Chapter Text
Like most things, it was his sibling’s fault.
Unlike most things, this time, it was Francesca’s fault.
Colin, Eloise, Hyacinth. God, he’d expect nonsense like this bullshit from any of his other siblings, but rarely was Francesca stupid enough to end up with the blame. She was sly, clever, observant. By far the quietest of his siblings, she was also the one Anthony liked to reckon was most like him.
Which was why, for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why she’d made him come to this just to meet her .
It’d been expertly done, really. The wheedling, the hint of tears, the crack in her voice when she’d begged him to come with her, to let Michael have the night off because she wanted to spend time with him, complained that he’d been so busy lately, she missed him, her favorite brother.
The way her face had cleared up so perfectly the second he’d agreed should have tipped him off.
He’d been too blind to catch that one, too swept up in the way she actually wanted to spend time with him, even if it was at Daphne’s fashion show. That miss could be excused.
Missing the way she’d suggested he wear the black Armani suit, the one Daphne and Eloise forbid him to wear around their friends for the way it inspired riotous giggles was unforgivable. He’d lasted ten years as the head of an empire that had ended up killing his father. That kind of tenure was earned through sweat, blood, grit, and brains. Missing the way Franny was orchestrating events had exposed a blind spot.
A blind spot that Kate Sharma had crashed right into.
The night of the fashion show, London was stifling hot, thick gray clouds overhead, heavy with the promise of a tumultuous summer storm. It made Anthony’s blood hot, excitement zipping through his veins. Not even the exposure of sitting front row next to Francesca at a fashion show could distill the way the air felt expectant, like it too was waiting for something to happen.
Clad in the black suit Franny had suggested, Anthony fidgeted, eyes sweeping the crowd. They were front row, courtesy of their family name and connections to the designer herself. The space was dimly lit, all fire and flowers and fragrant smoke. Daphne had orchestrated a regency ball with so much sensuality it was a miracle Queen Charlotte didn’t rise from the grave to smite Daphne for sullying the purity of her social circles. Everywhere Antony looked, he was bombarded with beautiful people who just made him feel bored. His impending mortality had left him feeling apathetic, dull to the beauty of the woman who used to swarm his bed. Never mind his raging sex drive, Anthony was too busy with work and his family to fuck, too apathetic to woo a woman into his bed for the last couple of weeks.
Why he’d let Francesca convince him to give her bodyguard the night off and take Michael’s place was beyond him, attributable to the soft spot for his siblings they delighted in exploiting. All he wanted was to keep them safe, but nobody seemed to take him seriously. That may have been for the fact that he refused to share the details of his father’s death and subsequent attempts on Anthony’s own life with them. He knew Benedict knew, and Colin wasn’t as oblivious as he made himself out to be, but Anthony had killed to keep the rest of his family safe and out of the loop. The fact that Daphne was only behind the scenes here, not parading down the runway herself was a small miracle. Keeping Francesca away would’ve been impossible, but at least he was here, her safety resting on his shoulders, a familiar weight that made his chest swell with an odd mix of pride and responsibility.
Next to him, looking solemn and beautiful in a scarlet suit that Anthony was sure had cost him a small fortune, Francesca watched the array of stunning and serious people strutting down the runway with a critical expression. Maybe if Michael was here, she’d be whispering to her charming bodyguard, the only man who seemed to be able to crack Francesca’s shell completely.
Craning his neck to check behind them again, Anthony huffs impatiently. He didn’t give a fuck about fashion, even if it was his sister’s designs in front of them. Anybody with half a brain could see that Daphne was talented, he didn’t need a sexy regency show to prove it. The cascading silk and chiffon and feathers on the extremely unrealistic and unattainable to 99% of the population bodies did nothing for him. Half his mind was on their surroundings, the other half contemplating the mountain of papers he needed to sort through, the call he owed his solicitor, the way Thomas Dorset had popped up again.
“Calm down. It's almost over,” Francesca ordered without even looking at him, keeping her gaze on the elaborate garments and the talented models wearing them.
