Born in the Purple | Anthony Bridgerton

09 | note of truth

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"It appears that Lord Bridgerton could not simply keep his passionate eyes away from the Grand Duchess— hey!"

I clench my teeth as I stretch my arms over my head for the article of Lady Whistledown's that my frowning brother had unexpectedly seized away from my grasp and dangled above me with his fingertips, his expression commixing oddly between repulsion and amusement as he glances between my pouting face and the piece of article. Watching him settle on one of the many beige and gold-trimmed divans, clearly not intending to return my article any moment soon, I seat the vacant red-accented armchair begrudgingly in the drawing room with my arms crossed tightly over my chest and throw a leg over the other.

Curse him and his height.

"Why is this talebearing author so fixated on you and him?" under his breath, I hear him mutter harshly with a scowl etched on his face. He shakes his head to himself before his clear blue eyes pause on my unladylike stance and raise an eyebrow at me, "it is best you fix your posture before my friend arrives."

"Which friend are we speaking of?"

"The one—"

"Lord Bridgerton has arrived, Your Imperial Highness," one of the many footmen announces beyond the double door as my eyes widen in surprise at the unexpected declared title. It had been a few handfuls of agonizing days since the wedding, daylights lacking whereabouts of Anthony and his sister's new matrimony life, and I can only wholeheartedly beg the Almighty that Simon had taken my advice into consideration regarding his vow to his father. However, during those absent days, I felt my spirit dampen from the lack of letters and appearance, having expected Anthony to, at the very least, apologize for his poor choice of mentions at his sister's wedding reception. Aside from the hasty letter received on the day of his and Simon's duel –which was only composed with reassurance regarding their health and safety– there was no mention of his poor selection of vocabulary. After spending night after night desolate with a heavy heart, I soon felt a pulse of bitterness coursing through my bloodstream when the realization struck— Anthony does not see he is in the wrong! He would never comprehend his mistake, man in the ton are too high in the saddle to realize how insulting such derogatory words can be to women, one raised in a more inferior class, at that. With a weighty temper, I immediately tore his note to pieces and chucked it into the pitted fire— I could not tell if Bella was more worried or frightened by my sudden shift in behaviour.

"—who is supposedly entrapped with you," Matvey finishes with a faint sigh before raising his voice for the footman to attend, "bring Lord Bridgerton in!"

I immediately fix my posture when my brother darts at me once more with keen eyes, planting both feet on the marble floor and straightening my back as I take a mint book from the small stack my father leaves on various tables around the dressing room. From the edges of the pages within my peripheral, I glimpse Anthony walking in with a -surprisingly- gorgeous bouquet of blue and purple hyacinths. Quickly shoving my face further into my book as he and my brother greet each other, my face scrunches in perplexity at his specific choice of blossoms.

He knows my favourites are dahlias— are hyacinths the newest frenzy of this season? Darting over the hardly interesting book with my brother's rear angled towards me, I see the Viscount's features brightening significantly the minute his eyesight falls on my figure, whereas mine slightly darkened.

"Who did you bring those flowers for?" Matvey asks when his focus comes down to the bouquet in his friend's clutch.

"The Grand Duchesse, of course," Anthony replies proudly with a timid smile, rich chocolate eyes entrapped with mine as I sigh from my seat, leaving the book opened and unattended on the side table.

I looked over the bundled hyacinths once again— until my body stiffened. As if time slowed down, I notice a small folded paper –presumably, a letter– tucked among the vibrant petals leaping out of the bouquet due to Anthony's hurried steps towards me, unhurriedly fluttering down into the marble floor. And if matters could not be any worse, I take a deep tentative breath as my dearest clueless brother picks the tumbled letter from the floor. My fingers nervously drum against my outer thighs over my dress as Anthony gently conveys me the bouquet, blissfully unaware of what there is to come.

"Why is there a note— Can someone kindly explain why in God's name is there a letter from Anthony to my sister?"

Dread instantly paints our faces as we silently look at each other, Anthony's visage becoming as white as a bare sheet of paper while my drumming fingers accelerate against my attire. Judging our quietness and expressions resembling chastised juveniles, my brother undoubtedly pieced together the long-hidden truth. His footing staggers as he points at us with a flushed look, "Please— for my sanity, please don't tell me that Lady Whistledown's implication was true."

Matvey let out an unabashed cry of despair as the paper scrunched underneath his fist with his head thrown back in disappointment at our continuous muteness, "This entire time, you were mopping because of my sister!"

"Mopping?" I pipped in question.

"Your strumpet has been sulking at my club for days—" an offended hey quickly chimes between my brother's explanation, "constantly consuming straight vodka with a bounded grimace on his dopey face."

I raise an eyebrow –and a small cheeky smile at the reveal– as Anthony pouted with reddened cheeks and eyes narrowed at Matvey menacingly. The grumbling Grand Duke falls onto an empty sofa, elbows perched on his thighs and hands mixed into the ruffles of his hair as he darts down to his thumping feet, "You had just recently come forward into the Ton, when did you ever have the time to familiarize with him? I was sure you had only spoken once in the ballroom at Lady Trowbridge's party. Unless—"

His head suddenly shoots up, eyes darting between Anthony and me, "Unless, you were his mistress— of course! You were, weren't you? The one who completely bewitched the boisterous rake inside him— I cannot believe this."

"Truthfully, you are handling this much better than I had foreseen. I envisioned you either strangling or kicking Anthony for this behaviour."

"Oh?"

"Shit— Vasilia, don't give your brother ideas— fuck, drop the vase!"

| to be continued