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multifailures · 2 years

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Portraits When Writing Failed

Summary: In silent company, Benedict and Y/N would work until Benedict found something he definitely was not meant to see. 1.9k

A/N: I’m so slow at writing. I want to start getting at least two posts up a week but please be patient with me until I get there (: I also would love to get some song/lyrics/quotes prompts as requests-- it’s so much easier writing like that imo. if you want to send a request, i listed my preferred fandoms on my masterlist. hope you enjoy reading (:

Words were Y/N’s first love. She spoke in elegance many were envious of and had her head stuck often in the highest quality of novels. She even kept a diary of unspoken words of her devotion: poems of unrequited love and prose of unrealised potential. Those lyrics often fell with a single muse: Benedict Bridgerton.

Together, the two creative minds would sit in comfortable silence—in his house’s drawing room or her family garden, it didn’t much matter where. Sat far apart on opposite benches, there was an unspoken inspiration between the two. Their heads would be stuck in their notebooks or sketchbooks, only looking at one another when certain the other was too focused to notice. When she was not looking at him and her head was down, Y/N’s hair fell to her face in an ethereal halo that Benedict admired so much he couldn’t help but sketch each individual strand and the tip of her nose poking through. He favoured in drawing her eyes, too, letting colourful ink flow between pencil markings just to witness her mesmerising gaze in times he cannot be next to her.

When looking at Benedict, Y/N wrote of the brightest of days that could never be dulled and of conversations that she never wished to forget. She wrote in verse of the lightest of touches as they danced in silent yearning; she rambled of secret glances she swore she’d seen. However, words had failed her in recent weeks. Her diary had become a mess of crossing outs and unfinished sentences. What’s more? Where words had trailed off, sketches had replaced. Many were innocuous—simple tree doodles and night sky scenes; she had filled many of these pages without thought, just as a distraction. Though, hidden between the pages of writing and doodles were possibly Y/N’s deepest secrets. She had drawn portraits of a man where words had failed to describe him. They weren’t good, she was certain, and some even failed to capture his likeness at all, but her hand still drew with absent-mindedness. Benedict was the only thing she could draw when she thought of whimsical love and safe comfort. Those feeling had consumed her more and more each day now that they returned to London for the social season.

In their current session of silent dalliance, Benedict and Y/N sat like they always did with space between. In the Bridgerton’s drawing room, Benedict lounged with his back on the couches’ arm rest while, ever-so-proper, Y/N sat with a straightened back on the blue armchair opposite. Neither had ever dared getting closer, no matter how much they had wished to. Y/N had been told all her life not to get too close to handsome men; Benedict has been taught by his eldest brother that proper ladies weren’t worth his time. Yet, they still kept each other company in their distance.

So, they sat with pencils to paper in the drawing room, trying not to make the other aware of their subject of desire. For some reason though, Benedict seemed to be in much more of a talking mood today. It had only been twenty minutes of quiet working until he speaks. “Y/N,” He gains her attention. “What are you doing?”

She refuses to take her eyes off her page, though she can see him in the corner of her eyes as he puts his own work down. “I’m writing, as always.”

“You’re certain?” He quips his head, a hint of a knowing smirk on his face. His gaze makes Y/N shift uncomfortably. She hums in agreement but feels her face begin to heat under his scrutiny, though surely there was nothing to worry. She looks back down to her notebook and turns the page to a less criminal page. No longer were multiple sketches of Benedict’s face plastered on a two-page spread, but writings of the large tree outside her bedroom window replaced. Y/N eyes him suspiciously, as he seems to supress a mischievous smile. He doesn’t mention her quick page turning but watches her with an intent that seems slightly suffocating.

“Then you’re not too busy, I take it.” He sits himself up, patting the cushion that his legs were just lying on. “Can you help with this drawing of mine?”

She questions, “How would I be able to help?” She didn’t have any artistic knowledge, if she did it was all from Benedict’s mouth. Nevertheless, she closes her book and stands with a smoothing of her lavender day dress.

“Oh, you’ll be most helpful.” His eyes trail her movement as she walks closer. As she approaches the sitting man, she sees the book that had lost his interest only moments ago. However, she realises as she sees the page sitting atop the book, that he had not lost any interest at all. Rather, it was this page of a series of small sketches that piqued his interest when he found it crumbled up during their last silent meeting. Like always, some words and doodles marked the paper, but much of the page was filled with only one sketch: Benedict.

She stops mid-step when she realises just what it is he’s holding. He is sure he hears her curse under her breath, something he had never heard from her before. His eyes widen in surprise, only smiling more with that. She attempts to reach it out his hand, their fingers brush together. There was little contact in their friendship; when their skin touched, every stress seemed to melt away. In that sudden connection, Benedict uses the advantage of their newfound touch to pull the book away with a gloating smile. He puts it behind his head, willing her to reach again.

“Stop your teasing, Ben!” She cries with frustration and lunges for the torn page. “Just give it to me!”

He snaps it away once again. She knew better to fight him and sinks into the seat beside him. For the first time he had seen in many months, her lady persona breaks as she huffs down into crossed arms and a pouting mouth. He chuckles but is met with a grumpy glare that only brightens his eyes more. In fact, he deemed it an adorable face that he wanted to memorise to sketch later.

