Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

This is the season the Viscount takes a wife.

Anthony has absolutely decided it. He has put off his duty for several years too long, frankly. This is the season his sister is to come out and find a husband, and thus he has decided that he must search for a wife at the same time. That will be an orderly, efficient way to manage the matter. Apart from anything else, he hopes to have a wife to oversee his next sister’s coming-out. He has already decided that he won’t much enjoy helping his mother to bring out Daphne.

Well - never mind. It does not signify. His enjoyment is neither here nor there. He’s here to do what a Viscount must - what a brother must - and that’s that.

He strides into White’s, already looking for his friends at their usual table. He must explain his plans to them and enlist their help. He must take care, as well, to have them understand that he means to seek a practical and high-status marriage, that they’re not to go setting up any lady to fall in love with him.

Indeed - he can’t imagine anything more horrifying, more downright frightening, than that. To marry for love would be to tempt fate, he believes. Why - his father died young and left his mother heartbroken, and he fears to follow in his footsteps. He must have his friends understand the safer sort of marriage he is looking for.

Sure enough, he finds Simon Basset, Duke of Hastings, already sitting at their usual table.

“Hastings! Good to see you. I was looking for you, in fact.”

“You look rather more like a chap searching for a drink than searching for me.”

Anthony laughs along. “Perhaps both. Where’s Fife?”

“How should I know? I’m not his keeper.”

“He’s typically here earlier in the afternoon than either of us.” Anthony points out.

“Perhaps he’s discovered a sudden love of hearth and home.” Simon deadpans.

Anthony chuckles at that, too. He thinks nothing less likely than that their more raffish friend should discover a sudden tendency to stay home. He avoids both his rooms and his mother’s townhouse like the plague.

Simon gestures Anthony to a seat. He takes it, waves for a drink, chooses a good refreshing beer for a warm afternoon.

“Go on, then.” Simon says, while Anthony is still arranging himself comfortably in his chair.

“Hmm?”

“Have at it. You’ve something on your mind - I can see it. I know you too well to pretend otherwise.”

“Hmm.” Anthony repeats, and this time it’s not a question.

Simon presses on, uncowed. “Here, then - let’s think. Colin has been overspending. One of the girls has done something you don’t approve of. Benedict has taught Gregory to drink. Your -”

“To drink? He’s but a child.”

“All the more reason you’d be angry if he did it.” Simon reasons.

Anthony nods, lets him have that one. It’s not untrue.

Somehow, too, it has steered him to the point at last.

So -

“I intend to marry.” He announces, and then gulps at his drink.

“To marry?”

“As I said.”

“What brought this on? Have you met someone, Bridgerton? Is this your way of telling me you’ve succumbed to love?”

He snorts in derision. “Nothing so sentimental as that, thank you. But I have decided it’s past time that I do my duty - and as I’ll be in society so often with Daphne, this season seems a convenient season to achieve it. My mind is quite made up. I mean to seek a dutiful, sensible match - to choose a wife for all the most rational reasons - and set about having children of my own.”

Simon gapes at him, visibly stunned.

Ah. That’s not quite the response Anthony was hoping for. He thought his oldest friend the most likely to embrace his sudden resolution to marry. In fact, he was counting on it. His confidence in this scheme was in part founded on his trust in Simon’s support.

And yet now Simon is looking at him as if he’s grown an extra ear, and he doesn’t like it.

He gulps a bit at his drink. He scratches a bit at his ear - as if to check it hasn’t spawned a copy, perhaps. He swallows a gulp more beer, takes a shaky breath, tries to decide what to say.

At that very moment, Lord James Fife tumbles through the door, hair sticking up on end, his face pale as a ghost.

“What the devil’s wrong with him?” Simon asks, in a tone of considerable concern.

“Haven’t the foggiest.” Anthony says, his own discomfort quite forgotten. “Here - a large brandy, please.” He requests of a passing servant, as he pulls out a chair for their friend.

James falls into it with none of his usual grace.

“Fife?” Simon asks him, quiet.

James only shakes his head.

So - Anthony tries exactly the same thing.

“Fife?”

“That’s not my name.”

“I beg your pardon?” Anthony asks, more concerned than ever. Has his friend entirely lost his wits?

“That’s no longer my name. Or - well - it’s still my name, of course. But - ahm - I’ve had a sudden change of title. A sudden recent change of title. I’ve a letter, just this morning from - from a perfect stranger, the magistrate of some small town in Scotland.”

“You don’t mean -?”

James nods a heavy nod. “My father’s gone and kicked the bucket. Lost at sea, of all things. Lost at sea. You recall he was taking that tour of his lands in Scotland?”

Anthony nods, sees Simon do the same.

“Well - he decided to go all the way out to some godforsaken holdings on some distant island - of course he did, the fool - and now he’s gone and drowned. He paid passage on a local fishing boat and it was lost in a sudden summer squall - that’s what the magistrate tells me.”

Anthony finds himself utterly incapable of speech, at that.

He simply can’t form a word. He can’t even begin to attempt it. The topic of fathers dying in sudden accidents is a rather sensitive one to him, isn’t it?

So it is that he can only sit here, stunned, and gulp a little more beer.

Simon, thankfully, seems to bear it with more equanimity. “My condolences - my deepest condolences. Heaven knows he was a difficult man, but I imagine the news has done a number on you all the same.”

“It has, rather.”

“How’s your mother faring?” Anthony manages to ask, now, for that’s a question which will always matter to him at a time like this.

“She doesn’t know yet.” James mutters, raking a hand through his hair. “I haven’t a clue how that will go, frankly. They’ve always been oddly devoted for a couple who keep separate households. She might be devastated or she might be relieved - or both.”

“She doesn’t know?” Simon echoes.

“She doesn’t know. The magistrate wrote to me as - as the heir, the next Duke - and - and -” James breaks off, fights for breath. “God only knows how I’m going to tell her. He’s such a daft fool, getting himself drowned like that. I’m furious with him. Furious. I told him so many times he had much better invite her along on this trip - that he might as well at least offer her a sort of second wedding trip, for they did go to his Scottish estates on honeymoon - but of course he ignored me, and now he’s gone and died up there.”

“My condolences.” Simon repeats, because he’s better at friendship just now than Anthony finds himself.

“Lost at sea, too. What a daft muddle. She won’t even have a body to bury.”

“You think she’d want to bury a body?”

“I think she’d rather grieve him properly than not.”

Silence sits a moment. Anthony watches, wordless, as James drains that large brandy with alarming haste - and then, of course, waves for another.

He waves like a man drowning, in fact.

No - God - what an unfortunate image. Anthony curses himself roundly. He mustn’t say that, mustn’t even think it. He mustn’t think of drowning at all, not ever, ever again. A better friend wouldn’t stumble like that.

A better friend would be more use than to sit here in shaken silence.

So -

“Is there anything we can do?” He manages to ask, quiet.

James shrugs. “I can’t ask you to tell my mother for me. I can’t ask you to fish the daft sod back out of the ocean. I suppose I might need a bit of help sorting out my affairs with the lawyers and whatnot - I’ve never tried to inherit before, have I? You’ve both rather more experience of that than I have.”

“It’s wretched but straightforward.” Anthony advises him, dry.

“Yes. I thought you’d say that. And - ahm - as to the rest, I’d be grateful for your company for a good many drinks, and perhaps your help finding a wife.”

“A wife? Do you think that’s wise, old chap? Hadn’t you better wait until you’re feeling more settled?” Anthony suggests, for it seems an alarmingly sudden development.

“You hypocrite, Bridgerton.”

“Hmm?” James asks, frowning between them.

“Bridgerton has just lately decided that he intends to marry this season.” Simon announces.

“Jolly good. I’ll join you.” James says, as if it’s as simple as that.

Although - Anthony supposes he doesn’t see why it can’t be quite a simple thing.

“As you like, Fi - Argyll. As you like.”

“You’ll have to practise.” James says darkly, now, draining that second drink.

“Practise?”

“You’ll have to practise calling me by my new title. I’ll have to practise responding to my new title. I fear the first thirty times I hear someone call me the Duke of Argyll I’m likely to look behind me in search of a grouchy old sod with an habitual frown.”

Anthony wonders if his friend finds it helpful to be rude about his late father.

It’s probably none of his business.

He presses on in a more useful direction instead. “You’re welcome to join me in shopping the marriage market, Argyll, if you like. What are you looking for?”

“What am I looking for? I’m looking for a young lady, aren’t I?”

“Have you any more specific thoughts?” Simon presses.

James shrugs stiffly. “I only know that inheriting makes me feel suddenly more sympathetic to my father’s obsession with heirs - and worried that I might be caught in the parson’s mousetrap by some title-grabbing miss. I’d rather marry on my terms. So I suppose I’m looking for the least title-hungry chit we can find, and preferably one who wouldn’t hate the thought of marrying me. I’m in high hopes of a marriage of both convenience and yet also contentment. I’d rather make my wife less wretched than my father made my mother.”

“That’s a well-developed list of requirements. You might have trouble meeting them.” Simon points out.

“I think it’s the only logical list of requirements for a man in my situation.”

“I think Argyll has every right to make such demands.” Anthony finds himself arguing. “Why - he’s a duke. He can afford to be picky. For my part, I also intend to be discerning. I’ve a mind to marry the diamond of the season, if I can.”

“What if that should turn out to be your own sister?” James asks.

“Well obviously I wouldn’t marry her then.”

“But Argyll could. That could work out neatly.” Simon points out.

