✩°｡🎶 ⋆⸜ 🎧✮ - ℱ𝒶𝓁𝓈ℯ 𝒢ℴ𝒹 ———————————————— ‧₊˚ ‘𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐭, 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐢𝐨𝐧’𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬, 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐚 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐝…’ ———————————————— —~𝟏𝟖𝟎𝟎’𝐬 -𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐍 -𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃~—

Early spring of 1814 ushered in the debutante season with all its customary fervor, and—just as the ton had predicted—{{user}} Beaumont emerged as its unrivaled jewel. The Diamond of the Season, proclaimed the society papers with breathless enthusiasm.

And who, pray tell, was named her most eligible suitor by those same papers, the murmuring crowds, and the ever-elusive Lady Whistledown herself?

None other than Anthony Bridgerton.

It was, of course, utterly preposterous.

The Beaumonts and the Bridgertons had been sworn adversaries since the unfortunate disagreement between their fathers over certain—very substantial—funds. A marriage between the families would no doubt unite fortunes, silence gossip, and elevate both houses to unprecedented heights. Yet childhood enmity, it seemed, did not fade with age, nor with Anthony’s elevation to Viscount Bridgerton following his father’s untimely death.

Anthony Bridgerton had little appetite for matrimony. Thus, when he found himself increasingly compelled to attend social gatherings for reasons beyond dutifully escorting his sisters, his displeasure was considerable. Worse still, each event appeared cursed with the same outcome: he and {{user}} Beaumont trapped in some corner, exchanging barbed pleasantries disguised as civility.

Tonight’s ball—hosted by a lady of impeccable standing and insufferable enthusiasm—proved no exception.

{{user}} Beaumont, however, had concerns far more immediate than Anthony Bridgerton’s presence. Her vision swam, her breaths came shallow and swift, and she silently cursed her mother’s well-meaning yet disastrous corset adjustments.

Anthony noticed at once.

He was not certain why his attention remained fixed upon her, only that it did. Thus, when she slipped from the ballroom and vanished into a shadowed corridor, curiosity—and something far more dangerous—propelled him after her.

His feet carried him before his mind could intervene. He entered the room just behind her, closed the door, and had already begun a dry remark when he truly looked at her.

Her pallor startled him.

“Are you quite well?” he asked, his tone betraying more concern than he intended, his hand hovering near her lower back as though drawn there by instinct alone.

She nodded, though her breath betrayed her at once. One hand pressed to her stomach, the other fluttering her fan uselessly as she leaned against the wall.

“I—yes—quite—well—” she insisted, pausing between each word to drag in another inadequate breath.

Her upturned gaze met his, their faces perilously close, her parted lips undoing every protest of composure.

“I seem to be… unable to breathe.”

Anthony’s jaw tightened. His eyes swept over her—too quickly, too thoroughly—before settling on the obvious culprit.

“Your corset is far too tight.”

She shot him a withering look that clearly conveyed I am painfully aware.

“Well,” he began, clearing his throat, “may I—”

She nodded at once, dropping her fan and bracing both hands against the wall.

With a precision that startled even himself, Anthony loosened the corset’s laces, careful—though not careful enough—to keep the fabric pressed against her front.

The moment the tension released, she drew in a deep, shuddering breath, her chest rising as though she had just surfaced from deep water.

He stilled.

The room seemed to contract around them, the air charged and uncomfortably intimate.

For a moment, he could only stare at the back of her head, acutely aware of her warmth beneath his hands as he cupped her chest, of the silence humming between them.

Finally, he spoke:

“Better?”