He could only contain his chuckles for so long to ask, “Why on earth would I tease you?”

“Because it’s horrible! It barely even looks like you!” It wasn’t perfect, of course. His nose seemed a bit too big. His eyes may be looking in different directions, she couldn’t even tell. Yet, she did capture him in all that he is with a mischievous smirk and a suit a bit too dishevelled for his mother’s liking. “And it’s the most mortifying thing I’ve ever done.”

“It’s good, Y/N! Anyway, no, that’s not what I mean.” He passes his own sketchbook to her. He nods to the closed book, willing her to open it up and look at his work. She flips through numerous pages. She was not his only source of inspiration, but enough to shock her. She had known of a few of these sketches; he had asked her, amongst many others, to sit for him numerous amounts of time. The ones that caught her off guard, however, where the ones she was unaware of; the ones she had not seen after he said she could relax her pose. “How can I be teasing you, when I have done the exact same?”

She lands on one particular page towards the middle of the sketchbook. In this sketch that spread across the entire page, Y/N was drawn in charcoal hues as she sat at the pianoforte next to Hyacinth. She remembered that day clearly, their studying interrupted by the Bridgerton youngest, asking for an impromptu music lesson. Her nimble fingers fell on the keys just the same as Hyacinth, but she seemed merely a figure whilst every imperfect strand of hair and line of concentration on Y/N’s forehead were presented. She could not tear her eyes away from the masterpiece that was made in her image. She looked—no, he made her look— ethereal.

“Please, look at me Y/N.” He lifts her chin to meet his eyes with the softest of touches. He could not bring his voice to more than a whisper. “I have spent hours studying those eyes of yours and still find myself lost in them.”

“Ben,” Her breath hitches in her throat. Her heated cheeks are no longer the result of shame and embarrassment, but from being in such close proximity to the man she had spent years of quiet friendship with. “It’s beautiful.”

He chuckles, “I had never thought of you to be so arrogant.”

She whacks him with that very book, her eyes rolling at his failure to stop his teasing. He takes the book from her hands and drops it dramatically to the floor. Y/N watches it fall, worried it would ruin any work, but he keeps looking just at her. Her nervous eyes meet his yearning ones again. He lifts his finger to the fallen hair that he so obviously adored to draw and sweeps it away from her face. “It is not hard to make a drawing beautiful when its muse is the greatest beauty in every room.”

Her pout finally drops from her lips as she processes what he is saying. She tries to bring her eyes down to her fiddling hands but his hand that swept away her hand is now caressing her cheek. He keeps a light smile on his face, but a shaky breath escapes him as the only hint of anything other than teasing. He is just as nervous as she is, just a lot better at hiding it.

“It’s not something I ever wanted anyone to see,” She admits. He swears he could feel her head lean slightly into his touch. “You just always seem so lost in drawing and I got bored of writing one day but didn’t want to leave.”

Her quiet confession makes Benedict smile like he had never before. He didn’t think it possible to grin so hard. “You didn’t want to leave?”

He thinks he’s offended her as she sighs, but she shakes her head. She, for all he could describe, had an eye of a nervous wreck. Though, she was the writer, and he was the artist. “Spending time with you is the best way to spend time in London. And when I’m not with you, I spend every minute I can be alone looking at the sketches I’ve drawn of you. Writing failed to capture you the way I wanted to in portraits.”

He trails his eyes down to the book and page discarded on the floor. He analysed just how he was captured: in between the markings and the erasings, he finally understood. He was drawn with love at the forefront of her mind. It was the same heart-warming emotion he felt any time he would pick up a pencil and think of her. His eyes left the book, trailed to the door that showed the empty hallway. When he was certain no unwelcome visitors would interrupt, his eyes finally landed back to the wonderful woman that seems to melt in his embrace.

“Y/N?” He whispers in quiet staring. “May I kiss you?”

She softly bites her lip and replaces it with a smile. The small tilt of her head signals a nod, and she places the fingers he loved draw on his forearm. Perhaps when writing failed to express her feelings, she could draw his portrait to express the love she sees in him. However, a simple drawing would never replace the feeling of soft lips on his and the slight grip, begging for him to never let go.

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multifailures · 2 years

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Masterlist

Bridgerton

Anthony Bridgerton

Speak Now & I Could Never Give You Peace.

Summary: For anyone less foolish, a wedding meant a gentleman was unavailable for a new love. Would Anthony Bridgerton leave stability for a woman who could never give him peace?

An Equal Future

Summary: If a young lady is not just a prize to be won, could she convince her husband for a world in which their children can share an equal future.

The Gentle Governess (Series Coming Soon)

Summary: A lower Gentlewoman is surely unfit to love a Viscount, yet he can’t help but notice how perfect she would be as a wife.

Arranged Marriage (Series Coming Soon)

Summary: A loveless marriage arranged by Viscount Bridgerton and Lord Y/L/N leaves a lady full of hate and a man full of worry.

Benedict Bridgerton

Portraits when Writing Fails

Summary: In silent company, Benedict and Y/N would work until Benedict found something he definitely was not meant to see.

Loss Of A Muse (Coming Soon)

Summary: Y/N was once Benedict’s muse. How could she cope when she is not the only one to garner his attention at the Royal Academy?