“Hmm.” Anthony doesn’t like that, he finds, and he doesn’t altogether know why.

“For God’s sake - spare me the specifics. I can’t bear such details just now.” James protests, raking a hand through his hair.

Ah. That’ll be why it’s so very rumpled, then.

“Sorry.” Simon mutters.

“Condolences.” Anthony adds.

“Thank you, I suppose. I haven’t a clue what the proper sentiment is at a time like this.” James sighs. “Well, now - at least we can all three be fatherless together.”

“That’s crass, Argyll. Clumsy.” Anthony tells him, a little sharp.

“Yes.” James agrees, utterly unrepentant.

Silence falls, broken only by the sound of three fatherless men, drinking.

It’s James who breaks it once again. “I’d better be going. I’d better go and tell my mother what’s happened before I drown myself in a brandy glass. Devil take it. What an utter fool.”

Anthony wonders about advising his friend to avoid all thought of drowning for the foreseeable future.

Ahm - no. He’s either not brave enough, or he’s not convinced it would help.

…….

James feels thoroughly unprepared to break the news of his father’s death to his mother.

Honestly - he couldn’t feel less fit for the task if he tried. He never knows what to say to his mother at the best of times, sees her scarcely a handful of times a year, and now he has to be the one to tell her of her husband’s death?

Of course he does. It’s not as if she has anyone else in her life who could do it.

He fears it’s likely to turn out messy. His parents have lived apart since he was nine years old, but his father did still write to his mother monthly, did still speak of her very often indeed. He’s less sure of his mother’s sentiments, but he suspects they’re not dissimilar - that she still feels some fondness or loyalty for the husband she couldn’t bear to live with.

He’s already gritting his teeth by the time he presents himself on her doorstep. He’s frowning something awful as the footman recognises him and leads him upstairs.

By the time he’s actually standing in the drawing room, in front of his mother, he’s biting down so hard his teeth hurt.

“James, darling? Whatever brings you here?” She asks, and well she might. He doesn’t visit her voluntarily if he can help it.

“I’ve news to share with you, Mother. Could we sit down?”

She must understand that it’s something serious. She’s shaking slightly even as she takes her seat.

He gathers himself, sets to it as best he can. “I lately had a letter from the magistrate of a small town near Oban, up in Scotland. It’s about my father. He - he’s dead. He took passage across to one of the islands on a fishing boat which was lost in a -”

He never finishes that sentence. His mother is up and on her feet, fleeing towards the drawing room door and out down the hall.

He follows.

He hasn’t the slightest idea where she’s going, but he knows instinctively that he must follow. Why - a chap certainly shouldn’t leave his mother to run madly down the halls of her home all alone in her grief.

She bursts through a nearby door - a small sitting room, if memory serves. She slams the door in his face, too, shuts it before he can follow her through.

Beyond the door, he hears the unmistakable sound of her letting out a sob.

Well, then. That settles it.

A chap had much better comfort his mother as best he can in a time like this. He opens the door, nudges his way inside.

“I don’t mean to pry, Ma, but I think I’d best not leave you alone to your grief.” He offers.

She shakes her head, scatters heavy tears.

“I think I must insist. I’m worried for your health.” He tries.

She only gulps and sobs a bit louder.

Heavens. What a to-do. He’s angrier with his father than ever, in this moment, he finds. Could the fool not have realised he’d cause a scene like this if he took off to Scotland alone at his time of life?

Presumably he didn’t choose to drown, but all the same, James is furious.

“I’m certain he’d have sent you some heartfelt last words if he could.” He tries now, desperate. “Indeed - I’m convinced he thought of you at the end. He often did think of you - you’ll know that from his letters. As it happens, he did consider inviting you up to Scotland with him, on this occasion - he spoke of suggesting it as a sort of second honeymoon - so as you see, he -”

“He thought of inviting me to go with him?” She asks - or at least, he thinks that’s what she’s asking through her tears.

“Yes.” He says, and it’s only a slight stretching of the truth.

She sobs all the harder at that, and he can’t at all understand why.

“Ma?” He tries, and lays a hand on her shoulder.

“I should have been there. I should. I - if I were there - if I’d gone with him, he’d never have been aboard ship. He knew how I hated to sail. If only I’d made it clear that I’d like to be invited - if I’d ever answered so much as a single letter - then - then -”

“Ma -”

“Then he wouldn’t be dead.” She concludes, once and for all.

Devil take it. That’s him making it even worse, then.

That’s his mother, drowning in grief.

It rakes up his own grief, too. He’s rather annoyed about that, he finds. Watching his mother weep reminds him that the late Duke of Argyll wasn’t only a title, wasn’t an empty shell of a man. For all that he and James were not close, there’s no getting away from the fact that the fellow sired him, played on the lawn with him when he was very young, financed his education and his fencing master and all the rest.

The late Duke of Argyll was his father, even if he was a godawful one.

James sighs, rakes a hand through his hair. He’s not going to weep. He refuses to weep. He’s a sociable and robust sort of chap, apt at drinking with other young lords and at a fair range of sporting pursuits. Sociable and robust chaps do not melt into daft tears at the fact that their godawful father has kicked the bucket.

Sociable and robust chaps say good riddance and go about their lives.

It’s tricky to do that, though, in the face of his mother’s reaction to the news. He’d have liked to spend today with the lawyers, getting the matter of his inheritance settled, and then he’d have liked to go to his fencing club, then to his favourite bookseller, then back to White’s, or perhaps to the local whorehouse.

Instead he’s going to have to console his mother before he can achieve ought else.

He sighs once more, hopes that will dispel any rising sobs of his own. He grits his teeth, reaches for a well-worn handkerchief and thrusts it in his mother’s general direction.

“My condolences, Ma.” He tries, and it sounds inadequate even to his own ears.

She nods, and sobs a bit harder.

“Would you like me to read you the magistrate’s letter?”

She shakes her head, scatters more tears.

Hell and damnation.

That’s one more reason to resent his father, then. That’s one more offence to add to the mental list he’s been keeping since he was at least six years old.

Good riddance. Good riddance. Good riddance.

Devil take it - that still doesn’t ring true.

…….

Anthony’s still reeling from his friend’s news, some hour or two later, by the time he arrives home.

He’s frustrated about that. He has made a point of learning how to get on and do his duty despite his grief, in these last eleven years, and he resents some other chap’s dead father raking up his own loss now.

He was like this when Simon’s father died, too. He doesn’t understand how he can be so weak as to be easily distressed by his friends losing fathers they don’t even like. He’s not only distressed - he’s distracted, too, his mind skittering back constantly to James’ clumsy comment about all three of them having dead fathers in common. No matter how hard he tries to bring his attention to something else, to think of a matter so vast as duty or even of a topic so trite as dinner, somehow his attention keeps skittering back towards the late Duke of Argyll, like a carriage careering out of control.

But this isn’t the first time he has been a bit addled in his head, yet kept to his duty despite it all. It won’t be the last either, he expects. He might perhaps have a slight tendency to seeing catastrophes in his mind’s eye, especially where family is concerned, yet he has many years’ practice now in the art of enduring and pressing on regardless.

So it is that he gathers his thoughts, as he enters Bridgerton House. He marshals his ideas, sets out to find his mother with a certain steely determination in his step.

“Anthony - good afternoon. What a pleasant surprise to see you at home in the middle of the day.” She says, warm.

Funny how she still calls it home, when he lives in bachelor lodgings across town. Funny how she thinks it a pleasant surprise to see him, when he’s convinced he’s frowning hard enough to crack glass.

Funny how he’s been wearing his duty like a mask for so many years that it even fools his mother, sometimes, as far as he can tell.

He clears his throat, does his best to answer her. “I thought I might as well pop by and see to it that all’s well here. Ahm - Daphne’s presentation gown - is all in order with that?” He asks, for that strikes him as the sort of topic a good Viscount would ask about, less than a week away from the start of the season.

“She’s very much content with it.”

“And is all well here today?”

“Eloise has decided it’s terribly boring to sit at home while Daphne and I must review her wardrobe and make plans for the season. You know how she gets when she’s bored. Everyone else seems much as they ever are.”

“Indeed.”

Silence falls.

Anthony nods a little - more to gather his courage than because he is agreeing with anything, perhaps - and sets to telling his mother the two items of news he actually came here to report.

“The Duke of Argyll has passed away. Long live the Duke of Argyll.” He says, trying for his best ironic tone - because his friend is not actually royalty, and because he thinks an ironic tone must be more useful to him than an admission of grief.

“Goodness - your friend Lord Fife? I am sorry to hear it. How is he faring?”

“He’s well enough. They didn’t get on - do you recall it? So I daresay he’ll be fine.” Anthony decides, bracing. “He means to take a wife this season now, in light of his change of circumstances. By convenient coincidence I mean to marry too.”

Her eyes go wide. “You’ve met someone?”

Why the devil do people always ask it like that?

“I have yet to meet the young lady I intend to choose for my Viscountess.” He says, with a careful cock of his head. “But you have told me often enough that London has many excellent young ladies. I will often be out in society with Daphne - and now it turns out that my good friend will be in search of a wife too - so I think it a very convenient season for all of us to marry.”

“I’m delighted to hear that you mean to think seriously of marriage, dearest, but to declare an intention to marry this season does seem quite… sudden. It may take many weeks or even months for you to hit it off with a young lady.”

“I don’t expect to make heavy weather of it. I intend to assess the available candidates, and then marry the diamond of the season, more likely than not - unless my friend who has so recently inherited a dukedom should beat me to it. As I say - I anticipate a successful and convenient season for all three of us.”