“How do you know that?” Anthony muttered back, stretching his long legs out in front of him.
“Because…” Francesca draws it out, obviously waiting for something before continuing, “Eddie is closing the show, and there she is!”
Anthony follows her gaze, eyes catching on the angelic woman seeming to float down the runway.
Objectively, she’s perfect. Beautiful skin glowing in the contrived firelight, curls dangling just so, cherubic glow on her youthful cheeks, dark eyes framed with long lashes, nothing but grace and elegance in the lines of her body in the blush pink gown that drapes her, giving her the air of a goddess. A diamond straight from the early 1800s, too beautiful for a modern world.
Beautiful, heartbreakingly beautiful doesn’t even begin to describe her.
He feels nothing.
Anthony looks for a second, takes it in, then proceeds to move his eyes back on the crowd around them. There’s a shift looking man standing against the wall across the runway from them, and Anthony can’t decide whether the man is someone’s bodyguard, or trouble. The music swells, the crowd murmuring at the spectacle in front of them, and then it’s over.
Anthony checks the time on his father’s vintage Patek Phillipe watch, counting the seconds until he can get Francesca out of this security nightmare, check on Daph, and get home.
This week has been stressful, between his siblings acting out on another level and the encroaching Cowper and Featherington presence at work. This fashion show is really just the icing on top. What he needs is a good fuck, something hard and rough and fast, that’ll leave fingernail marks down his back. Something to break his apathetic streak, to breathe life into him again. Absent-mindedly, he wonders if Siena would answer if he texted, or if he’d have to put the effort in to find someone else tonight.
Subtly, Francesca elbows him, bringing his thoughts back to the conclusion of the show. It’s customary for the designer to come out at the end, but it’s just the goddess on the stage, the one Franny had called Eddie, blowing kisses to the adoring crowd.
He should be grateful that Daphne isn’t that exposed, though he supposes that has more to do with Simon’s influence than his. As loath as he is to consider his best friend marrying his sister, at least Simon understands the danger the Bridgerton name brings to her. It was a weight he’d managed to save his siblings from, for the most part, but Simon had been around for the second attempt on Anthony’s life in the wake of his father’s death, and had managed to stop an attempt on Daphne’s before she’d even realized what was happening.
Funding the start of DB, now renamed DBBH, had been Anthony’s unspoken apology to his sister after he’d dashed her modeling dreams. Not even the heartbroken look on Anthony’s face after he’d shut it down before she could walk the Tom Ford runway had deterred him. The people he loved being alive was more important than them loving him back.
Given the way it’d already repaid him tenfold and put his sister on the map of up and coming designers at the tender age of 25, he supposed it was the best compromise they could’ve come up with.
“Time to go?” Anthony asked hopefully, ignoring the flood of models on the stage, picking up Francesca’s little handbag and thrusting it into her hands. She doesn’t take it.
“Anthony,” Francesca intoned, sounding too close to their mother for comfort, “Don’t be fucking rude. Clap for the models for one more minute, then we’ll go find Daph backstage when you stop being a paranoid cunt.”
“Did you just call me a cunt? If I tell Mother you said that, she’ll box your ears. Who the hell taught you to speak like that, Francesca?” Anthony doesn’t clap, staring at his vision of propriety younger sister, clapping serenely like she hadn’t just cursed at him like a seasoned sailor.
“You’re the one who hired the Scottish bodyguard, now deal with the consequences. Now it is time to go,” Francesca declares as the lights come back on, some inane pop song blaring over the speakers. She plucks her handbag out of his hand without a thank you, striding through the crowd like she owns the place. Which, Anthony supposes, she does, by virtue of her last name, the one he’d built for them.
If Francesca is this much of a quiet terror at the ripe age of 20, he can only pray that he really is dead before she comes into the power of her late twenties.
With a crack of his knuckles, he follows her, long legs eating up the head start she had on him. At the velvet rope gatekeeping backstage from the masses, they don’t even hesitate, nor do they get stopped. Francesca strides through, Anthony caught up and guarding her back now.