Also accepting requests for:

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multifailures · 2 years

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Loved ur mini series on Anthony! can I request one where Anthony married a feminist and college educated reader? I know it’s very unordinary for the time period but how would the ton react?

Hey! Thanks for your request!! I've just posted it now!However, I did change it slightly as I looked up that the first women to go to university in england was in the 1860s so i didnt want to make it too historically inaccurate and made a loop hole instead lol. hope you enjoy (:

#requests open #imagine #fanfiction #anthony bridgerton imagine #anthony bridgerton #bridgerton imagine

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multifailures · 2 years

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An Equal Future.

Summary: If a young lady is not just a prize to be won, could she convince her husband for a world in which their children can share an equal future. 2.8k

A/N: my first request! Thank you for the support! It has taken over a week to write this just because I’ve been so busy but I have the next few weeks pretty much free to write as much as possible! So I’d love to see some more requests!

Y/N was rather acquainted with Lady Danbury's Manor. During her first ball there, she admired the exquisite paintings hanging large above her. By her fourth occasion, she could effortlessly dance herself through the ballroom floor. It had now been more than a dozen times that Y/N Bridgerton had first entered the estate and she had realised her favourite part of it was the gardens. It was the only area during the ball that she could be truly alone, a place where no loyal maids, no pesky suitors and no overbearing mothers could find her. Oftentimes during her mother’s quest to find her a suitor, Y/N would escape out of a dancer’s embrace and find herself catching her breath alone, looking up at the night’s stars as she sat on a bench under a large Oak that hid her shadows.

She now sat on that very same bench with her sister-in-law, Eloise, and her friend Penelope. Each woman had dressed in their finest attire for this occasion, only to hide from it all in the gardens that the moon barely shone through. Eloise was complaining of the season, just as she typically did, whilst Y/N and Penelope laughed at her dramatics. Yet, the only reason Y/N had shown the two girls this place was the same reason she had searched for it in the first place: to hide.

So, Eloise Bridgerton complained of her heinous attire, her meddling mother and her demanding brother, who just so happened to be Y/N’s husband. She did not mind Eloise’s rantings; she knew of her husband’s role of overbearing older brother, and she could not argue in his favour. Only a few years prior, she had the same opinion of society, marriage and Viscount Bridgerton; she knew all too well of only being seen as a prize to be won, and not a worthy woman in her own right. It was the very same feeling that Eloise presents, and exactly why Y/N had led her two younger friends to this secluded seating area.

This was exactly how Anthony Bridgerton had found the giggling trio. He had entered out the rear doors of the grand house, standing behind the wall that hid the bench but allowed his eavesdropping on his complaining sister. He smiled quietly to himself when Eloise spoke, “my brother is just as insufferable as before! I thought being wed to you would finally open his eyes to what we could be!”

“It is less his opinion, rather the opinion of society that he feels the need to conform to. Even he is too consumed by societal expectations to threaten its structure.” Anthony hears their hum of agreement at his wife’s defence. Y/N then giggles to herself, voicing out loud: “But, my God, can your brother be insufferable.”

Anthony walks closer, coughing to make himself known as he steps into view. Their laughter is cut short, but only Penelope blushes at the thought of getting caught in rebellious conversation. Eloise rolls her eyes at his interruption; Y/N looks up to meet his eyes, a small smile embracing her lips, though embarrassed if he had heard her words. “Lord Bridgerton,” She teases, reminding him of the many private rendezvous they shared before she dared speak his name. “Apologies for stealing your sister away, but I presumed a winter’s chill would be much more thrilling than what you had planned for tonight.”

He rolled his eyes in mock annoyance, though a hint of a smile pulling at his lips. “It’s not me ruining your fun this time, my ladies. Mother calls for you, Eloise.”

The young woman let’s out an unimaginably unladylike groan. She makes a point to look in Y/N’s direction and dramatically roll her eyes, muttering to herself as to prove correct their conversation’s topic. Yet, she obeys. She hooks her arm around Penelope and lifts herself from the bench they are huddled upon. The two take a few steps until turning back, looking expectedly at the couple. Anthony is readying to follow until his wife speaks, “Give us a moment. I’ll be back to complaining before the dance is over.”

In the two girl’s leaving, the couple are left alone for the first time that evening, in the very place they had their first proper conversation. Just as that very first night, Y/N pats her gloved hand on the bench beside her, asking the Viscount to accompany her in sitting. “I am genuinely sorry for her hiding, Anthony. I only wished to get away myself, but she followed.”

He sits besides his wife, listening to her thoughtfully as he takes her gloved hand in hers, engulfing it with both hands. “You are quite the encouragement for her misbehaviour, my love.”

“Perhaps it is you that discourages her happiness, Anthony.” She argues with a sigh. “Is it so hard to believe that this lifestyle is not best?”

“Not best for her? Or you?” He watches his wife expectedly, in an attempt to look at her in the eyes. However, she directs her body forward, away from his-- then pulls her hand away from his. She guards herself in a way that he has learnt; crossing her arms over her chest as she stares into the darkened garden hedges. This beautiful view had been such a momentous setting of the couple’s love and desire for one another, sitting together in this very spot as they complained together of the social season until they stopped the complaining of society and indulged in conversations of themselves.