“Hmm. And what does your good friend the Duke of Hastings have to say about all this?” She asks, rueful.

He frowns. “He thinks we are both in too much of a hurry to wed, I believe - but I’d expect nothing less of him. You know what he’s like - the very definition of a confirmed bachelor. Argyll and I know what we are about.”

For just a moment, his conviction falters. It doesn’t waver, not quite, but it does perhaps stumble a little along the way. For he well remembers how wrecked James looked, when he saw him just lately. He didn’t have the look of a chap in any fit state to make major decisions about his future life.

But it’s fine. Fine. Daphne will find a husband, and Anthony will find a wife, and James will find some chit who’s not overly title-hungry. The three of them will all marry this season. Specifically, they’ll all secure dutiful high-status matches.

They will. They simply must. This is the season the Viscount takes a wife.

His mother is still dubious, it seems. She’s pulling a face a little like the one Simon wore earlier.

It suits her even less than it suited him.

Although -

“You could take Eloise to visit with the Featheringtons, perhaps.” She says, sudden.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You could take Eloise to visit with the Featheringtons.” She repeats, as if it might be his hearing which is faulty, not his understanding. “She’s bored, and you’re looking for a wife, and you’re already somewhat acquainted with them.”

He frowns. “I shan’t be marrying one of the Featheringtons, Mother. They’ve already been out a year or two, have they not? I shall require only the very best for my Viscountess.”

“Careful, Anthony. Careful.” She says, suddenly pointed. “With an outlook like that you may very well end up alone. I beg you take more care than that in your search for a wife. The Featheringtons are our good friends, and there’s every chance that you might get along with a lady who’s no debutante. I believe I must insist that you take Eloise for a visit this very afternoon.”

He considers that a moment. He’s a grown man, and he’s the Viscount, but he does hear when his mother is telling him to mind his manners. He can tell that she’s rather put-out with him for saying what he did.

He supposes he wouldn’t like it if some other chap spoke of Eloise in that tone one day, although she is an original sort and seems likely to remain unmarried a while.

So -

“If I spend the afternoon with the Featheringtons, will you introduce me to some other young ladies in the coming weeks?” He asks, tries not to sound overly weak about it.

“Certainly I shall. We’ll begin with the Smythe-Smiths, I believe. We could call on that family tomorrow afternoon, if you like.”

He wouldn’t like it. He’s absolutely convinced that he wouldn’t enjoy such a visit in the slightest.

But his enjoyment is neither here nor there, of course, so he nods and thanks her - and then sets out to pay his duty-visit, just as he always will.

…….

Simon hasn’t any strong feelings at all about his friend the Duke of Argyll’s recent news, thank you very much.

He’s certainly not shaken by it. He makes a point never to be shaken by any family news whatsoever. If his childhood taught him little of use, it certainly taught him that.

As a mark of equanimity - a celebration of having no strong feelings, if you will - he decides to go and visit Lady Agatha Danbury. He decides to spend some time with the closest person in all the world he has to a family.

Yes. Well.

He’s not shaken at all, but he does want to spend a good hour or two with his godmother.

He’s not sure what to expect, as he makes his way through the streets to her townhouse. She has some visitors for this season - a pair of sisters she intends to sponsor, a Miss Edwina Sharma and her much older half-sister Miss Kate Sharma. Miss Edwina’s mother will be staying with Agatha and the girls, too. Simon hasn’t been to see his godmother since her guests arrived two days ago.

There’s not a particular reason for that. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t signify - that’s what his friend Anthony would say.

He certainly hasn’t been avoiding the house because he hates to watch his godmother having other young people to fuss over.

Or - well.

He might perhaps feel a little odd that the only makeshift-family he has ever known now has other priorities besides his sorry self.

But if there’s any set of circumstances which can make him push through such an oddness as that, he thinks this must be it. If he is perhaps feeling the slightest bit unsettled at James losing his father, that does seem like a pressing reason to go and call on his godmother today, regardless of her having other young people for her priority this season.

Fuck. That’s more convoluted than a tricky mathematical problem, isn’t it?

Fuck it all.

He’s unsettled, and he loves Agatha, and he’s determined to see her today. He’s determined to claim a bit of her notice and motherhood, regardless of the young ladies beneath her roof.

Yes - that’s better.

With that, he masters himself and sets about knocking on the door.

A footman answers and shows him inside. He’s shown directly towards the drawing room - of course he is, for Agatha is still his godmother, and these two young ladies can’t change that.

He finds her, the two ladies, and their mother all looking closely at some papers on a small table.

They jump to attention when he is announced, and the introductions are made. Simon does his best to endure patiently, to bow and smile in all the proper places.

But the moment that’s done, he sets about having a direct conversation as usual.

“Anything of interest?” He asks, nodding towards the table.

“Come now - you must let me greet you properly first.” Agatha says, and actually crosses the room to take his arm. “We can’t possibly get down to business until we’ve heard all your news. The Sharma ladies have heard a great deal about you.”

“Certainly more than we ever asked.” Miss Sharma adds.

Simon decides he likes her, at that. She seems an honorary Danbury through and through - and he would know.

He laughs, perhaps a little cautious, but willing to try laughing. “I’m intrigued now - what business can four ladies possibly have when the season has not yet begun?”

“Naive words from a duke.” Agatha teases him. “You must recall that I always host the first ball of the season. We are reviewing the invitations and menus. Everything must be in order, for we’re in high hopes that Miss Edwina might vie for the title of diamond this season.”

“Ah - a conspiracy.” He notes, wry.

“Not a conspiracy as such. We prefer to think of it as an… opportunity.” Agatha argues.

“A possibility, even.” Miss Sharma adds.

Hmm. Funny how her sister and stepmother stay silent, in moments like that.

It’s not his place to ask about it. That’s what Simon decides - indeed, he is the last person who will ever criticise a person for their silence. There are all sorts of reasons why a person might not have words, and that’s simply the way it is.

Agatha and Miss Sharma have plenty of words, it seems, so he invites them to offer theirs a while longer. He bids them speak about the plans for the ball and their hopes for the season.

So it is that he spends an hour or so quite enjoyably engaged in hearing good and interesting people, who are more or less his family, speak about prospects which are exciting to them. In fact, he manages to put the matter of dead fathers almost out of mind.

He’ll tell Agatha that news before he goes home. She’ll want to know that a duke is dead, so he’ll tell her sooner or later.

Truly, he will.

……..

By the time afternoon turns to evening, James can’t bear to be in the house with his mother any longer.

He’s aware that it’s not a patient or sympathetic way of reacting to the situation. He’s perfectly conscious of that. His childhood nurse would have described it as unchristian, most likely, or a poor show of manners, or a lack of family feeling.

Well - it’s not the first time anyone in this family has lacked family feeling, and he doesn’t expect it to be the last, either.

So he’s not disappointed with his own sentiments, when he gives up on her grief and flees back to White’s that evening. He’s perhaps a little frustrated at his own weakness, for he might have liked to be the sort of chap who can maintain his equanimity in the face of a weeping woman, but he certainly doesn’t see any sense in reprimanding himself for it.

He’s not a family-minded chap, for Fifes aren’t family-minded folks, and his father’s death won’t change that.

Or at least - he doesn’t think it will.

It’s possible he’s still a bit unsettled about the whole thing. Now that he has realised he must imminently take a wife, he has certainly decided he would like a more companionable and familial marriage than his parents had. He wonders whether that makes him a family-minded chap after all. And he has perhaps surprised himself by sitting with his grief-stricken mother even so long as he did.

But that doesn’t mean he’s grown soft at the news of his father’s death. Truly, it doesn’t.

He’s only a little… muddled.

Well, then. There are two remedies that he knows for a muddled head - hard sport or a stiff drink. It’s too late in the day for a fast ride or a bout of fencing, so White’s must be the answer.

He arrives to find that Anthony and Simon have evidently had much the same idea.

“Argyll - fancy seeing you here twice in one day.”

“I could say the same to each of you. Here’s a stroke of good fortune and no mistake.” He tries for a cheery nod, tries not to bolt at the sound of his new title.

Anthony’s face looks slightly wrong, he decides. It looks somehow ashen - and he’s wearing that frown which makes him look so much older than usual.

Ah well. Nothing to be done about that, and no sense in dwelling on the matter. James isn’t the sort of chap who thinks too hard about a friend’s feelings like that.

At least - he thinks he isn’t.

He slides into a chair, beckons over a lad to fetch him a drink.

Simon, meanwhile, has begun to speak to him. “What brings you back so soon?”

James grimaces. “Suffice to say my mother took the news badly. I haven’t a clue what to do about that. I - ahm - I don’t know whether I should attempt to do anything about it. Thought I’d pop back here and look for the answer at the bottom of a brandy glass.” He offers, dry.

“Hmm. Good place for answers to such questions.” Anthony agrees, toasting him with his glass.

Yes - there is definitely something wrong with Anthony Bridgerton.

So -

“What’s happened to you this afternoon, then?” James asks him, for tact is a waste of time, in his experience.

“You know - the usual.” Anthony says, evidently lying through his teeth. “Family business. Mother made me take my sister to visit the Featherington chits. She hasn’t taken up the idea of my finding a wife quite how I hoped she would.”

“Hmm.”

“Did you hope she’d be exultant at the idea of you arbitrarily marrying the diamond of the season?” Simon asks.

Anthony only scowls at that - and then turns to lash out at James instead, more or less. “What’s all this with your mother? You don’t mean to say you’ve been there at her townhouse ever since you left us?”

