Bridgerton [x Reader]

☞A Different Universe

"You are my daughter, and you shall act accordingly!"

There is little one can do when a duke is acting as if they are a Salem witch prosecutor. The duty of a peer seems to outrank that of a father on a daily basis, and you are the first one to catch the fire of it. Your father's words were (metaphorically speaking) slashing whips with the strength of a thousand bulls, and your hands are on the receiving end, slashed and bloody.

Metaphorically speaking, of course.

You, the daughter of the duke of Durcheville, would never, God forbid, have hands like that.

Scars (just like freckles) were forbidden to grace your pure skin.

Your father wouldn't allow it.

He really is a wondrous man indeed.

You bit the inside of your cheek, refraining from making an improper remark in the presence of the dragon. No one was a match to his inferno.

God bless your mother, the duchess, "Perhaps if we, my love-"

"Cynthia, I shall not hear it." He bit out, looking between the only two women o his life. One a wife, a confider and lover, and another one, his only sunshine. "Y/N, you shall marry the prince of Prussia and I shall not hear of your ill-mannered behavior. Cease it at once."

The look he threw your mother's way was rottener than the one he entrusted you with. Just look at him, for the love of heaven. One daughter! One chance to marry her off!

And he did it.

The dammed bastard succeeded.

"I should like to be excused."

"Go," was all he bit out. "Get out of my sight."

You merely nodded, a graceful act to get you into his semi-good graces once again. "Mama, I shall bid you goodnight."

As a daughter of the regency, and a product of an environment you knew very well what your duty was and perhaps in a different universe you would marry the prince, no questions asked.

Only in this one, you were already in love with someone else.

In love with a man with no title.

In love with a mister.

Mr. Colin Bridgerton out of the whole dammed lot of them.

***

It is quite hard to be one of the very few girls to have all her teeth, and when you do have them all, you are considered very lucky.

Lucky to have teeth.

Yes, teeth.

Surely, everyone knew how those sets were important. Margaret Artwood, the daughter of the sixth earl of Haydens was quite an example. She had managed to marry off herself and her teeth after just a single dance with a Scottish marquis. The annoying little chit had lost almost all her pearly, white teeth somewhere along the age of 19 and apparently, by some foreign law of the universe, Margaret thought she had every right to torment you for having a mouth structure she did not possess (but had managed to marry despite it, unlike you!). And at her very own ball, of course.

Oh, how the cards have aligned.

Heaven forbid you, the daughter of the duke of Durcheville, did anything right in your life.

"When you are in Durcheville I should be very happy to have you visit me," you noted politely to Margaret, the hostess of this very assembly you were stationed in. Smiling at the end (widely, might one add) so she could see your straight teeth was just to rub it in her face.

"As will I," she returned, "if you ever find yourself in Billershrey, of course, given that you shall marry and settle in Prussia. With prince Friedrich, none other."

You almost narrowed your brows at her. Words if and ever were like a taunt threw in to knock you right off. She should know her place, you noted, as you were still your father's daughter and once every few encounters with her, you begin to feel fortunate to be of his bloodline for you still outrank the chit. And if thinking about your possible knot with the prince didn't bring you pain, you would have shown her her place yourself.

If only you didn't despise the arrangement.

"My Colin had visited Billershrey on his travels," a sudden voice piped in, slashing through the battle of words. It belonged to none other than Violet Bridgerton, a fine friend of your mother's. "He says it is wonderful there. Winter, in particular, he praised."

Thank god for Colin's mother. She might have saved Margaret her head.

"You have raised a such a fine man, Lady Bridgerton," said the marchioness, despite being younger than Colin by a decade. While she cried, swaddled and dotted over, Colin was learning how to shoot his gun. Perhaps it's because she is married, and he has yet to be so. "He has always been so polite."

Your heart contracted at the thought.

"Ever since you were a child, I presume." You smiled through the pain, taking a light sip of your lemonade at that exact moment. The women in your circle laughed out loud, and the hostess burned.

You flashed a smile, your pearly teeth on the frontline.

"Oh, look, there he is. Colin, my boy, should you like to join us for a moment?"

There went the moment of internal peace.

Just like that.

You found joy in torturing the marchioness, so long as she didn't have the upper hand.

She had one now, and it was quite, quite big.

Colin joined the circle, towering over every lady by a good head and a half. He had a tan, one that would be considered improper were it on your skin, but it looked dashingly good on his. A contrast against his green, captivating eyes.

He looked more handsome than ever, even when freshly returned from travels.

It took you a single glance at him to be brought back to your first meeting. Your love story was a late blooming encounter that happened after he shook hands with the current Earl of Bingley and the future duke of Durcheville, also known as your brother, and decided to accompany him on a trip up north. The two became close friends, and the rest was history. One dinner led to another, one garden adventure to another.

Colin Bridgerton might have the blessing of your brother, but the real man that wields the reigns of your life was your father – the duke.

And he would not give away such things easily.

If only you had been blessed with an army of sisters.

The date was set, and both kingdoms were pleased with said arrangement. Prussia was awaiting you with open hands and eager smiles. It was final, no matter how much you denied it.

You tilted your head toward the far end of the room, where the Queen of England stood regally with her nephew and your future husband at her side. While Margaret thought she had finally snatched their attention and respect because they showed up in her town home, you knew better.

They were there for you and for a second you had allowed to picture a life on a similar dais, with a jeweled crown on your head and power like no other. Nausea. It gave you nausea.

And Colin didn't know it.

His eyes were lit up, shining like stars under the mass of prettily arranged candles. They urged you to look at them, but you couldn't make yourself raise your head his way. Guilt overwhelmed you.

You felt the color drain from your skin.

He doesn't know.

He doesn't know you won't be his.

And you didn't know how to tell him.

Better not, a voice in your head spoke.

Better not.