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heliads · 2 days

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Newt x reader Bridgerton AU. Reader, the diamond of the season, is the Duchess of Hastings. She wants to marry someone who likes her as a person and isn’t after her money. Newt, son of a widowed viscountess, needs to marry to save his family’s reputation because his sister Sonya was seen alone with her fiancé Lord Aris before they were engaged. The anonymous writer Lady Whistledown is Ava, a widowed modiste who has her nose in everyone’s business, and Aris is the only one who knows.

'foxes and hounds' - newt

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The start of a new social season, although intended, supposedly, to be a cause for joy, feels rather more like a fierce uprising of dread, not celebration. Across the ton, young maidens find themselves new entrees– or, entrants– to the marriage mart. This game of rings and dances, men with ambition and women with more, will end in blissful happiness or deepest discontent. And all will be witnessed by every worthy family from one corner of the country to the next.

If all goes according to plan, an eligible would-be bride will find herself engaged to a man she loves, a man in possession of a handsome fortune and a sterling reputation. If luck slips past her, she’ll settle for someone decent, or someone without any income at all. If nothing goes in her favor, her first year in society will not be her last as a single woman. She will have to repeat her attempt the next year, this time without the glimmering aura of a new arrival, and hope that something within her has changed enough to attract a proposal. Otherwise, she will sink to the bottom of the pile of dance cards, ignored, abandoned, and grown up into a spinster. All that hard work gone to waste.

You’ve heard many young women discuss the marriage mart with nothing short of absolute terror in their voices. A good opening season can seal a girl’s fate forever. Attracting the eye of a worthy man is an impossible task for all but the best of the rosebuds, or so it seems. Most of us will settle for something halfway decent– a tidy sum per annum but nothing extravagant, a man with casual disinterest but nothing harsh. Something that can be shaped into something good, or at least ignored in favor of not being alone. Such is the romance of a married life.

You, however, hope to extract a little more out of the whole affair. As the Duchess of Hastings, you have no need for money. A marriage would be nice, the final touch on the portrait of a successful lady, but you do not require the financial stability of a husband. You have plenty of money and plenty of friends. You will inherit your estate. If you look for a husband, you will look only for love.

One would think, then, that entering your first season among the eligible women of the ton would be bereft of the panic permeating through most of your friends in search of husbands. However, when you line up with the rest of the young women to be presented to the Queen at the start of the season, you find that it couldn’t be less true.

Your stomach is in knots, even as you sweep confidently through the corridor to wait outside the door. The white feather in your hair stands tall and proud. Your dress is crisp and finely stitched, the highest of fashion yet never gaudy. You attract stares wherever you go– from the other girls, envious and jealous and heartsick, from the men, longing and cutthroat and mercenary– but pretend they don’t phase you in the slightest. As duchess, you’ve had plenty of time to grow accustomed to onlookers. You won’t allow them to interfere with you on this all important day.

At last, your name is called, and you enter the throne room, your mother behind you. You keep your steps small but light, and seem to float towards your queen. When the time is right, you sink into an elegant curtsy. The moment seems to last forever, your knees bent, your hands shaking slightly, but when the queen calls you to stand, you look up to find her smiling benevolently at you.

“I believe I have found my diamond of the season,” she announces.

The room erupts in polite applause, and you do your best to smother a smile that’s entirely too giddy to be proper. As you retreat from the room, you gaze at the faces surrounding you, trying to remember which ones look genuinely happy for you and which seem to be identifying a prize pig for the slaughter. When the town gossips all gather later to share their thoughts on today’s proceedings, you’re certain that some of them will attempt to discredit you, saying that of course the queen would choose the duchess as her diamond, but you know just as well as all of them that you deserve the honor today. You were the best of everyone here, and it’s plain to see.