“That’s exactly what I mean to say.” James swallows hard. “I - ahm - I do wonder whether I ought to stay there for a few days, in fact. I think that might be the logical thing to do. Heaven knows I don’t like the thought of living under the same roof as her - but as I’ve lately inherited and - and she’s in such a state… might it be best?” He finishes by asking the group at large.

Simon shrugs. Anthony scowls harder than ever.

So - that’s perhaps not much of an answer.

Somehow, it sets James to rambling uselessly on, as he is unfortunately wont to do when he’s feeling muddled. “She’s so very upset that I think I had better stay at the townhouse with her a while. You know how it is in my family - you know I’m not close with her, not in the slightest - but all the same, I think a chap had better stay under the same roof as his grieving mother. I think that a better idea than - than not. A chap who would read moral philosophy ought not abandon his grief-stricken mother in her hour of need.”

“You’ve made your point, Fife.” Anthony snaps.

Then, of course, he realises his mistake. James watches, equal parts fury and fascination, as his friend’s face shifts to an expression of total horror.

“Argyll - James - I didn’t - I am sorry.” Anthony splutters, all in a tangle.

“Hrm.” James manages, with a stiff nod.

“I didn’t mean to -”

“You’ve made your point, too.”

Silence sits a moment, heavy and awkward. James is accustomed to inspiring awkward silences, but this one is unusually stiff, in his estimation. Even Simon is doing nothing to attempt to lift the mood.

Anthony takes a sudden gulp from his brandy glass, then speaks up.

“I apologise.” He says, firm, a fraction crisp. “That was ungentlemanly in every regard. I - ahm - it’s possible that your news has brought to mind my own father’s passing.”

James nods, a fraction too fast. “I expect it would. Sorry. I’ll try not to go on about it.”

“I’ll buy you both another brandy, I think.” Simon offers, with a wry smile.

That does a great deal to steer them both back to rights, it seems. Indeed - all three of them are now trying to smile, as far as James can tell.

As if inspired by his recent success, Simon is now moving the conversation in a more hopeful sort of direction.

“I’ve an idea or two about this sudden plan you both have to find wives. Would you care to hear them?”

“I’ll gladly hear anything more cheerful than my mother’s sobbing.” James mutters.

Then he realises his mistake, feels his eyes go wide in horror.

“I didn’t - I - Bridgerton -”

“‘M fine.” Anthony protests.

James doesn’t believe him at all - not even the tiniest bit.

All the same, Simon presses determinedly on. “My godmother has guests this season - a Miss Edwina Sharma, her elder half-sister Miss Kate Sharma, and Edwina’s mother Lady Mary Sharma. Miss Edwina could be a good prospect for one of you - for you, Bridgerton, if I had to guess. My godmother has decided that the young lady might be the diamond of the season. They’re good people - I’ve spent this one afternoon with them and already the ladies have decided to claim me as something of a brother, I think. We’re on first name terms and Miss Sharma intends to ride with me later in the week. Indeed - I have decided that the Sharma sisters are to be my close connections and that’s final.”

“Are you certain we shouldn’t be discussing your marriage prospects, Hastings?” James tries to tease.

Simon laughs, warm and easy. “Never more certain of anything in my life. I remain committed to the life of a bachelor.” He says, toasting them with his glass. “Besides - Kate isn’t the marrying sort. She’s good company, and she likes her sport, and she means to look to Edwina’s prospects this season, not her own. She said to me herself that she’s a spinster just as much as I’m a confirmed bachelor. If I’d had a sister in truth, I’d have liked a sister like her. I’m glad my godmother has taken her under her wing.”

Privately, James thinks the two of them sound well-matched in their aversion to marriage, and that ironically seems like a fair foundation for a fling, if nothing else.

But he chooses not to mention that, for he’s already made a muddle often enough today.

He reaches out to Anthony with what he hopes is a sort of olive branch, instead. “How does that sound, then, Bridgerton? What good fortune. Your oldest friend has already decided you’re to marry some charge of his godmother’s. You need only present yourself at the altar, hmm?”

“It’s an appealing prospect.” Anthony offers, with the ghost of a grin.

“I’ve made plans for you too, Argyll.” Simon adds now. “Don’t think I’ve left you out of my matchmaking schemes. I tell you - I must have spent too much time with Agatha lately, for I’ve turned into quite the matchmaking matriarch.”

“I never thought I’d see the day when you played matchmaker better than my mother.” Anthony jokes.

They all laugh a little over-loudly at that, as it’s a day for celebrating every laugh they can get.

James, meanwhile, finds that his usual curiosity is cutting even sharper than usual. “You’ve begun to look for a match for me?” He asks.

“I’ve done better than that - I believe I’ve found you a wife. It came to me quite suddenly on my way back over here. We’ve been overcomplicating matters - that’s how it seems to me. You must marry Bridgerton’s sister.”

“My sister?”

“His sister?”

“It stands to reason - and we know how you like a logical argument, Argyll. Chaps often fall in love with their friends’ sisters. Miss Bridgerton is looking to make a fairy-tale match, and you are looking to fall in love, so -”

“Not fall in love, as such.” James rushes to correct him. “I’m only looking for a bit of domestic contentment - for a wife who’s truly happy to have me for a husband, and who I might spend sociable time with at home.”

“Only that, hmm?” Simon asks, in a tone of great irony.

James feels himself flush, tries to adopt an unconcerned sort of air as he sips at his brandy.

Simon, meanwhile, presses on. “All the same - I think it an excellent match in every regard. You and Bridgerton are good chums. We’ve all heard it said often enough that this Miss Bridgerton is graceful and quite the beauty - she’d make a creditable duchess for you. And you must stand more chance of all that contentment if you marry someone from a family you know well.”

“It’s a fair idea.” James concedes, for the logic of it does appeal to him.

“It’s better than fair.” Simon argues. “Indeed - I’m willing to call it the best idea I ever had. I’ve the utmost confidence in my prediction. How’s this? I’ll bet you both a decent horse that Argyll and Miss Bridgerton end up tying the knot - a good hunter, a proper sportsman’s horse.”

“I fear I’ve not understood the bet. Am I to buy you a horse if you are correct and I do claim the wife, or if I don’t?” James muses.

“We’re not staking a horse on my sister.” Anthony splutters.

“Ah. Yes. Clumsy of us.” James decides.

Simon looks rather unrepentant - but then again, he typically does.

Indeed, he’s even pressing on with his scheme. “Have you ever met Miss Bridgerton?”

“Can’t say that I have. At least - not that I’ve remembered. I may have met her when she was in leading strings.”

“Mmm. I think we did meet her that summer we were all eighteen - do you recall it?”

“No.”

Ah.

Well, then.

That’s one way to kill a conversation stone dead - as dead as his father, in fact.

As dead as all their fathers.

James pushes that thought determinedly aside, marches on towards something useful. “What’s all this about Bridgerton and this Miss Edwina, then?”

“Mmm - indeed. Bridgerton - will you come and take tea and meet Edwina? I expect Lady Danbury would like to see you for a visit. You may as well get acquainted with the young lady before the season begins, since you’re such a close friend of the family.”

“If Lady Danbury thinks the young lady might be named the diamond of the season, then I’ll gladly meet her. But you had best take care with your matchmaking, Hastings. I won’t have you lead me to the altar.”

“I wouldn’t mind being led to the altar, as long as you can find a chit who’s a fair match for me.” James clarifies. He wouldn’t like Simon to think Anthony speaks for both of them on such themes.

He’ll quite happily be led to the altar, as long as the lady he finds there is likely to be content as his wife.

“I won’t introduce you to Edwina quite yet, Argyll, if it’s all the same to you.” Simon muses now. “I think she’s more likely to suit Bridgerton. I know you do want a match of contentment, not a title-hungry wife, and I know too that Edwina and her family are ambitious for her to make a good match - that’s not quite right for you, is it?”

“Mmm.”

“But you’re happy to throw me at this title-hungry chit?” Anthony asks now, pointed.

“She’s not quite title-hungry - she's truly more ambitious than anything - and besides, you don’t care how she feels about your title so long as you marry the diamond of the season. We’ve already established that.” Simon argues.

Anthony only nods a tight nod at that.

Silence falls. James sits there, drinks his drink, tries not to feel himself drowning in the awkward quietness. Funny how often his thoughts do jump to drowning, today.

He wonders whether they’ll always be like this, now, the three of them. He wonders whether they’ll stay sombre, whether they’ll keep speaking incessantly of marriage prospects - and whether this slight sharpness will persist in the way they act towards one another. Why - they’ve been chums since they were lads, and their friendship has always been built on good times and flowing drinks before now, not awkward business like this.

He doesn’t like it.

That’s the solemn truth - now, at last, late into the evening on the first day of the rest of his life.

He doesn’t like losing his father. He doesn’t like sitting with his mother. He doesn’t like thinking of marriage, and he certainly doesn’t like strained silence with his closest friends.

He doesn’t like anything about being the Duke of Argyll, and that’s final.

……..

Anthony dismisses Miss Edwina less quickly than he dismissed the Featheringtons.

That is to say - he dismisses her all the same. He meets her, and he speaks with her and drinks tea a little while, and he ultimately dismisses her as a marriage prospect.

His time spent taking tea with her and Simon and Lady Danbury has not been unpleasant. She’s a pretty young lady, with sweet manners and an easy, delicate voice. She appears very well educated indeed, with a wealth of understanding and accomplishments.