Backstage is a rush of activity, models shedding expensive clothes, production assistants picking them up, Daphne presiding over it all like a very well dressed dictator. Simon hovers at the edge of it, looking at his wife with a faint expression of adoration as she yells. For a second, Anthony hangs back, enjoying the sight of his sister in her element.
“Anthony! Franny! What a delight!” Comes an extremely familiar voice, followed immediately by the expected crush of weight against Anthony’s back.
If Colin wasn’t well known for this sort of surprise attack, he would’ve found himself in the hospital or an early grave, depending on which pocket Anthony moved for first. As it was, his older brother was well prepared, taking the brunt of the hug, even as Colin’s long arms went around Anthony’s shoulders and snagged Franny into the group hug too.
“Should’ve figured you’d be here, you git,” Anthony says, not without fondness, easily escaping his brother’s arms so that Francesca is the only one caught up in Colin’s embrace. If there was free food and beautiful women, like the backstage of Daphne’s show, Colin was sure to be found. Benedict and Eloise were at an art opening in Dublin, Mother and the two youngest with them. Their mother had declared Daph’s new line too sexy for teenage Greg and Hyacinth. After seeing the gowns and corsets, Anthony was inclined to agree.
“Yes, well, family should support family, and Daphne’s second London Fashion Week show is certainly a smashing success!” Colin bellows, the lack of volume modulation a well known facet of his brother Anthony has long gotten used to.
“Please, Colin, don’t pretend you’re not here to respectfully look at more than my clothes,” Daphne breezes into the conversation, gracing Anthony with a kiss on the cheek, Simon following her like a lost puppy.
Lost in the easy comradery of his family, Anthony keeps his eyes on the peripherals, tracking the movement around them. It wouldn’t do for them to be taken by surprise now, not when there’s four Bridgertons and a Hastings all in one spot. He tunes the conversation out, eyes around them, mind on business. Times like these, when everything felt too exposed, made him glad for the cold weight on his belt, the reassuring sharpness in his pocket.
He is dragged back into the conversation by the sound of his name.
“-Right, Anthony?” Francesca is prodding him, sounding too innocent for her own good.
Rather than be exposed for his blatant inattention, Anthony agrees, effectively signing himself up for the end of his known world.
“Oh, yes, quite right, Francesca,” Anthony hurries to agree, zoning back into the conversation a touch too late.
“Oh! Well in that case, you simply must meet my newest friends, the delightful Sharmas!” Colin trills, hand darting out and seemingly pulling the model who’d closed the show out of thin air.
“Anthony, this is Edwina Sharma, my newest friend. Eddie, this is Anthony, my oldest bear of a brother, and you know my incandescent little sister, Francesca,” Colin wraps his arm around the girl, at least a foot shorter than him, much shorter than the typical high fashion model. Still, up close, Edwina is just as lovely as she was on the runway. She’s out of the silk contraption Daphne had her in, glad in a simple peach set that makes her skin glow like a bronze statue. Her cheeks are flushed, lips spread in an easy and cheerful smile.
Anthony is struck all over again by how perfect she is, all the more aware of how little he feels about it. It’s like looking at a painting that evokes zero emotion besides a bland appreciation of the beauty therein.
“Oh! Hello, pleasure to meet you, Anthony,” Edwina smiles at them, an objectively killer smile.
“Edwina simply smashed the ending, didn’t she? I was so lucky to get her, Eddie’s the most in-demand model in fashion right now,” Daphne gushes, smiling at her model.
“Very beautiful,” Anthony says shortly, now rather desperate to be home with a very expensive scotch in hand.
“Eddie was beautiful, but made even more so from your gown, simply sublime, Daph,” Simon flatters his wife, kissing the top of her head.
Anthony rolls his eyes, earning another elbow from Francesca. “Don’t sidetrack the conversation, Simon. Anthony had finally admitted-”
Anthony is saved from whatever it was that he’d apparently admitted rather than own up to his own lack of attention on the conversation by another outburst from Colin. He doesn’t miss the way Colin and Francesca exchange a glance that sets his teeth grinding.