Among all of them, your gaze catches on a singular man, almost lost in the crowd from all the bodies packed together but no less entrancing. What strikes you the most is that his face seems kind, and his eyes sparkle with pride as they watch you go. Pride for you, for your accomplishments. As if he couldn’t be more delighted that you of all people were named the season’s diamond.

Then you’re gone from the room, and the kind man is no longer before you. Still, you puzzle over the encounter long after your carriage takes you home. You don’t believe you recognize him, but that doesn’t mean anything to sway you towards any decision. An image of the young man swims in your mind– short, dirty blond hair, an upturned mouth, dark eyes, his face almost spritely. Clever, for sure.

You know better than to mess with clever men. Clever men are the type to try and twist your mind, convince you that they only love you then attempt to make off with your money. You know full well what marriage to you will offer any would-be suitor. This season, you may be looking for affection, but every man in the room will be after your fortune. The task of finding someone who truly cares for you will be a difficult one indeed.

So, clever men or not, you’ll have to keep your heart under close guard. When the first ball of the season comes to be, you don one of your finest dresses, and firmly admonish yourself to be careful. The game of hearts is not one that you lose. Either you win, or you destroy yourself.

You time your arrival carefully, so as to make the best entrance, and your efforts are rewarded. From the moment you’re announced, all eyes turn to you. Were it not for your extensive experience with being scrutinized in the grand magnifying lens that is the ton, you’d be nervous to have that many people looking at you. Even still, you can’t pretend you don’t feel a small flutter in your stomach.

It gets easier once you sweep further into the room, once people start smiling at you again, when the conversation picks up and you’re asked for your first dance of the evening, which you accept. Your partner is a charming man named Minho– dark hair, witty eyes, an excellent sense of humor. He’s athletic and a decent dancer, and by the time the music stops, you’re back to your usual self again. You can’t stop yourself from mentally sizing up your dance partner. He seems nice, and you wouldn’t be bored around him, at least. His family owns land. Although he’s not of your precise social standing, few are, and he’s close enough to you that it would be a respectable match.

Still– still, you think to yourself, as you move away from the center of the floor once more to consider your dance card, it’s not quite enough. You want love, you want a spark, and you didn’t quite get that with Minho. There are plenty of eligible suitors here, though, and many more balls to come. You’ll have other opportunities to select a match.

A few dances later, though, your feet are beginning to feel heavy and you’re still no closer to finding someone of interest than you were at the start. A good lady of extensive training such as yourself should have no problem dancing the entire night through with a pleasant smile on her face, but you’re still human, still tired, and your charming demeanor is beginning to pinch at the seams before long.

The music for the latest dance ends, and you curtsy to your partner, praying silently that no one else will be looking to fill your dance card for the next rotation. However, when you turn around, you’re greeted with the sight of many anxious faces. Something inside you wilts, perhaps your endurance.

Before the mobs can descend upon you, however, a figure appears in front of you. You sigh in relief to see one of your closest friends, Miss Teresa Agnes. “Teresa! And here I thought I wouldn’t have a single good friend all evening.”

Teresa laughs, her dark hair shining. “I would never abandon you. Certainly not when our diamond is sparkling so spectacularly tonight.”

You smile at her. “I’m not the only one who’s sparkling, Teresa. You look lovely.”

“Thank you,” Teresa says sincerely. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to introduce someone to you. This is Viscount Newt, a good friend of mine. I met him through Thomas.”

You smile to yourself as Teresa turns to beckon someone towards you. Teresa has been harboring a not-so-secret admiration for Thomas since you were all small. This is her first season in the social circles, too, and if she doesn’t come out of it with a proposal from Thomas, you’ll think the sky has fallen. Even now, he’s watching her fondly from across the room, trying to pretend as if he isn’t pining madly while Minho teases him for it.

“Here he is at last,” Teresa says, and all of a sudden you can’t think about Thomas’ case of lovesickness for a second longer, because Teresa has brought her friend before you, and you know him. It’s the stranger from your presentation to the queen. The nice one, the clever one. The one that caught your eye, and then your imagination.