But she smiles too much for his taste. Her opinions about poetry, although articulate, are expressed a little too quietly, perhaps too deferentially. He’s not convinced that she has the core of steel to be Viscountess Bridgerton, to deal with his many siblings, large household, extensive properties. She says a few sensible things about inner resources as if she’s a reflective sort, but somehow she still doesn’t quite meet his expectations.

Yes - he has high standards. So he should. 

He owes his father better than to marry just anyone.

He’s about to tell Simon as much - or perhaps about to tell Simon something more subtle and gentlemanly, like inventing an urgent appointment with his tailor - when another young lady strides into the drawing room.

She’s a young lady such as Anthony has never seen before. He realises that at once. Her jaw looks angry, and she smells like a stableyard - and yet somehow he can’t tear his eyes from her face all the same.

“Kate - how good of you to join us.” Miss Edwina calls out to her, evidently fond.

Yes. That must be the older Miss Sharma.

She doesn’t wait to be introduced to him, Anthony notes. She launches directly into a row with Simon, regardless of his presence.

“You invited over a gentleman while I was out riding? How could you?” She asks, evidently on the edge of breathing fire. “You know full well that I mean to be present for every one of Edwina’s callers.”

“Be easy, Kate. I’ve done nothing drastic at all.” Simon argues, hands spread wide. “This is my good friend Lord Bridgerton - I believe I’ve mentioned him to you before - and there’s nothing untoward about his being here at -”

“Nothing untoward?” She echoes, audibly incredulous. “You sneak your friend who is known to be in search of a wife into the house while I’m out riding and you call it nothing untoward?”

“He doesn’t necessarily mean to court Edwina. I simply thought they might like to get acquainted.”

“I should hope he doesn’t mean to court her.”

“In fact - I do.”

Anthony hears himself say it, reels in shock at his own words a moment.

Huh. Funny how that has happened. Not two minutes ago, he had decided that he wasn’t much interested in courting Miss Edwina. But somehow, suddenly, something inside of him is rising up instinctively against Miss Sharma’s anger. He needs to show her that he’ll not be cowed by her dislike of him as a suitor - it’s something like that.

His words are met by a brief silence, and then by everyone speaking at once.

“My Lord -”

“Bridgerton -”

“You mean to do what?”

“I mean to court her.” He reiterates, more firmly this time. “I am indeed seeking a wife, and Miss Edwina is everything a young lady ought to be. I should like to get better acquainted with her and see whether we might suit.” He says, and actually throws Miss Edwina herself the best smile he can manage.

He fears it’s not a very good one.

Her sister seems struck silent now, at least. That over-bold Miss Sharma has backed down and run out of words at last. Perhaps a Viscount declaring his intention to court her sister at the first meeting is too much even for her sharp spirit.

Hmm. Perhaps he is capable of having her quail after all, at least a little.

He enjoys her silence. He enjoys it not just for a victory, but as a chance to look at her without the distraction of listening. She’s tall, with a graceful figure - and with shoulders which mean business, too. He can tell just by sight that she’s had a long and purposeful ride this morning.

He wonders if she speaks of riding more loudly than her sister speaks of poetry.

Never mind. No matter. It does not signify. He’s to marry the diamond of the season, which will likely be Miss Edwina, and that’s that.

She’s a very eligible young lady, and he’s grateful to Simon for the introduction.

…….

James drowns very often, in the days which follow.

That is to say - he drowns in his nightmares on a frequent basis. It’s odd how that happens, how often he wakes up screaming a silent scream and convinced that he can feel the water filling his lungs. It’s odd how often he dreams of stormy seas between imagined isles in a part of the world he has never even seen.

Funny how precisely he dreams of following in his father’s footsteps, dying where he died.

He drowns in the dukedom, too. He drowns in the new responsibilities, in the words the lawyers say to him which he pretends to understand. He’s an educated gentleman, with some capacity for philosophical reading, yet somehow he’s having a great deal of difficulty comprehending the English language, at present.

He drowns in his mother’s tears most of all. She’s distraught - the very picture of devastation, of wifely grief - and he can’t at all account for it. He always knew his parents were fonder of each other at heart than their separate households might imply, but he never imagined she’d react quite as awfully as this. She has taken to her bed, more or less, all tearful and listless and confused.

It reminds him of the way she acted when his younger brother was born dead, when James was just nine years old. But that made more sense to him, somehow, because she loved that child without condition or exception or reservation.

She loved his father with a great many reservations indeed, yet somehow, she’s drowning in her grief all the same.

Grief isn’t logical. He does know that on an intellectual level. He has seen Anthony and Simon lose their fathers before him, for one thing. He ought to have more experience in the ways of the world than to be taken aback by this now.

All the same, he’s frustrated. He knows it’s uncharitable, but he’s very frustrated with his mother indeed. She has no right to sanctify her late husband, as far as James can see - his father was a useless husband, and she must be better off without him.

He might ask Anthony what to do about it, he decides, if ever Anthony seems prepared to have a conversation about dead fathers without growing snappish and strange. He might ask Anthony whether he thinks it could be wise to invite over his Aunt Keswick, or to have a vicar say some funeral prayers although they’ve no body to bury, or to buy his mother some particularly fine new floral vases. James hasn’t a clue how a gentleman about town is supposed to cure his mother of grief, but if anyone knows what to do, Anthony Bridgerton must.

And in the meantime, James supposes he’ll simply stay in the townhouse for the foreseeable future. Indeed - he might get on and give up his bachelor quarters for the present at least. There’s no sense in paying rent on rooms he never uses.

He’d best stay here, and see what he can do to keep his mother’s head above water.

…….

Anthony makes a second call on Miss Edwina three days after the first.

He makes a point of visiting at exactly the same time of day, too, so as to catch her sister’s wrath. That is - he’s not here to see Miss Sharma for her own sake, of course. He’s here specifically to show Miss Sharma that he means to call on her sister in defiance of her disapproval.

Or - he will show her that, just as soon as she arrives home from her ride.

He makes himself comfortable, in the meantime. Lady Danbury is very welcoming of his visit. Miss Edwina and her mother seem pleased, but are less vocal about it than Lady Danbury. So it is that he enjoys a perfectly pleasant quarter-hour drinking tea and speaking inanely of the weather.

He ought to invite Miss Edwina to speak of some of her many accomplishments, he supposes, but frankly he hasn’t the energy for that. He hasn’t been sleeping at all well since his friend Lord Fife became his friend the Duke of Argyll.

He wishes his own father was here to help him choose a bride now.

Yes. Well. Enough of that nonsense. Wishing never brought anyone back from the dead.

He pushes that thought aside, tries desperately to manage some more interesting conversation.

“Do I recall correctly that you like music, Miss Edwina?”

“I enjoy playing music very much indeed, My Lord.”

“How pleasant.”

At that exact moment, thank goodness, Miss Sharma strides into the room.

She looks at least as unhappy as she looked the last time she saw him here, Anthony notes, with an odd sort of thrill. To have her all riled up at him feels a little like riding too fast or jumping from a high branch when he was a boy. There’s a rush of exhilaration like that in the air when she glares at him just so.

He rises in body to greet her, even as his spirit rises to do battle with hers.

“Lord Bridgerton.”

“Miss Sharma. What a pleasure to see you this morning. As you see, I have come to call on your lovely sister. We’ve been having a very pleasant visit, have we not?”

“Most pleasant indeed, My Lord.”

“Was I not clear that you were not welcome here, Lord Bridgerton?” Miss Sharma asks now, sharp.

“Indeed - I believe you were very clear that I wasn’t to be brought here by my friend Hastings, last time. But as I have come alone on this occasion to approach Miss Edwina as a humble suitor, I can’t see how you could possibly find fault with me.”

He knows she’ll find fault with him anyway. He knows she hasn’t forgiven him or Simon for the manner of his first being introduced to her sister’s notice.

She seems inclined to approach the subject more cautiously, though, now that he has come alone. She’s nodding at him, curt, all over-sharp and under-pleased.

She’s nodding as if victory is his, this round.

“We were speaking of music before you arrived.” He tries, throws Miss Edwina his best smile.

“Of music? My sister is a talented musician - I hope you have understood that, My Lord. I hope you have understood the extent of her accomplishments.”

“Indeed.”

“As well as all the instruments you Englishmen expect your wives to play, she has a considerable talent for the sitar.”

“How wonderful.”

“I have never heard anyone to rival her in India. I expect there will be few of her abilities in London, too.”

He finds himself grinning slightly to himself at that. He simply can’t repress it any more. He likes to see her torn between despising him on the one hand, yet on the other hand desperate to impress upon him her sister’s eligibility. She’s evidently very proud of her sister indeed - so proud that she can’t help crowing about it as a sort of victory over him, even as it means advertising her many attractions to a gentleman she claims not to want as her sister’s suitor.

It’s a fabulously confusing mess, and it reminds him of his own conflicted feelings on family. It has an echo, perhaps, of the way he wants to keep Colin locked safely and sensibly at home yet wants him to have his freedom and travel the globe, both at once.

He won’t tell Miss Sharma that, though. That would be too much like admitting defeat.

So -

“I daresay my own sisters would give Miss Edwina a run for her money. Francesca is quite the exceptional musician, and we expect that Daphne will be one of the most eligible ladies on the marriage market this season.”

Miss Sharma only scoffs at that.

He’s momentarily disappointed, until he recalls that his attention had much better be on Miss Edwina.

He turns back to her with careful interest. “I beg you might tell me more about your love of the sitar, Miss Edwina.”