“Oh! On that note, where is your dear sister, Miss Edwina?”
Edwina smiles impishly, a grin that reminds Anthony at once of Eloise.
“Oh, Kate’s around here somewhere, fielding questions from reporters for me or some such nonsense. Anthony, have you met my sister?” Edwina’s voice sounds innocent, but from the way Francesca is trying and failing to hide a smile, Anthony knows he needs his guard to be up. He’s seen that look before on his younger siblings and it has never once ended well for him.
“Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure yet,” he grits out, catching a burst of movement in his peripheral vision.
He turns just in time to see someone wrap a long fingered, elegant hand around Edwina’s elbow, rings glinting at every finger.
“Bon, we have an interview with Vogue in 3 minutes, Penelope is waiting, we really should be going,” a melodic voice speaks, talking fast.
With an exhale, Anthony forces himself to unwrap his hand from the cold steel of the gun at his hip. Annoyed at having been surprised into a reaction he would’ve regretted in present company, he turns to face the newcomer.
It’s like being struck by lightning.
The woman in front of him is stunning, a collection of sharp edges, flawless skin, a short purple skirt, legs so long they short circuit his brain. She’s tall, made even taller by the strappy heels that make Anthony want. His gaze travels upward, catching on her collarbone, the fullness of her lips. By the time he reaches her eyes, he’s already lost, the dark depths just sucking him in that much further, framed by the most impressive lashes he’s ever seen.
She also looks distinctly irritated, and it’s then that Anthony realizes he’s been staring and once again lost the trail of the conversation. Their eye contact seems to have set up shop in veins, a sizzling electricity traveling between their gazes.
Colin slaps a hand over his back, jolting him back to reality. “As I was saying, Anthony, this is Kate Sharma, Edwina’s distinguished older sister.”
“ You’re her sister?” Anthony can’t help the incredulous tone, eyes darting back and forth between the now scowling Kate and the beaming Edwina. Both women are beautiful, that much is obvious, but in very different ways. Where Edwina is small and graceful and traditionally beautiful, Kate is stunning, the kind that knocks you over flat with its edges and digs into your brain. Edwina is beautiful like a painting, but Kate is beautiful like a wildfire. Anthony’s eyes gloss over Edwina, and he can’t stop staring at Kate, drawn to her like a magnet.
Immediately, it becomes obvious this is the wrong thing to say. Kate stiffens, back somehow going even straighter. Anthony is aware that he’s fucked up, but isn’t quite sure where.
“Is that so shocking to believe?” Kate snaps, voice like a whip.
“No, I didn’t think-” Anthony starts, but she doesn’t even bother to let him finish before cutting him off.
“Obviously. I doubt a thought has ever crossed those eyes,” She crosses her arms over her chest, making it incredibly hard to keep his eyes on her face. Really, Anthony is over thirty, he shouldn’t be worried about the way a woman’s body is affecting him in public. What was it about this woman?
“Believe me, there’s plenty of thoughts behind these eyes,” Anthony says in the same tone of voice that gets even the most stubborn and fearless of men to bend to his will, deep and dark and vaguely threatening.
“Nothing of substance, I’m sure,” Kate snaps back, eyes flashing.
“You don’t even know me,” Anthony half growls out, irritated at the way she won’t even give him a chance. He’s getting angry, that short fuse of a temper that he thought he’d cooled years ago. Logically, he’s aware of the way they’re in public, and his siblings are watching this like the best tennis match they’ve ever had the pleasure to witness. It doesn’t stop him from taking a step towards her, aiming to intimidate.
Kate Sharma does not back down, notching her chin up towards him to maintain that loaded eye contact.
“I know plenty about you, Anthony Bridgerton,” Kate bites out with a frighteningly superior air.
“From what, Lady fucking Whistledown? She doesn’t know anything about me,” Anthony’s voice is gruff, angry, simmering.