You curtsy automatically, and Newt bows. Once the two of you straighten up, you’re able to observe him more closely. You’d only gotten a fleeting glimpse earlier, but now you can drink in the sight of him, and you do. His eyes are dark, but catch the lights like stars. His mouth has a habit of twitching up at the sides, as if he’s always thinking of a joke but just barely managing to keep it at bay. When he looks at you, he really looks at you. You’ve been stared at all night by would-be suitors, but their gazes never went farther than surface level. Right now, it’s as if Newt can see through to your very soul, and most intimately of all, appreciates it.

Teresa gives you a confused look, and you realize you’ve been standing in silence for longer than is probably courteous. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” you say.

“I must return the sentiment,” Newt returns. “Teresa has talked about you many times. I’ve been quite eager to meet you.”

“I hope I’m worthy of what she’s told you,” you say.

Newt smiles again. “I believe you’re even better than that,” he tells you.

Teresa is looking at you with an odd smile. “I believe I’d better let the two of you get to know each other, then,” she says, and sweeps away before you can stop her.

Newt laughs. “She’s been wanting to set us up for ages. For a friendship, I mean,” he breaks in hastily. “Apparently, she thinks we have a similar sense of humor.”

“I look forward to finding that out myself,” you smile.

Newt’s eyes flash with mirth again, delighting you. Behind you, the music picks up again. Newt extends a hand towards you. “Would you mind if I shared a dance with you? Unless, of course, you’d rather sit for a while.”

“I’d love to dance,” you say quickly, and it’s true. All of a sudden, the pain in your feet is gone, as if it had never existed at all.

Newt smiles and takes your hand to lead you to the dance floor. The orchestra begins its melody, and you start your dance. You make a mental note to ask Teresa a little more about Newt later; he dances like an aristocrat, but he speaks so freely to you. It’s nothing like you’ve ever experienced in a suitor before.

Newt arches a brow as he steps through the dance. “Sizing me up, are you? It may be improper of me to ask, but I do hope I’m meeting your requirements.”

Your cheeks heat up. “I’m simply appreciating your mastery of this dance. Nothing more.”

Newt laughs easily. “Of course not. It’s not as if everyone else here is doing the same thing right now. Every dance partner is a strategy meeting. In just a matter of minutes, you’ll walk away knowing if I am a worthy wager, and I will do the same. This ball is full of hounds and foxes, my lady. We all know our parts.”

You glance at him, feeling a curious grin tugging at your lips. “And which am I? Fox or hound?”

Newt returns your proud gaze. “I suppose we’ll find out at the end of the season, won’t we?”

You laugh, feeling oddly triumphant. Newt has this way about him that you find enchanting. It’s almost breaching impropriety with how candid he is around you, but it only makes you trust him more. The dance ends far sooner than you’d like. Newt relinquishes you to the storm of suitors outside, hopefully with just as much reluctance as you.

The rest of the night passes in a blur. Newt is truly the only one that stands out to you. You don’t have a chance to dance with him again, but you keep making eye contact as you dance with other partners. You can practically hear his clever words in your head, catching you in the act of evaluating the suitors in front of you. Fox or hound?

When the ball ends and you return to your carriage for the ride home, you’re blissful, practically dreamy. You’ve had enough time with Newt to dream about it until the next ball, where you’ll likely repeat the same cycle over and over again until the season ends.

However, your golden mood is shattered when your chaperone sits down across from you. Her face, by contrast, is twisted with disappointment. “Do you have any idea what sort of trouble you’re getting yourself into?” She asks once the carriage pulls away.

Still caught up in the heady dream of a merry boy who smiled the brightest when he danced with you, you don’t realize the trap descending around you until it’s too late. “What trouble?”

Your chaperone’s lips purse. “You’re meant to be dancing only with eligible gentlemen, my lady. I should hope that you’d be able to recognize the suitable candidates from the unseemly by now.”