“I believe Kate overstates my musical talents. She is a better musician than me, in fact, and is quite remarkable at the pianoforte.” She hedges.

Anthony laughs at that. He thinks it’s quite funny. The elder doesn’t want him to marry the younger, but does want him to realise that he couldn’t find a more desirable wife if he tried. The younger, meanwhile, doesn’t seem disinclined to marry him - but does wish to honestly admit that the elder is the better musician.

It’s the first time he has laughed a proper honest laugh since he heard about the late Duke of Argyll, and it catches him by surprise.

Well, then. That’s a promising sign for an early courtship. So he should be glad that Miss Edwina can make him laugh.

Although - is he laughing at her, or with her? Is he laughing because of her words, or because of the circumstance her sister has created?

Is he laughing for humour, or because he just caught a glimpse of the fire in Miss Sharma’s angry eyes?

He couldn’t rightly say.

Never mind. Best drink a gulp of tea and repeat that question about the sitar.

Although -

“Do you ride daily, Miss Sharma?” He finds himself asking, before he can think better of it.

“I ride as often as I can - every morning, more or less, and sometimes in the afternoon besides.”

“I believe riding is considered a fine thing for the health of a young lady. A walk in the park atop a docile mare can be terribly good for the constitution - that’s what my parents always told my sisters, yet only two of them ever chose to learn the art.”

“I am not one for your docile mares, My Lord.” Miss Sharma informs him now.

He’s not entirely surprised. “No? I presumed you would prefer a steady ride.”

“Why? Because I am a lady? Because English gentlemen of rank are incapable of understanding that a lady -”

“Kate, dear - could you pass me that teacup?” Lady Mary asks, sudden and pointed.

Anthony finds himself disappointed at that. He knows it’s only that their match has been adjourned, but somehow, it feels like a defeat. It feels like he has been judged and found wanting.

That would be unfortunate, since he means to marry Miss Edwina.

Or - well - he means to consider her, at least. He means to look seriously at her as a very eligible marriage prospect.

If she’s named the diamond of the season, then he’ll certainly mean to marry her.

…….

Simon is looking forward to dinner at his godmother’s townhouse that evening.

He likes to eat dinner with her, as a general rule. After all - she’s his only family, and she’s a social sort who likes to play the part of hostess, so a dinner at the Danbury townhouse has long been his only regular family ritual.

He’s looking forward to it, until he arrives to wait in the drawing room and finds Kate already there with a face like thunder.

He hesitates a moment, considers the situation. He hasn’t yet known Kate very long at all, and yet they have already resolved to be close. They’re almost of an age, and she’s almost a second godchild to his godmother, and they neither of them have a wealth of other relatives.

He thinks that last part must be the most important. That’s somehow what they often come back to, when they speak of how glad they are to find one another as friends. It often becomes a matter of their both being orphans, alone in the world, with Agatha almost the only older adult in their lives.

Funny how she doesn’t find her own stepmother much of a parent.

So - he thinks he ought to say something, if she has a face like thunder. He certainly finds that he cares. But he hasn’t known Kate long enough to be confident of doing or saying the correct thing.

Fuck it all. He’s not a subtle chap. He’s rakish, rude yet warm. He’s a man who gets to the heart of the matter.

That’s what he’d better do now.

“Why do you look so unhappy with the world?” He asks plainly.

“I’m not unhappy with all the world. I’m unhappy with your supposed friend Lord Bridgerton.”

“There’s no supposed about it. He has been my closest friend for many years.” He argues instinctively.

Hmm. Funny how James always takes second place.

“In that case, I think you have remarkably poor taste in friends.” She tells him, evidently more displeased than ever. “Have you heard what he did this morning? He came to call while I was out riding again, and I’m convinced he did it deliberately. I’m convinced he chose that time for the sake of missing me.”

“And that has angered you?”

“Certainly it has angered me. I knew it would turn out like this when you introduced him to Edwina. I knew it.”

“Forgive me, Kate, but I fear I have not understood why you’re so set against him. He could be a fine match for Edwina. He’s a loyal and gentlemanly sort who cares deeply about his family. She couldn’t do better.”

Kate splutters, and Simon feels that he has failed to understand something.

“Kate?”

“I simply don’t like his manner. He doesn’t court her as a gentleman should. I fear there’s something… dishonest about him. He comes courting when I’m not home to see that everything is in order. And you’ve said before now that he’s not particularly looking for a love match, but Edwina is determined to find love.”

He nods a little. He is perhaps beginning to see her point, here. He has perhaps understood that her anger stems more from suspicion than any actual fault on the part of his friend.

She presses on. “And - pardon me - but I’m not convinced that his being your good friend is such a mark of perfection. You do spend a good deal of time out about town and you’re plain about wishing to remain a bachelor. I mean no disrespect when I say that, if Lord Bridgerton is exactly like you, he’s not quite the man I had in mind for my sister.”

He finds himself laughing at that. “Fear not, Kate - he’s not exactly like me. He has one particular difference. He wishes to marry. No - here’s a second difference - he has a large family and loves them dearly. You’ll find him infinitely more suitable to be a husband than I am.”

“Hmm.”

“I mean it, Kate. I’d not encourage him to court a lady under my godmother’s care if I had any misgivings at all. He’s a good man, and he’s determined to be a good husband, and that’s the long and short of it.”

“But his manner…” She protests, weak, brows furrowed.

“You’re sorely worried about this, aren’t you?”

She nods, short and sharp, biting her lip.

Ah. Perhaps he has hit upon the real truth at last.

“If it’s a matter of him courting her too quickly, or your finding his manner odd on such short acquaintance, I could perhaps ask him to proceed more cautiously? I could hint that you and Edwina might find his suit more palatable if he were to take his time and get properly acquainted with the whole family?” He suggests.

“Perhaps.”

“I think that might be best, Kate. If you’re finding him overfamiliar - if you think he is pursuing Edwina too suddenly - I could encourage him to check himself somewhat.”

“Yes. He should check himself. He must check himself.”

Simon still can’t tell whether he has entirely understood the situation, here. He’s still not certain that he hasn’t missed something. But there’s no sense in sitting around all evening wallowing in uncertainty when he could be spending sociable time with his new connections, or eating a good dinner, then heading out to White’s with his chums. So he nods, and sits down, and gestures Kate to a seat nearby.

That seems much more useful than fretting about Anthony all night.

…….

Anthony can’t believe it, when Simon approaches him with a bit of advice at White’s late that evening.

“What do you mean - slow down?” He protests, incredulous.

“I believe you should bring your suit to Miss Edwina more cautiously, and take your time to get acquainted with her and the family. It’s only natural that she and Miss Sharma are a little taken aback by your diving into a courtship so suddenly.”

“What - you take Miss Sharma’s side now?”

Simon sighs, and it occurs to Anthony that perhaps - just perhaps - he may have taken this sudden antagonism with his newest acquaintance a little too far.

He clears his throat, tries a change of topic.

“Would you care for a drink?”

“A drink? Bridgerton - be serious a moment. I’m not making trouble. I’m only saying that the young lady is in my godmother’s care and I’d have her and her sister comfortable with your actions.”

“Hrm.” Anthony says, as if that’s a useful thing to say. “You’d understand if you were inclined to take a wife.”

Simon doesn’t answer that.

Silence sits a moment. Anthony stares down at the remains of his drink, and muses that he certainly should order Simon another. That would be a friendly gesture - a way to smooth over all this oddness about the Sharma sisters - and it would pass the time.

All at once, Simon speaks up again.

“Where’s Argyll?”

“How should I know? I expect he’s still at his mother’s house.” Anthony offers, for it does seem likely.

“I haven’t seen him in some days.”

“Me neither.” Anthony concedes. For all his bluster, for all his odd feelings about dead fathers and wilful sisters, he has noticed that. It is a source of some concern to him.

“D’you think he’s faring tolerably well?”

“Of course he’s not faring tolerably well. His father’s dead.” He snaps.

Simon grimaces. “I understand that, to be sure. I only - you know. I meant to ask whether you think he’s as well as might be expected under the circumstances. Do you think we should do something?”

“I don’t know what we’d do.”

Silence falls again, thick and sticky.

Anthony is determined not to let it last, this time, though. He was hopeless at all that business about sisters and courtship and getting acquainted slowly, but he considers himself something of an expert when it comes to fussing over grief-stricken friends and family. He’s had rather too much practice.

“I’ll go to our fencing club tomorrow and check he’s been there lately.” He muses, thoughtful. “In fact - I’ll drag him from the house for an hour or two myself if I must. A spot of fencing must be just the thing.”

“Mmm. That’ll do him good.”

“I don’t know what we can do about his mother. Perhaps a bouquet?”

“I might ask my godmother to send her something.”

“There’s an idea. We’ll take Argyll fencing and we’ll ask Lady Danbury to do something about his mother.”

“I consider my godmother quite the formidable lady, but I think even she can’t cure grief.” Simon offers, rueful.

“I daresay she’d do a better job of choosing flowers at least than you or I would. We’ll be better placed getting Argyll out of doors.”

“I think that’s a sound plan.”

“I did go to our fencing club on Tuesday. He wasn’t there.” Anthony mutters, dark.

It’s not the most cheerful start to the season. 

That’s what he decides, all in all. His friend’s father is dead, and somehow his search for a wife has got off to a poor start - somehow the whole business has sowed odd discord between himself and his oldest friend. Somehow the intersection of courtship and grief isn’t good for anyone, not in any way whatsoever.