“I hate this.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” She looks to him with hints of accusation. “You had promised during our engagement that this gallivanting would end once we were wed. That I could end this lady charade and be myself again; yet I have stifled myself in boring conversations and unbreathable garments for much longer than I had ever wished.”

“It is just the balls you hate. I do, too.”

“It is not just the balls,” she cries, a pouted lip jutting out in frustration. “It is everything that I am not allowed to do. Every conversation I am shun from and every event makes me a mockery. If I am destined to just be your prize, how am I to be my own damned woman?”

It is a small outburst that Anthony was used to; he had not fallen in love with a calm woman. His wife, his love, Y/N Bridgerton, is a force of her time. She is a wave of newness to the ton, a refreshing breath of air for the ladies stuck in corsets but a poison to the system they all grew up in. In Anthony’s mind, her stubbornness made her kinder and her justice more loving. Anthony takes her chin in his hands, directing her eyes to meet his own. “I have never once seen you as a prize, Y/N.” He holds her cheek in both such strength that she cannot look away and with such love that why would she ever want to? “Though, I have won at life with being yours.”

She cannot suppress a laugh at that. He has always been particularly good at wooing her, even almost a year after they had wed, and such flirtations were unwarranted. However, everyday Anthony would look at the woman lying in his bed, wake her up with the smallest of kisses and admire her sweet morning smile, and compliment her messy hair, her unwashed breath, her snoring in the night. He has won a woman who makes him a better man, he thinks, and he is best at showing his gratitude in ways that made her blush and whack his shoulder with rolled eyes.

As he admires her in the silence of the evening air, Anthony watches her face fall from giddiness to a small, sad smile. She whispers, “Anthony?”

“Yes, my love?”

“This morning, your mother and I did not go dress shopping.” He had suspected as much; she had never been one to initiate such a trip into town. “We met with my mother, and together they took me to a doctor.”

In that, panic whipped Anthony’s features. It is known to her that his deepest fear is of a loved one’s hurting; the first time she had personally witnessed this was a few weeks after their honeymoon, when she had been taken ill by a measly bug and bedridden for all of two days, as her doting husband withdrew his duties to spend that time with her. In the familiar flash of a quick, wide-eyed gaze, Y/N retracks her steps. “No, no,” She assures him. She matches her husband with her hands on his cheeks as she steadies him. “I’m perfectly fine, Anthony. In fact, I’m pregnant.”

With that, every panic vanishes just for a moment. There is a small glint of a smile between them both, but the shocking information had stilled them momentarily. “You’re with child?”

They both knew that in the near future, the idea of a baby growing inside Y/N would certainly lead to many panicked conversations and apprehensive nights of worry. Raising a young noble will present many challenges that neither believe they are particularly ready for, but those challenges did not matter when their love was this strong. In the silence, Anthony Bridgerton smiles, then chuckles in amazement at the woman in front of his eyes. When she nods, he cannot help from kissing those soft lips that were just moments ago pouting in frustration.

In his mouth falling from hers, he lightly traces her lips with his finger. As the news has finally sunk that he is to become a father, he laughs in thought, “pregnancy is a sure way to be excused from society.”

Y/N laughs in unison with him. “That was your mother’s exact response.”

Their lips collide again in sweet harmony. They share a love’s embrace in excitement and fulfilment, together but individually thinking of their future. Anthony imagines himself with three, maybe four, little rascals with the Bridgerton eyes and the (L/N)’s smiles. He sees a breakfast table of rioting, arguing as often as his siblings do, and a garden of playful competition that he, as the insufferable father, would always win.

Y/N tears herself away from her lover, with a look that Anthony knows to be of being deep in similar thoughts of their future. Her eyes wonder from his parted lips to his eyes that shone ever-so-slightly in the dimmed light of the garden’s only lamp. Her eyes bore into his; he can tell she is thinking of what to say—or how to say what she wishes to say. Finally, she asserts herself with an affirming breath. “Anthony, if I am to give you children, my stances from our marriage have not shifted; they must be equal in opportunity.”

He tilts his head to the side, watching his love. It was a conversation needed to be had; he had just wished they could embrace their newfound joy for a little longer in simple celebration. “I cannot promise you that; our society is a fickle and unmoving force.”

“I’m not naive, whilst the protests are picking up in movement, I am aware we cannot change society just yet.” She speaks in earnest; she is one of the smartest people—not just women, but people—that he knows. The risks Y/N takes have always been calculated with her role in society, she has the patience many do not and what she envisions of her life is not going to come to her without struggle. “However, Anthony, we can at least change ourselves.”

He tilts his head, waiting for her continued speaking. He knew from the beginning of their courtship that she had terms of her wedding, her family, her role as a woman, and he wanted to make every wish of hers come true if it were possible. Though, as he supports his wife and the cause she fights for; his pessimistic outlook on life often overshadows his willingness to encourage his wife’s endeavours. In his silence, Y/N gives herself permission to continue. “I have heard of men hating their once-beloved wives for not bearing a son, or even hating a healthy son that does not show perfect qualities. I cannot ever allow for our story to become so cruel.”

He shook his head. Never could he imagine a world in which he hated a child brought to him by her. He brings his hand, finally, to the belly of his wife. This is unexpected news, but certainly not unwanted. Y/N was far from showing, and they would make sure to keep this pregnancy a secret from gossiped for as long as possible. But still, he thought, my child is in there. He looks up from his miracle, into the eyes of the other wonder of his life. “That would never happen, my love. There is nothing that would make my love for you, or our future, be challenged.”