The veil is pierced, and you’re beginning to be brought back to earth. “What are you talking about? I thought I made perfectly reasonable choices with my dance partners.”

Your chaperone shakes her head, a quick, sharp gesture. “All but one. Goodness, haven’t you heard about the trouble with that one family? I can’t believe Miss Agnes had the nerve to introduce him to you, but perhaps the fact that she’s so besotted with Lord Thomas is upsetting her mind.”

Your heart freezes in your chest. “You can’t mean to say that the Viscount is not a suitable bachelor? What else could he be?”

The other woman sighs. “You don’t know, do you? My lady, I would not interfere if I did not feel the need, but I can assure you, his motives with you are purely mercenary. That man is desperate for something to cover up the follies of his family, and you, my dear, are the perfect gilded shield.”

You feel cold. “What follies?”

“His sister, Miss Sonya, was seen alone with her fiance,” your chaperone murmurs at last. “Lord Aris. I would think you would have heard his name, although perhaps not connected it with Viscount Newt. Miss Sonya and Lord Aris were happily engaged, and by all accounts it was a fine union, but they were seen together without a chaperone past dark. Quite the scandal. The Viscount knows it and is eager to get the ton talking about anything but his sister’s misdeeds. Entering into a courtship with you would do just the trick.”

She’s right, and you know it, and you hate it. “He seemed so genuine,” you whisper, and instantly know how foolish it sounds.

Your chaperone, to her credit, is kind enough to take pity on you. “He did,” she tells you, “and you looked happy together. You would be less happy, however, when you found out the truth. I would rather you know now and stay away. Men like that are nothing but trouble.”

You nod solemnly, turning your head to watch the dark landscapes rumbling past. The sun is already beginning to rise, a hallmark of a late night out. It had been a beautiful night up until this, and now the entire evening is ruined in your mind.

“I feel for Miss Sonya,” you whisper. “She was already engaged. They were just talking.”

“She knows the rules of society, and so do you,” your chaperone reminds you. “We all have our roles to play.”

And the consequence of setting a foot outside your role is instant public mortification. Yes. What a forgiving world. You immediately plant your exhausted body in your bed when you return, hardly sparing the time to wash and dress, but the only things to bloom from your rest are troubled dreams of the boy that could have been yours. Now that you know the truth– that Newt was only trying to use you for a better reputation– every interaction with him is tainted.

You’d meant what you said in the carriage, though. You did think Newt was genuine. Hadn’t he laughed more than usual when he was with you? Hadn’t he regarded you with that fierce pride of his, as if he’d finally found a mind that was an equal to his? Hadn’t he watched you with something akin to jealousy when you danced with the other men that weren’t him?

Hadn’t you wished he would only dance with you? And don’t you wish that you could truly do what you promised yourself and marry only for love, never mind the rest? It is a simple dream to think that love is easy. Marriage is not simple, not in the ton, not in your lifetime. Every one of your days will be shaped by the whims of society, even when they take Newt away from you.

When it comes time for the next ball, you do your best to strengthen your spirits before you go. You intentionally avoid him, making sure to always have your dance card full whenever the music ends. It’s easy enough to find a crowd large enough to hide you from him, and yet you still catch glimpses of Newt from across the hall, several partners down, in a carriage many behind yours. You successfully go two balls, then three, without seeing him, but it aches like a knife in your ribs when you think about what could have been.

As it turns out, you’re not the only one wishing you were with him. At the fifth ball of the season, your attempts to distance yourself from the viscount are foiled at last. Newt tracks you down, signing his name on your dance card before you can stop him before leading you out to the dance floor.

“That’s a rather abrupt way of asking a lady to dance, don’t you think?” You ask as you curtsy.

Newt bows. “I felt it was the only way of guaranteeing that you would dance with me.”

“A lady never declines a gentleman in need of a dance,” you remind him.

