ᴍᴀᴅᴄᴀᴘ :: ᴀ. ʙʀɪᴅɢᴇʀᴛᴏɴ

ɪɪ: ᴄᴏɴᴅɪᴛɪᴏɴꜱ

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❝ 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐞, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐝. ❞
― ᴋᴀʜʟɪʟ ɢɪʙʀᴀɴ

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Their eyes met, and for one endless moment, a silent war waged. Isabeau could see anger in him, sparking behind his eyes; she could see something fierce and impossible to tame, something which longed to fight back. She wondered if he could see the exact same in her, if he could read his own anger mapped upon her skin, like a mirror image with pointed shards. Would he break, or would he bend?

Slowly, stiffly, Lord Bridgerton at last sank into a bow, fixing his eyes on the ground. At his side, the woman he had embraced mere moments ago trembled alone, clutching her skirts with a white-knuckled grip.

Silence reigned, broken only by the distant tendrils of music wafting from the palace. And then Isabeau began to laugh.

"Please," she said, waving a hand in careless dismissal. Standing over them both with her power in both hands, she felt rather like the Queen, and she couldn't say she fancied it. "Rise. I am not my mother, and you will not break your backs on my behalf."

"Your Highness," the young woman stuttered, as she lifted herself from her curtsey, "we—we never—"

The viscount straightened, and Isabeau caught the way he looked at her, his expression caught somewhere between contempt and disbelief. A dozen portraits of her hung in the palace—a far smaller number than her siblings possessed—and Isabeau matched none of them; Anthony Bridgerton was likely wondering whether or not they had made some sort of colossal mistake in ever addressing her as royalty.

"Never could have thought me a princess?" Isabeau finished, and the young woman blanched, shaking her head. The viscount's eyebrows only rose, ever so slightly, his lips pursed and his chin held high. "Indeed. My mother has shared the same sentiment many times."

"N-no, I—" The young woman curtseyed again, visibly trembling, and Isabeau felt a stroke of pity. A deplorable emotion; she refused to let it show. "Lord Bridgerton—he didn't know—"

"I would hope not," Isabeau said coolly, without shifting her gaze from him. For another long moment, he met it, unflinching, the battleground in his eyes still raring to meet hers.

And then he lowered into another bow, seemingly prepared to sacrifice his pride for the sake of his neck.

"Forgive me, Your Highness," he murmured. "Please accept my most humble apologies. I insulted you grievously."

"That strikes me as something of an understatement," Isabeau observed, but her tone remained light. From the corner of her eye, she saw Anthony Bridgerton rise as she turned from them and started to walk around the edges of the garden, trailing her fingertips gently over the flowering plants she passed. Spring had sprung, and roses now bloomed around the edges of the pagoda, celebrating the coming of the sun.

The silence must have dragged on too long for the viscount to bear. He cleared his throat pointedly.

"Your Highness," he said through gritted teeth. "Tell me what we can do to earn your forgiveness. And . . ."

"And ensure my silence, I expect." Isabeau didn't so much as glance at them, but she heard the young woman's sharp intake of breath. She smiled. "I don't particularly see what's in it for me."