How To Love A Prince - A. Bridgerton

Chapter Nine

And there it is, the dilemma. The courting season is in full swing and yet there seemed to be not a single proposal worth mentioning. What a pity.

- Lady Whistledown's Society Papers May 1814

~•~

Edward eyed the Viscount over the long table loaded with the fine breakfast his butler had brought before disappearing again. The Viscount had only granted him the bare minimum of eye contact since he had left the guest chamber and the prince wondered what was on his mind, sincerely hoping it was not a lingering suspicion about his own preferences in bed company awoken by the last day's event.
Only a formal word of greeting had been exchanged before seating themselves for the meal and now, Anthony Bridgerton was absently staring at his eggs Benedict, eyebrows knitted together in a firm frown that fitted his features so well.
"Did you sleep well?" he finally gave in to the craving to break this awful silence and the other man's gaze briefly flickered over his face before responding: "Indeed. Your guest room is quite excellent." 

Silence followed yet again, wrapping around the two men uncomfortably. "Do you intend the ball tomorrow night?" Edward spoke up almost desperately, a hand caressing his chin while he bluntly stared at the Viscount, hoping to finally be able to connect their gazes for longer than mere seconds.
Since their return from the hunt, the man had been strangely odd, and Edward wasn't fond of how that included a distance he had been so certain they had just overthrown. The other man looked up from his plate, dark eyes focusing on the Prince, lingering with an intensity Edward had not expected but wasn't at all opposed to.
"I do. I need to clarify my intentions with Miss Sheffield."
"So you plan to marry her?" Edward asked, his chest tight.
"Yes. She's the diamond, she will make a perfect viscountess. I intend to propose at the end of the season as it is proper. The prince forced himself to a small smile.
"How wonderful."
"Indeed," the Viscount nodded, returning his attention to his breakfast that did not look so inviting anymore.
"So, for today," Edward said after a while, his cup of tea in hand, gently sipping at the expensive Earl Grey with a dash of milk that was imported straight from India, his golden signet ring clunking softly against the china.

"I was told it was going to rain all day, so  I'm afraid the new trophy has to wait. In the meantime, I'm certain we will find another, excellent way to entertain ourselves."  He smiled brightly at the idea that had just sprung into his mind and he could have sworn Anthony Bridgerton's gaze had lingered on his lips a tad too long to be proper among gentlemen.

As if planning to let the Viscount in on a well-kept secret, he leaned forward, mischief taking over his features.
"Shall we engage in a round of fencing in the ballroom?"

~•~

Anthony Bridgerton found himself in a rather peculiar situation with the Prince of England unbuttoning his vest while forbidden images of last night's dreams haunted his thoughts rather vividly, making him unable to adjust his gaze. He didn't know what it was nor when it started, but the sinful longings had made him toss and turn in his sheets and that was so unnatural caused the greatest confusion he had faced since his father's death.
One should not look at another gentleman in that way, nor should one remember how his breath had felt on his skin and how their touch had burned so exquisitely. For God's sake, he was looking at the Prince of England, the favourite child of the Queen and the man rumoured to want to marry his sister.
"Come on, Bridgerton. Get it on! ," the prince called out with the joy of a child as he grabbed the handle of his sword, his white shirt billowing as he dribbled back into a suitable position for the first strike.

Anthony loved fencing. Usually, he mercilessly enjoyed winning over his brothers with the most unhinged attacks. But he couldn't treat the prince as he treated Benedict and Collin, could he? With great hesitation, he lifted his own foil pointing it at Edward, unsure how to proceed.
"Do not be gentle, Bridgerton." the Prince seemed to have guessed his internal conflict or at least part of it.

With a graceful movement, they assumed their positions, their foils poised to engage in a refined duel. The polished marble floor echoed with their measured steps as they circled each other, their eyes locked, the tension rising.
T

hen, Prince Edward lunged forward with a precise and calculated attack, his blade slicing through the air with a swift elegance.
The viscount, with an unorthodox manoeuvre, deflected the attack effortlessly, his footwork agile and graceful.

"As they circled each other, their eyes locked, the prince remarked with a twinkle in his eye,
"My dear Bridgerton, your agility and unorthodox moves are quite captivating. It seems you possess a talent for fencing. ."

The viscount, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips, replied in a velvety voice, "Ah, Your Highness, you flatter me. I got brothers, it comes naturally.
"
Anthony had never expected a fencing game could be even more enchanting than a waltz. It was an exquisite performance. Electric chemistry crackled between them as their foils clashed and their bodies moved in harmony, their gazes lingered a moment longer, a heat in them that was indescribably but fueled the strange sensation growing in the Viscount's stomach.
Prince Edward, leaning in slightly closer during a brief respite, whispered with a touch of seductive charm,
"Bridgerton, I must admit, I'm glad you're not too high in the instep. It will be an honour to defeat you."

"And I have to admit I'm not fond of losing," Anthony responded, executing his next strike.
Their words hung in the air, charged with an undeniable magnetism. In the ensuing moments, their exchanges became more than just a test of skill.