“Lady Whistledown, your own siblings, personal observations, take your pick. The outcome is the same in the end. Don’t talk to me, and especially don’t talk to Edwina. Over my dead body, Bridgerton,” Kate seethes, and Anthony is taken aback by the venom in her voice before she turns to his sister, the picture of decorum, “Daphne, another extraordinary show. Can’t thank you enough for having Eddie finish it. Simon, your wife is a genius,” Kate beams up at his sister, the smile transforming all her sharp edges into something he can’t tear his eyes away from.
Fuck. She insulted him in the same breath that she used to make his sister light up like a beacon at the praise. He’s only known her for less than a minute and he can already tell Kate Sharma is not someone who gives out compliments for the sake of making someone feel better.
“Over your dead body what, Sharma? You behave like a lady in public?” Anthony’s voice has that edge Hyacinth calls “scary.”
Kate doesn’t even deign to look at him. “Colin, Benedict and I are going to La Pravata tomorrow when he gets back, I expect to see your dumbass there. Franny, you are a joy, and I can’t believe you’re related to these imbeciles. Newton misses you, bring Greg over on Thursday morning. Michael too?”
Francesca grins, that sly thing that makes alarm shoot through Anthony’s bones all over again. “We’ll be there, Kate.”
“Excuse me, why are you inviting my 16 year old brother to your home?” Anthony is lost. He hasn’t done any background, hasn’t made sure this woman isn't a threat to his family, yet somehow, she seems to know every single one of them.
Kate gives Anthony an up and down look, just moving her eyes in what might have been the most condescending motion anyone’s dared give him in the last 10 years. He’s fairly certain he’s broken bones for less.
With a sniff, she grabs Edwina’s elbow again, dismissing him entirely.
“Time to go, Eddie, can’t keep Vogue waiting,” Kate declares, exchanging goodbyes with his family like he’s not even there.
Edwina smiles apologetically before being whisked away in the wake of her sister, leaving Anthony behind.
His jaw might be hanging open. He hasn’t been so blatantly disrespected since he took over for his father. Still, he watches her leave, those legs miles long, moving beneath the tight skirt of her purple outfit with intention. With regret, he notices how well shaped her ass is, knowing the sight will be stamped in his brain tonight.
Around him, Anthony’s family is laughing at him, all too pleased with the way Kate Sharma handled him. As much as he wants to, he can’t bring himself to put them back in their place, too focused on watching Kate throw her curls over her shoulder as Edwina speaks to Penelope Featherington, the only Featherington worth a damn.
Vogue.
Good for Penelope. Eloise had been crowing nonstop about how proud of her best friend she was, Anthony just tended to block out Eloise’s crowing.
“What the fuck just happened?” Anthony snarled.
He was rewarded by the cackle of his sister’s laughter.
“That, dear brother, was you meeting your match,” Daphne somehow got out between spurts of laughter.
“That wasn’t meeting my match, that was meeting the devil’s most recent incarnation,” he muttered back, just earning himself more laughter. Really, he thought this was an overreaction. The situation wasn’t funny at all. Anyone who knew anything in London was afraid of him, yet here was his family, laughing at his casual dismissal from a beautiful woman.
“Well, when you’re a solicitor by 26, managing your sister’s burgeoning modeling career after raising her by yourself, I think you’re allowed a little of the devil inside of you,” Simon noted, that glint in his eye that spelled trouble. Last time Anthony had seen it, they’d been pointing guns at each other across a dark park. That had ended up with a million pound diamond on his sister’s finger, so Anthony didn’t like his chances here.
His eyes drift across the room against his will, catching on the way Kate Sharma manages the swarm of people surrounding her sister. She’s fierce and protective, obvious pride on her face when she looks at her sister.
Fuck. He feels the stirrings low in his gut, feels the storm brewing in his brain now, the apathy of earlier in the evening long forgotten. Anthony knows he’s staring, but he can’t stop now.
“See? I told you, you and Benedict better pay up,” Francesca is smugly instructing behind him, but Anthony can’t tear his eyes away from Kate Sharma and her gravitational field long enough to tell her off.