ᴍᴀᴅᴄᴀᴘ :: ᴀ. ʙʀɪᴅɢᴇʀᴛᴏɴ

ɪᴠ: ɪɴᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ

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❝ 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬
𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐝
𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭
𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐞
𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞
𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐨 𝐢 𝐫𝐮𝐧. ❞
―ᴄʜᴀʀʟᴏᴛᴛᴇ ᴇʀɪᴋꜱꜱᴏɴ

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"If you intend to keep me from courting every woman you know, Your Highness, I suspect we shall never find cause to agree."

The words sliced towards Isabeau as soon as Lord Bridgerton drew close, lifting from his bow and sliding into the steps of the quadrille. The ill-restrained anger in his eyes was completely at odds with the lively music sweeping towards them from the mezzanine.

A faint, daring smile tugged at Isabeau's lips. Their hands brushed; they spun around each other, their footsteps light.

"Surely you cannot argue that my mistrust is entirely justified," she replied. Another man's hands touched hers, another circle performed around him instead, but her gaze remained on the viscount. Only when they drew back together did he speak again.

"I am the lord of my house," he said stiffly, staring directly over Isabeau's head. "Finding a wife is my responsibility."

"And what of poor Miss Eastaughffe?" Isabeau offered a tight smile, her eyes flashing with dark amusement. "As suitable a candidate as any."

A muscle feathered in his jaw as he gritted his teeth, and Isabeau's smile shifted into one of triumph. She could feel the warmth of his hands through her white satin gloves, and they paled in comparison to the burn in his eyes.

"How you are royalty eludes me," he hissed, stepping forward until they were side by side. His voice was a low brush of air against her curls.

"As it does me, Lord Bridgerton." Another circle, another man, another few beats until they rejoined. Still, Isabeau's smile did not waver. "But alas. I am a princess, and you are a viscount, and I outrank you by such an extent that your spine should ache when you bow."

His lips tightened, his grip on her fingers like steel. "I see not even the dance can blunt your sharp tongue," he said through gritted teeth. Isabeau laughed softly.

"Of course not."

Like birds' wings, their hands touched and then flitted apart, their bodies coming together and then drifting away in the tide of their music. Small skips and jumps brought them back, but their gazes remained on one another, connected by a thread of fiery light. Something in the viscount's burning gaze seemed to light a flame beneath Isabeau's heels.

She could feel gazes watching them as they danced, the crowd around them thick. It was rare to see the youngest princess dance, let alone with a rake from a house of much lower rank. Had her mother noticed? Did she watch?

Isabeau forced her thoughts, and her words, onto something else, but her smile had disappeared and her voice had turned cold.

"What are your true intentions with Lady Catherine?"

"You see me with a woman for all of ten seconds and you believe I have nefarious intentions," Lord Bridgerton responded, once again gazing resolutely over Isabeau's head. "I should be insulted."

"Oh, certainly," Isabeau replied, her tone equally cool. "I thought we were clear, insofar as insults are concerned."

He ignored that, and did not respond again until the music had ended and another dance had begun. Both of their hands rejoined, the dance bringing them almost chest-to-chest. Isabeau looked up at him, and found him already looking at her.