He only hopes his sister stays immune from all this contagious ill-humour, that she won’t disgrace herself at her presentation or fall into a fit of melancholy.

That’d be the last thing anyone needs just now.

…….

The following morning marks the first time James has ever missed his father for his own sake since the day that he died.

It’s a clear-cut milestone, to his mind, and he marks it carefully. There’s a distinct difference between all these days he has lately spent mourning the man through his mother, and his own genuine sadness at being without his father now.

It’s a trivial matter which gives rise to missing him. James has a letter from the family steward about the rising cost of seed potatoes, asking him as Duke to make some decisions about what crops to prepare for next year.

James reads it and utterly, utterly panics.

He doesn’t know the first thing about seed potatoes. He hasn’t the foggiest clue whether the Argyll coffers can afford to absorb the cost. He doesn’t know what else the land is good for, doesn’t know what other crops might have cheaper but high-yielding seed.

His Pa would have known what to do about the seed potatoes.

He’d have known what questions to ask, how to cut a good deal. He’d certainly have known the answer to all those questions about what the land suited, for he knew the family estates like the back of his hand.

If he’d died more slowly, James would have had time to learn things like that, time to make a clean and orderly parting. He’d have had years to sit with his ailing father and learn about seed potatoes. He likes to imagine that his father would even have become a more mellow sort of Pa with age, that the period of transition from one Duke to the next might have brought them closer.

His Pa always was a half-decent Pa when the two of them were just collaborating quietly over something at home.

As it is, that’ll never happen, and James has spent his youth drinking, fencing, reading and whoring rather than learning the first thing about the family estates.

He sighs, rakes a hand through his hair, sighs again. He supposes he won’t find wisdom about seed potatoes in a brandy glass, but it’s jolly tempting to try looking there all the same.

No. He must just give it his best attempt. He must write to the steward and ask the fellow to explain more to him about the options, perhaps. His instinct is simply to make available as much money as might be needed for the purchase of these expensive seed potatoes, for he knows his father was always dripping in wealth - but of course he must have been rich precisely because he took great care with things like his seed potato spending.

James sighs again, in case it will help.

It doesn’t.

He hasn’t the foggiest clue how he'll ever make a decision about a wife if he can’t even make one about seed potatoes.

Why - a wife is much more important and long-lasting in a chap’s life than a few spuds, isn’t she? He’s less convinced than ever, this morning, of his ability to choose a wife, let alone make one content. He truly does wish for a relatively warm marriage, but he’s suddenly certain that he’s not up to the task.

He’d like to be able to ask his mother - would like to ask her about seed potatoes or marriage prospects, or perhaps both at once - but as she hasn’t left the house in ten days he thinks she’s likely not in a position to help him very much at all.

She’s doing a little better, perhaps. This morning she has made it as far as sitting in a chair rather than her bed, staring out of the window with sewing in her hands at which she never makes a stitch.

Ah well. Progress is progress, he supposes.

He might go and ask his friends a bit about it all, he decides. They might have some wisdom on wife-hunting or agriculture, or even grieving mothers. He never did get around to asking Anthony about that. It’s funny - on the first day he learnt of his father’s death, he was desperate to leave the house, to flee his mother’s grief and see his friends. But somehow, since then, he’s lapsed into staying home at her side.

Hmm.

He should go out. He truly should. That’d be a much better idea than sitting here fretting about potatoes and actually missing his father. Why - that’s a shocking enough turn of events to push him into motion.

He gets to his feet, sets out to the drawing room in search of his mother.

Yes. As he thought. Still staring, still not sewing.

“I think I will go to my club for an hour or two, Ma.” He says to her, a fraction too loud, as folks talk to the elderly or the hard of hearing.

“As you like.”

“Will you manage well enough if I go out for a little while?” He asks outright.

“I’m fine.”

He doesn’t believe her for a moment.

“I had a letter from the steward about the crops for the home farm. Perhaps we might pop out to Buckinghamshire in a few weeks and see the place for ourselves?” He tries suggesting.

“As you like.”

“We could say a few prayers for my father, perhaps. You could have some pretty flowers planted for a memorial to him. He always did like to compliment your flower arrangements - do you recall it?”

She nods, sniffles a little.

Ah. That’ll be him making it worse, then. He does keep doing that.

He admits defeat, at that. He leaves her there, heads out of the house. It’s a short journey to White’s, and he makes it without difficulty.

He finds none of his particular friends present.

Hmm. That’s a damn shame. He worked up the courage to come here and admit that he might require a little help with grief and seed potatoes, and now they’re nowhere to be seen.

He wonders where to go next.

He could try Bridgerton House. That’s the next most likely place to find someone worth speaking to, he thinks. Simon splits his time between seeing Anthony, visiting his club, visiting his godmother, or staying in his own rooms. Anthony, by contrast, is much more often at his family home by day.

James therefore bolsters his spirits as best he can and crosses Mayfair again towards Bridgerton House.

Only there - yet again - he finds none of the friends he is looking for.

He does, however, find something very odd indeed.

“Your Grace - what an unexpected pleasure.” Lady Bridgerton says, her tone perhaps taking it half way to a question. “I’m afraid you just missed Anthony. He called in perhaps half an hour ago to say he intended to spend the better part of the day with you.”

“He did?”

“Yes. I believe he intended to find you at your fencing club - or at home and suggest a visit to your fencing club. He’s determined to be an attentive friend to you in your time of grief.”

“Oh.”

That’s it.

That’s all he can manage.

Anthony has actually set himself to dash around London looking for him, and then spend the day fencing for the sake of his loss?

That’s the most wonderful thing he’s heard in quite some time.

He tries to gather his wits. He thanks Lady Bridgerton for her assistance, turns and strides from her house once more.

He sets to searching for the friend who is searching for him.

He tracks him down at last at their fencing club. Specifically, James enters it looking for him just as Anthony leaves, evidently looking for him likewise - and with Simon on his tail for no reason that James can comprehend, too.

“You don’t fence.” James blurts, stupid, on seeing Simon there in the entryway.

“Mmm. And you didn’t much care for your father. Death does funny things to us all.”

“Are you - this -?” James splutters weakly.

“No need to make a fuss about it.” Anthony says, and ironically in quite a fussy sort of tone. “A bit of sport will see you right. Come on - let’s set to it. And then we’d better get a drink or two and let Hastings tell us a bit more about these matchmaking plans of his.”

“And I need some advice about seed potatoes, if either of you have any.”

“Fucking seed potatoes.” Simon says, sharp.

“What? What did I do?”

“They’re the worst of it - I tell you, the worst. I can’t make head nor tail of potatoes. Damn unreliable crop, and the prices come and go like anything.”

“Don’t they just?” James offers, as if he knows. As if he’s wise when it comes to potato farming.

“You want a good old-fashioned English crop - parsnips, barley, turnips. Things like that.”

“My steward has questions about seed potatoes.”

“Of course he does. A steward always has questions about seed potatoes. Don’t mind him.” Simon suggests, with a robust clap on the shoulder.

That helps, James finds. It helps very much indeed. More than anything, this morning, he’s glad to find that he can be a sociable and sporting sort - the sort of chap who drinks and spends time out with his chums - and be a grieving new Duke, both at once. He’s glad to find that fretting about seed potatoes doesn’t override all those ideas of his own dashing masculinity.

He thinks he could realistically get married, sooner or later, if he can be cheery and social even though he recently lost his father, even though he has seed potatoes to think of now.

So -

“Much obliged.” He tells his friends, with a hearty nod. “It is good of you to come looking for me. We’d best make a day of it, I think - a morning of sport, then a cheery afternoon at our club?”

“Brandy with lunch - that’s what I say.” Simon offers.

“Jolly good. That’d be just the thing, I think - for I’d rather not be out too late. I’d rather be home in good time to see my mother this evening.”

“As you like.” Anthony says, easy, as if it’s no great bother - as if it’s perfectly acceptable for a sociable chap to fret about his mother.

“But I must hear more about matchmaking and seed potatoes before I go home.” He reiterates once more for good measure.

The other chaps nod at that, and Anthony begins to faff with his fencing things.

Hmm. Funny how James calls his mother’s townhouse home, these days.

…….

Anthony wakes up on the morning of his sister’s presentation at court in a bad mood.

That’s an unfortunate turn of events and no mistake. He’s been feeling a good deal better in recent days. He’s fallen into a good steady pattern of courting Miss Edwina slowly - just calling on her at times of day when both Simon and Miss Sharma are present, for example, and only staying a short while. He thinks he has been doing slightly better, too, at not setting Miss Sharma’s nose out of joint.

He’s less bothered by James' second-hand grief than he was perhaps four days or so ago, too. Things have been much better on that front since Anthony, James and Simon made a point of spending time together in easy company, attending to their sport, having some careful discussion of inheritance and seed potatoes and so forth. He understands, too, that Lady Danbury has visited James’ mother once or twice, and that he’s had an aunt in the picture, as well.

So things are looking up, and Anthony can have no business waking up in an ill humour.

He blames Miss Sharma for it. He blames her most heartily.

He didn’t choose to dream of her last night. It just happened. He must protest that he’s perfectly innocent in all of this - that it must certainly be her fault for making herself so interesting and… engaging to him.

So that’s what has happened. Last night he had a dream about Miss Sharma - a sexual dream, to be clear, or at least a titillating one - and now he has woken up with the foulest temper he’s known in quite some time.

It was a good dream.

That’s why he’s so sour now, of course.