“I don’t believe that will happen either.” She assures. She lays her hand gently over his. Together, they hold their future as they discuss the very same thing. “However, there are too many biases in our world that I need our home to negate. If you say you will love our children whatever the cost, then I want to love them equally, too. I want our sons and daughters alike to share the same governor, read the same books, be treated in our home with the pretence they will have equal futures.”

He ponders her request. If Y/N cannot change how society treats her children; she will teach her children how to change society. He expected no less from such a tenacious force— her stern words somehow coincide with Anthony’s thoughts of how simply adorable she looks in his arms. He watches his wife— courageous, stunning, benevolent—continue her speech. “And if despite the perfect education we afford, my daughter is still unable to attend higher education, I will teach my son to sneak his work and his lessons to my daughter—just as my brother had done for me.”

His ever-growing smile brightens even further. Y/N had told Anthony of her very scandalous rendezvous to many libraries and hiding from professors—she had always told her story of desperation in light-hearted humour. However, Anthony knew that her education was Y/N’s proudest achievement. To her, she had unlocked the knowledge that men had hidden from her sex for centuries. Before the couple had even met, Y/N was certain she wanted her daughters to follow her footsteps. In marrying her, Anthony had no choice but to raise a deviant young daughter.

“If we can raise a daughter half as smart as you,” Anthony smiles in a promise, “It would be particularly cruel to restrict her from such rebellion that I am sure you plan to teach her.”

“Even before her very first steps.”

Their combined laughter fills the green shrubbery for a moment or two. Inside, the music has started again after a short break. In all honesty, Y/N had not noticed the instruments ever stopping, but their return had prompted her memory that she was, in fact, in the company of dozens of acquaintances a mere wall away. Despite her wishes, she could not stay away from the event and hide in the gardens, alone with the only person she would never hide from. Unless, of course, it is to aid in hiding his sister from him.

She looks around, sighing. “I suppose we have disappeared for long enough.” Anthony nods in a similarly woeful way. He had never suspected to marry a lady with such similar distastes as him; he will forever be grateful for her hatred of the same things that he hates. However, today was not a day for misery. It was a day for celebration, and those who celebrate, dance.

He stands from the bench in a much peppier step that her statement conveyed. She looks at him quizzically as his arm falls from his back and his hand reaches for her with mischievous eyes. “So, my lady, will you take my hand,” he smiles, “and please our mothers with a single dance before we retire from every ball of the season?”

She likes that very idea, though loves more to tease Anthony, even as she accepts his hand and pulls herself up with his help. “Are you just using my pregnancy as an escape from duty?”

“Oh, precisely.” He smirks. “And do not doubt that I will use the excuse of our children to escape duty for the rest of my life.”

Perhaps it is that reason the two are a perfect couple; for they not only have a partnership in love but a partnership of quiet rebellion and defiance that the future generation of Bridgerton children could learn from. For they would certainly have daughters who would tred on dancer’s toes and sons with escape plans for every event. A child imperfect for society is a perfect child for Anthony and his wife, Y/N Bridgerton.

#imagine #imagines #anthony bridgerton imagine #fanfiction #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton imagine #anthony bridgerton fluff #anthony bridgerton imagines #anthony bridgerton fanfiction #anthony bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #eloise bridgerton #benedict bridgerton #bridgerton x reader #colin bridgerton #anthony bridgerton x oc

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multifailures · 2 years

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I Could Never Give You Peace.

Summary: Would Anthony Bridgerton leave stability for a woman who could never give him peace? 2.4k

A/N: Thank you so much for the support on the last part! If anyone wants to request anything else for Bridgerton (or any other suggested fandoms), I’ve been really enjoying writing this!

Part One

There are two things I am certain: I was once a coward but today, I gained the courage to be a fool. My chaos was the exact reason a partnership with the Viscount was dismissed years ago by the both of us. He needed a lady, a woman who would bear respectable children and reside and never leave the Bridgerton Estate. Even then, I knew that was not who I could grow into—a lesser noblewoman wed to a second son was as much as my parents had wished for and even that I could not grant. Instead, I had chosen the spinster lifestyle for myself, knowing my only chance of true love had slipped through my hands just as he would once slip through my window on cold nights, and hold me close before we even knew what we were doing was improper.

I have finally been permitted leave to my room after a long scolding, with my parents stationed in the drawing room for any visitors—of one whose chances of appearance has dwindled in the passing hours. The midday ceremony I had interrupted had stretched until the sky now drenched my room in a setting sun. Despite these hours and losing hope, I have not sat once, constantly pacing my bed chambers in an untied corset that previously suffocated me. My room has been rampaged by my own hand, clothing and personal belongings thrown hastily onto my bed, beside the large suitcase that taunted my fate ever since being gifted to me by the father of the very man I plan to outrun.

