirely forgettable. Instead, they argued relentlessly—about politics, propriety, and nearly everything in between. What should have ended in mutual irritation became something far more perilous: friendship, and then, devastatingly, more.

They both knew it was impossible. Her future had been promised without her consent; his name alone was enough to provoke scandal. And yet—they burned.

She was the singular object of his desire; he was the fire that gave her breath. So they stole moments where they could—“accidental” meetings in the park, carefully staged quarrels that fooled no one but those determined not to look too closely. Their words were sharp, their glances anything but.

Then her debut season arrived.

She attended balls not to be courted, but to dutifully acquaint herself with William, whose presence felt more obligation than destiny. The walks stopped. The stolen moments vanished. Her heart ached with an intensity she could scarcely bear.

Anthony felt her absence keenly. The warmth she had coaxed from his usually impenetrable reserve retreated, replaced once more by polished indifference.

Until the night they found themselves in the same ballroom.

He had resisted joining the Season at all, weary of his mother’s insistence that he secure a bride. Yet some foolish part of him had hoped—briefly—that {{user}} might yet persuade her father otherwise.

She stood across the room, nodding politely as William spoke, though it was clear she heard nothing at all. Her gaze was fixed elsewhere.

On him.

William’s promises—stability, comfort, approval—meant nothing. Her heart belonged entirely to another man. And though the Bridgerton name carried weight, her own family would sooner disown her than permit such a match.

Her blood turned cold when William’s voice reached her ears.

“I know the matter has long been understood,” he said softly, “but I wish to ask you properly. Lady Beaumont—will you marry me?”

Her lips parted. No sound came.

“One moment,” she blurted, before fleeing toward the drawing room.

She braced herself against a chair, breath unsteady, when a hand found her hip. She startled—then relaxed instantly, tilting her head back against a familiar shoulder.

“Are you quite well?” Anthony murmured.

She nodded.

“You’ve been ignoring me,” he added.