It was a very pleasant dream indeed. In that dream, her sharp words and fiery eyes were all a matter of lust, not anger. She was arguing with him to tease, because she wanted him, wanted him to know it, too.

Then it went the way such dreams always go - bare skin, breathy sighs, ragged moans. Then he was fucking her, all eager and messy, while her nails raked at his scalp.

And then?

Then of course he woke up, as a chap always does from such a dream. He woke up in his own soiled bedsheets, drowning in shame and spilled seed.

He calls that a thoroughly terrible start to the season.

He can’t imagine a worse one, in fact. There must be nothing more shameful than secretly having a lustful dream about the sister of the lady he’s courting. And it’s mortifying, too, for Miss Sharma can’t bear him. She scarcely even gives him the time of day, and certainly doesn’t think he could possibly please a woman.

And yet somehow, impossibly, he wants her.

It’s a mess. It’s a mess which stretches far beyond his own soiled bedsheets.

It’s a mess he can’t throw out on laundry day and hope for the best.

Or - perhaps he can. Perhaps that’s exactly how he should think of it. Perhaps he need only set that dream out of mind, walk away from it, and make cleaner work of the season ahead.

Yes.

That’s exactly what he’ll do.

He’s in much better spirits, then, as he gets up and prepares for the day. He takes great care over his appearance, as his valet dresses him, for it’s essential that he should look every inch the Viscount for Daphne’s presentation.

It turns out quite neatly, as the morning draws on. It certainly turns out better than the rocky last fortnight would suggest. Indeed - he’s almost ready to sigh in relief, as the whole family arrives at St James’ on time.

It gets better and better. Anthony watches, glowing with pride, as the Queen herself pronounces Daphne exquisite at very first sight.

By the time they make it out to the royal garden party that afternoon, all anyone will speak of is Daphne as the diamond.

They’ve done it. They’ve actually gone and done it.

The Bridgerton family’s eldest young lady is the diamond of the season.

Anthony is thrilled for her. He can see that their mother is even more overjoyed. All the family is half-crowing with delight, frankly, and he knows they ought to stop before some other family take it amiss - before anyone accuses them of gloating - but for now, at least, he is determined to be very proud indeed.

There’s only one slight sorrow tarnishing his joy, he finds. James hasn’t shown up to the presentation or the garden party at all. Anthony presumes that he’s at home with his mother, but all the same, it doesn’t seem a cheery sign.

Yes. Well. He’ll worry about that later - will make a point of fencing with him tomorrow, perhaps. He has never been good at those moments where joy and sorrow must come hand in hand, but today he’s determined not to be downcast.

He’s more or less succeeding at that, until the moment Benedict asks him the question.

“Who will you marry now, brother? If our own sister is the diamond, who will you choose for your wife?”

Suddenly, all at once, Anthony can feel the pressure of his duty crashing back in on him. He must find a wife, although his search for one is off to an inauspicious start. He must keep the family afloat, mustn’t drown in grief like his -

No drowning. Can’t think of drowning.

He's drowning in debutantes, but sees no convenient wife at hand. No diamond to choose, for his sister is the diamond. It’s like that poem - water, water everywhere, nor any drop to drink.

God - tragic poetry?

He truly should marry Miss Edwina.

Just when he thinks he’s losing his wits, it grows even worse.

“At least this turn of events answers the question of who Argyll will marry now - it seems likely that he truly will marry Miss Bridgerton.” He hears Simon say - but hears it as if distorted, as if muffled underwater, perhaps.

He’s quite convinced his cravat is wilfully strangling him, at this point.

It’s all too much. The situation is spiralling away from him, and his responsibilities are too vast, too urgent, too far beyond his reach.

He can’t find a wife. He can’t keep Daphne safe. He can’t watch her marry James - and he doesn’t understand why he can’t watch her marry his good friend, he only knows that it would feel like a failure. It feels too soon to be thinking of it, perhaps - too fast, too sudden, not the secure love match she craves.

Ah.

That’ll be what Miss Sharma is worried about, more or less.

He gathers himself as best he can. He pushes through his panic, for he must. This is always the way. He does perhaps have a slight tendency to imagine catastrophes, but he must always, always push such thoughts aside and press ahead with his duty.

His duty to his family is everything. He is Viscount Bridgerton. He can’t go losing his mind over a little fretfulness.

Little by little, he masters himself.

Simon and Benedict are still chatting, he notes. He’s never sure what it means, that his friends and family chatter away quite continuously on those occasions when he’s silently lost in fear.

He wonders whether they even notice. Do they think him a surly chap, rather than a scared one?

At last, he’s ready to interrupt them with some determined words.

“I’m certain it can’t be that difficult for us to put our family affairs in order regardless. Daphne will have her pick of suitors, and evidently I shall have to find a wife who is not the diamond of the season.”

“But however will you choose, if the Queen cannot choose for you?” Benedict asks, perhaps teasing.

“It can’t be that difficult. I shall simply determine who else the good candidates to be named diamond were. I expect the matchmaking mothers - or even Lady Whistledown - will easily furnish me with a list of runners-up. Since the best is already a Bridgerton, I shall have to make do with the second- or third-best lady on the market.”

“I don’t recommend you speak of them in such terms to their faces, Bridgerton.” Simon says, and even Anthony - even after all these years of friendship - can’t quite exactly say whether he offers that warning in fun or in seriousness.

Perhaps it’s both.

Anthony realises the danger a fraction too late.

Indeed - he realises too late that Simon’s warning came too late, as well. He realises just after it has happened that Miss Sharma has overheard the entire conversation, for she’s just walking away from behind that ornamental tree, not very far off.

In fact, she’s striding away from it as if the devil himself is on her heels.

He oughtn’t be surprised to see her here. She’s close with Simon, and her sister was Lady Danbury’s pick for the diamond of the season. This is obviously exactly where she’s to be found this afternoon.

He feels a complete and utter fool for missing the danger.

“Where’s Kate going?” Simon asks now, frowning at her retreating back.

“Away, I expect.” Anthony offers.

No one has anything to say to that, it seems.

It doesn’t signify. That’s what he tells himself, very carefully, for the next four seconds or so. It simply doesn’t matter that she overheard him speaking so carelessly of marriage. What’s one more disaster between friends - or in this case, between newly-acquainted enemies?

As it happens, that dream was a particularly pleasant dream.

No. No. It does not signify. He doesn’t care in the slightest whether she thinks he’s bad news for her sister. There are other young ladies on the marriage market - others who would have been credible candidates for the title of diamond.

He lasts about five more seconds before he cracks.

“Excuse me.” He says, sudden, to his brother and his friend.

And then?

Then he simply sets to running through the gardens of St James’ Palace.

He doesn’t know what excuse he’d make, if someone were to ask him why he has cast aside his dignity. He’d say that Eloise felt suddenly queasy and in need of medical assistance, perhaps - or he’d admit some slither of the truth and acknowledge that he felt suddenly queasy.

He catches up to Miss Sharma next to a particularly unattractive topiary of a cockerel.

“Excuse me - Miss Sharma?”

“Lord Bridgerton.” She counters, with the scantest curtsey he has ever seen.

A whiff of her scent catches on the breeze and wafts towards him. He’s never noticed it before, in their few fraught meetings, but she smells like something floral and interesting and -

And that’s not the point. The point at hand is rather different.

Only - perhaps he never noticed it before because it was always hidden by the smell of horse.

No. Back to his purpose.

“You must know that I meant that as a private conversation with my brother and my good friend.” He protests warmly. “I fear I’ve given you the wrong impression of my character, but you must see that I’d never speak so carelessly if I realised I was in company with a lady.”

“So you’re perfectly content to discuss ladies as if they were cattle at market, just so long as no lady ever overhears you doing so?”

“Miss Sharma - you must know that -”

“What I know …” She pauses, as if for effect, her eyes locked on his. “What I know is that a gentleman of principles like your friend Simon ought to take better care in the choosing of his friends. His manners towards me and Edwina have been so excellent that I am shocked to witness him party to such a conversation.”

He feels a sharp stab of… something, at that.

He couldn’t rightly say what. It’s like nothing he’s ever known before. All he knows is that he feels a sudden flash of pain at the thought that she’s comparing him to his friend and finding him wanting, that she thinks he’s not even worthy of Simon’s company or conversation or friendship.

He’s disappointed in himself, too, for sowing discord amongst Lady Danbury’s close circle. He knows that Simon and Miss Sharma are not her children, not precisely, but all the same he feels that he has upset the tone of a family or household, here. He’ll be unhappy with himself if this sours Simon’s chance to have something of a sister. He knows that he and the Sharmas have already grown very close.

Anthony himself, meanwhile, has succeeded only in stretching out awful, empty distance, in this last week or two.

He wants to say something more to Miss Sharma.

He knows that, and yet he hasn’t the foggiest clue what it should be.

She’s turning, now. She’s turning as if to leave, as if to walk away and abandon him here, drowning in duties, surrounded by failure and ugly topiary alike.

“Miss Sharma -”

“Lord Bridgerton.”

“I meant no harm.” He manages, and even to his own ears it sounds weak.

And yet, somehow, it gets a better reaction than almost anything else he’s ever said to her. Somehow, she’s giving him perhaps a half-nod, meeting his eyes rather than walking away from him.

He tries for a smile. He gives one short, crisp nod.

He turns away and leaves before she can. He strides away from her, does his best to walk as a confident Viscount would. He strides back across the garden, towards his brother, his oldest friend, the empty space where a newly-minted Duke should be.

He wonders if any circle of friends ever had a worse start to a season than this.