I do not recall ever stopping my crying, but I was acutely aware that tears had stopped flowing. Not out of healing, but of dehydration. My breathing was coarse and any knock on my door was hastily excused. He had gone through with it, I am sure, and I couldn’t blame him for it. But I do, I do blame him for it even if I think this is all my fault. I realise now how much of a mess I have made in my life and the lives of so many. All for a fool’s hope in love. Finally, for the first time today, I sit down on my bed, the mattress curves into me and a stack of letters slip down. I know exactly what these are, their envelopes ripped open in such haste to read a small note for my eyes only. I take hold of the letter at the bottom, below exactly twenty-eight others.

‘16th October 1811’ was scribbled in the right corner, evidence of our last secret rendezvous. ‘Do not make any decision in haste. Meet me at 10 o’clock. Please. Forever Yours.’ We had never signed our letters; we had too many siblings between us for any true secrecy. Even with no signifiers, our letters had once been abandoned for months due to the curious Eloise finding a letter with just a hint of love written over it. She had made sure to bring it to show all her lady friends during a breakfast I was cordially invited to, without knowing I was the subject. Eventually, our families would figure our secret one by one— all but Colin, who appeared dumbfounded when Violet mentioned the affair months after it had ended. We were both only scared children, frightened of love and what ruins it could bring. In losing myself to memories, I had momentarily lost myself from the heartbreak. That is, until I hear the harsh knocking on the front door to our home.

Outside my own door, I soon hear heavy footsteps travelling up the stairs. There is a commotion of voices, even my father’s commands to stay downstairs was overshadowed by the boot steps travelling my way. “Is she in here?” I hear, and I recognise that voice; the same voice I imagined when reading those words on parchment. There are calls for cease of dramatics, but that is proven ignored when my door is barged open by the Viscount.

His expression is just as indistinguishable as it was hours before, but his eyes tell another story; I am troubled by their rage. “You have gone much too far this time, Miss (L/N).”

I instantly stand as my stomach lurches, “Lord Bridgerton.” I keep my formalities the same as he does, however those are dropped at the slamming of my door behind him. He has taken determined strides into my room, clocked the items on my bed and does not give me a word in edgeways in the same semblance as I refused to let him speak at his own wedding.

“You are quite possibly the cruellest woman I know, (Y/N)!” He rages, slamming at the bedpost that already held many memories between us. “I have allowed you to dedicate your life to making a fool of me in secret, but now you have destroyed the reputation of so many noble people with your foolish behaviour! I cannot stand by and let you-- ”

I have spent much of my life ignoring the ravings of important men. “Did you marry her?”

It is the first time since my confession he has looked at me, those same eyes that once held adoration only held anger. “You do not have the right to ask that question.”

I repeat myself louder, defiantly. “Are you wed, my lord? Because if so, it would be improper for you to be spending your wedding evening with another—”

“Of course I didn’t marry her!” He yells, sending a jolting punch to the bedpost. There is so much pain—pain that I know I’ve caused—within him as he announces the one sentence that gives my own pain relief. “But I should have; I should have made sure you were out of the country because you know exactly how to play my heart. You had no right to even enter the Cathedral; no position to confess your feelings in such a way.”

I have been scolded by his words in the same way Gregory and Hyacinth must have. I look to the wooden floorboards; I am embarrassed to be at the end of his concluding shouts when, oftentimes, our arguing would flare for hours. Even the ending of our relationship had not been so fuelled in anger, only sadness in that situation. Now, Anthony radiates an anger I have not yet seen; I have never caused him such infuriation.

“That love story you were on about; it has come and it has gone.” Anthony whips back to face me, stalking towards me. “You made sure of that, (Y/N)! You guarded your heart; built the tallest wall I could never climb and sunk me into the mud. Now, three years later, you come out with a sledgehammer to destroy any chance of happiness I could muster without you.”

In barely a whisper, and glassy eye contact that bore so hard I imagine his soul in his eyes, “You would not have been happy, Anthony.”

“Pardon?”

“I have made plenty of mistakes in my life and I have a lot of regrets about my decisions in love,” I speak with a head tilt and that same false confidence witnessed in the Cathedral. Despite this, I feel a rejuvenation in my tears, seeping down my cheeks. “And I certainly do regret many of my actions taken today, but I do not regret stopping you from marrying a girl who was wrong for you.”

“You do not allow me to marry the woman right for me, and now you refuse me to marry anyone else.” He tuts, closer to me than he has been in months— years possibly. There is a smallest hint of a fine cologne, a reminder of what a wedding night should entail. “You were the very one who taught me to not marry for love and now humiliate me for that very reason.”

“That is farthest from the truth! All I wanted was for you to fall for someone worthy of both your love and your title.” I defend, because it is the truth. I had heard of his Rake ways, never uttered a disapproving sentence in his direction when our mothers’ would force a joining of two families over luncheon. “I know I cannot be yours. I could never give you peace because I am too chaotic of a woman. I know there must be a Great Lady out there that could make you forget about me.”

Anthony’s anger slowly subsides into heartache. We stand so close that I want to reach my hand for his. I do not allow myself the luxury when I have caused him such pain. His voice is calmer now, more confusion than anything lacing his tone. “If you are so certain you cannot be mine, then why did you say all those things in such a humiliating manner?”

I bring my hands to my chest, anxiously playing on the low neckline of my gown. If I did not occupy them, I would reach out for his touch and I could not bear my shaking fingers being swatted away like flies. “You left me no choice. You had not so much looked in my direction since the engagement, your mother practically banned me from any events—and I am certain that was not her own intuition that led her to me. And frankly, I had only decided to confess my love for you when I didn’t sit back down. That was the moment I knew for certain, that my heart belongs to you.”