The music picks up, and the two of you begin your paces. “A lady also never avoids a gentleman as thoroughly as you have at the last few balls,” Newt says. “Were it not for the fact that I know you to be as perfectly agreeable a duchess as there could ever be, I would say that it was personal.”

You can’t look him in the eyes, even with his hands on you, guiding you through the steps. “It’s not meant to work out, my lord. Us, I mean. We cannot forget the rules.”

When Newt speaks again, his voice sounds hurt. “Why not? Forgive me, my lady, but I remember what it was like that first night. You were happy. We were happy, and happy together. What changed?”

At last, you risk a glance towards him, and instantly regret it. Newt’s eyes are filled with genuine hurt. Are you wrong? Did he actually want you as more than a cover-up? “I heard about your sister,” you say as delicately as you can.

Still, Newt flinches as if you’ve hit him. “You don’t know the full story,” Newt says raggedly.

“Then tell me,” you beg him. “I would choose you if I could, but everyone seems to think that you are only interested in me to advance your station. Give me a reason to believe in you, not them.”

“I can’t say it here,” Newt whispers.

“I can’t go somewhere with you alone,” you tell him quietly. “Especially not after what happened to your sister. You must tell me now, or we will never have another chance.”

“Alright,” he says at last. “But you mustn’t breathe a word of it to anyone.”

Once you agree, Newt begins to speak in a hushed whisper hardly audible to you, let alone the other couples around you. “Sonya is deeply in love with Lord Aris, and he is in love with her. So much so to the point that he has been battling a deep rage ever since that awful gossip rag, Lady Whistledown, slightly disparaged her last season. He took it upon himself to find out Lady Whistledown’s identity, and somehow, he did. The only problem is, Lady Whistledown is not someone Sonya would consider a friend. He wanted to warn her about the dangers of being anything less than perfect around that insidious writer, and he didn’t want to waste a moment. He called on her to meet with him as soon as possible. He didn’t think they would be seen, but they were, and of course Lady Whistledown ran with it to discredit them in case they would reveal her.”

You suck in a harsh breath. “It was never anything wrong, then. He merely wanted to protect her.”

Newt nods. “Lord Aris is a good man. He never would have done something like this if he realized how it would backfire. He regrets it daily, even though all he wanted to do was keep my sister safe. The ton knows their characters, too. Neither of them would do anything unseemly. The rumors diminish by the day, and soon, it will all be over. They will be happily married.”

He sighs and looks at you again. “I tell you this to explain myself, and to clear my name. I have nothing to hide from the situation with my sister and her future husband. In fact, it is only because they directly asked me not to spread this information that I haven’t gone public with the identity of Lady Whistledown herself to spare their reputations. I have nothing to fear, my lady. Certainly nothing that would make me risk the happiness of my marriage on a good rumor. I would court you because I have never met anyone like you before, nor do I think I ever will. You are utterly entrancing in every possible way. If you do not wish to be with me in that fashion, I would understand.”

You shake your head quickly. “I do want that, my lord. I want you.”

A careful smile slips across Newt’s face. “Do you mean that?”

“I do,” you tell him. “I have wanted you since the moment I saw you at my presentation. I would have found you no matter what lies they spread.”

Newt grins. “I believe I have decided something important, my lady. About your inner nature.”

You arch a brow as he spins you. “And what is that?”

“You’re a hound,” he informs you matter-of-factly. “Sharp and bright. Brave, too. But, then again, I am a hound as well. We make quite the pair, I think.”

“I think so too,” you tell him. In the days to come, rumors will abound about the viscount and the duchess. At first, there will be surprise across the ton, but then, even the most tenacious of gossips will realize that this makes perfect sense. The most clever of men and the most ambitious of women, bound together in holy matrimony. Even the best of poets couldn’t concoct a story that beautiful.

requested by @thornyrose463, i hope you enjoy!

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