I had seen my Anthony cry before— in his darkest of moments, often in thinking of his father, but never quite like this. Never in a cry of love’s desperation, so forceful that his hands are brought to mine as a single tear escapes him. We have not touched in three years, and I had never realised how starved I was for his touch until now. Likewise, Anthony’s hands hold my own in a way that feels as though that if he lets me go, he fears I will turn to mist. His grasp on my wrist is as forceful as his grasp on my heart. We are so close in our mutual breaths; I can finally breathe now that I am breathing his air. He is so close to my touch, that even my better judgement could not stop me from leaning my forehead to his. We have been fighting with words for so, so long that now our silence is healing our spoken wounds. In our silence, we can finally understand our rare position of truly knowing and loving one another. He breaks this perfect silence, knowing that there will forever be words unanswered if he did not speak now. “The things you said today, was it honest?”

“The most truthful words I have ever spoken.”

He watches my fervent nods, a silent begging for him to believe me. In such subtle movements, his grasp on my wrist loosens and changes to an intertwining of fingers. “You have been the one thing I have always wanted and never could have. The most infuriating love I never asked for. You have haunted every woman at the ton, every dance had me wishing you were in my arms and tripping on my feet. Every flower gifted has been lilies in reminder of you. I had to watch you walk away from me when I begged on my knees for you to stay.” He whispers with a shaking voice for my ears only, sacred words that will repeat in my dreams.

I’ll admit that I'm unsure whose lips pressed against whose first. Our lips brush ever so slightly, a testing of waters and reassurance that they were the same lips that took my breath away for the first time over a decade ago. One hand slips out of his grasp, reaching up to hold his face in a loving and desperate manner. I smile as he holds me to him, and his smile follows at the feeling of mine. In the same minutes that I could finally breathe again, he had taken my breath away all over again. I move my head back, intending only for a moment, but I witness the look in Anthony’s eyes. His wettened lips are smiling widely, and a smarter woman would savour that picture in silence. But I am a fool in love.

“After everything, I must confess that maybe I was wrong.” He cocks his head, intrigued by my thoughts. “Since your brother visited me last week, thoughts of us have consumed me—night and day. Before I had never had to worry that you would not wait for me to be ready. I ever so stupidly thought that you could withstand just our clandestine meetings and longing stares as a replacement for a marriage. I believed that was all our love could amount to, and at first, I was ready to say goodbye to any chance I had of being yours.”

“And then?”

“Then Benedict called us both fools.” I laugh. “He told me that you needed a reason not to go through with it—to defy your mother, do something that would make you happy. And stupidly he believed I was the one to make you happy. He made me consider that, perhaps, even if I can not give you a peaceful life, the fire of my heart could still keep you warm.”

“Then perhaps I should thank Ben.” He chuckles. He holds my face as though he is expecting every change that, from afar, he never noticed. I do the same; we are not as young as we once were. His Viscount duties has deepened some lines on his forehead, but I hope to spend the rest of mornings tracing them. “For convincing you to create such a horrid scandal.”

I groan. I had been so preoccupied with Anthony Bridgerton’s opinions of me that the gossip—even the damned Lady Whistledown—had not been considered. Somehow within this disaster, Anthony finds a way to laugh. In turn, as he kisses me once more, I laugh lightly too. “Have I not just today proved, my love, that I will damn well ruin myself for you?”

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multifailures · 2 years

Text

Speak Now.

Anthony Bridgerton X Reader

Summary: For anyone less foolish, a wedding meant a gentleman was unavailable for a new love.

Part Two

I am not the type of girl to do this absurdity. I am dignified; I am a lady-- lower than some, I admit, but a lady nonetheless, with a reputation to uphold. My father, my mother, even my grandfather will be amongst the crowd as I make an utter, total fool of myself. However, I will be the first to admit that I am a fool in love. It’s a love that has lasted from childhood, into adolescence and up until this very moment. A love that had evolved in secret glances and hidden rendezvous. A love that, for anyone less stubborn, had ended at the news of another bride.

The formal invitation was crumpled in my sweated hand. I had read it countless of times, so much so that the ink had smudged from my tears. ‘The Families of Bridgerton and Sharma cordially invite the (Last Name) Family to the matrimony of Viscount Anthony Bridgerton and Miss Edwina Sharma.’ However, it had seemed that I was not intended to arrive in my finest attire, alongside my eldest brother and little sisters.

It was Violet that had come to me a few days before, shamefully insisting on my absence. ‘I fear your distraction could cause severe consequences, my dear.’ She had said in an embrace that almost felt like a goodbye. A goodbye to a daughter. If I was smarter, I would have listened to her. I would remain composed in my heartbreak and I would simply skip the grandest wedding of the season. But if I am a fool in love, every single one of the Bridgerton name held that same sentiment. Even Anthony, if he allowed himself that thought. Benedict had also visited soon after, knocking rampantly on my chamber door as though it wouldn’t be a scandal in Whistledown if anyone saw. If I wasn’t such a fool, I would have listened to his mother, not him. I would have also concluded my thoughts long before the ceremony commenced.

But I am both a fool in love and timing. The organ begins before I can even get Anthony to look my way. Everyone stood but my shaking legs could not compose themselves, so I hold myself up with the seat in front. I hide alongside the other unimportant guests within the back pew—at least I remain unnoticeable until I have enough courage to perhaps ruin my own and my family’s reputation forever.

In being at the back of the church, I am one of the first to witness the beautiful bride. Her long, ivory gown floats her down the aisle. To a loving groom, Miss Sharma was an untearable force to the eye, a capturing beauty to a man in love. To Anthony, the bride didn’t take his breath away in any capacity similar to the way my scarlet dress had done during my debut. As she reaches the man that I am risking it all for, they only exchange pleasantries—no adoration between them, and hesitation within Anthony.

The Arch-Bishop spoke, “please be seated.” The crowd did as so; I, ever the rebel, did not.

Despite his call, I keep stood with shaking legs, glad my long, sage gown hid their trembles. It took a while for the guests to register that I was not just slow; I was defying the words of this churchman. I ignore every turned head and gasp and focus only on one man. He has followed his mother’s and his betrothed eyes to find the one person he wished would not be in attendance. “You cannot go through with this wedding, my Lord.”

He is so far from me, but I swear I witness my name—not my title, not my family’s name—my name fall from his lips. Other than that small hint of devotion, I believe he’s too shocked to convey any true emotion of his feelings. “I am ever so apologetic to rudely barge into this ceremony.” I strengthen my voice. Even in the most reputation-destroying moment, I assure my decorum is in order to suit the Queen. “However, I will admit that the novels in my library have convinced me that a grand gesture of love is no more foolish than letting that love pass you by.”

Members of my own family and the Bridgerton family stood, mostly in shock or in efforts to silence me. This is a scandal, I’m well aware, that could ruin myself and my family. In spite of this, I have trust in myself that I am doing the right thing, and trust that Anthony will do so, too.

“I know you wished for me to not be here. I truly did try to let you go, Anthony. I would have trapped myself in my home and never see you again if it meant you were happy.” Even though my heart is breaking, and a tear slips to my cheek, I laugh through shakes. “But for as long as I remember, I have studied your gestures; your language; every breath that falls from your lips. I have watched the man you have become, and the emotions you have so fervently suppressed—and your failure to do so when it comes to me.”

He whispers something as he shakes his head in disbelief, I think his eyes begin to water but perhaps that’s only because that what I wish. I wish he knows he’s making a mistake, that I don’t even have to speak for him to know that it’s me whom he loves, it’s always been me since the childish bickering and the dances we learned together. “So if I am not mistaken, I have an inkling that perhaps marrying for convenience is not your true desire. Perhaps you have wished to marry for love, but that love was at first fickle and confusing and interrupted— and the woman you loved was stubborn and guarded and so, so scared to be loved by you. Until she risked everything to show you what love could be in a confession that could possible humiliate and ruin her.”

I pull at the skin of my chest, grasping for an anchor to my emotions that are bursting from me and a heartbeat threatening escape. In my profession of love, I still do not let him as he opens his mouth. Instead, I finally tear my eyes from the man I love and look at the unfortunate bride with an equally unfortunate mouth agape.

“And you, Miss Edwina, you are quite possibly the kindest lady of this season. A true diamond, and a young girl with so much more potential than a man practically twice your age. You assured me that, at the beginning of this season, your aims in marriage were true love.” I take a breath, my corset restricting every inch of air that I need to save me. In my moment of composure, I take a step into the aisle. “And he cannot love you the way you truly do deserve to be loved.” I am centre to scrutiny and attention. “I am truly sorry for this intrusion and the ruining of this beautiful ceremony—but what is a perfect ceremony when you’re not standing beside the perfect person?”

Everyone is stunned, my father has found my side in urgency to dismiss me. His hand on my arm has nothing on the strength of my gaze into the eyes of the only man I could ever admire in such dire circumstances. The Arch-Bishop is the only one brave enough to speak after me. “Lord Bridgerton?”

“Uhm,” His eyes dart, tearing his widened eyes away from mine to his betrothed in front of him. “I cannot—”

I am foolish for interrupting him, but I have such power running through my veins that I can not bear to him break my heart again. “If I have fooled myself into believing of a love that does not exist and it is not me you wish in your arms, my Lord, I apologise for this interruption and will take my leave and you will never have to gaze your eyes on me again. And if my words have not swayed this engagement, I wish you both a long and healthy marriage. If, however, I have not ruined my reputation and any affection you have for me in doing this, I wish to meet with you, my Lord, to discuss our thoughts about this situation I have put ourselves in.”

I finally give in to my father’s harsh pushing, never seeing such a kind-hearted man so flushed in the cheeks and cursing my name under his breath in such harsh language he’s never uttered in a public setting. I smile against my tears, bowing my head and taking a curtsey that even I am not sure is to be sincere or mocking. I walk out of the cathedral doors, away from the man who has my heart and hope he does not break it.

It takes moments, minutes, or what feels like hours for Anthony, for the Arch-Bishop to ask the question every guest, noble, servant is anticipating. “Do you wish to continue, my lord?” Everyone in attendance is staring at the man, never seen such a stoic gentleman so confused. Each individual waits impatiently for any utterance, any command or apology.

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