roguishcat - Tumblr blog

roguishcat · 5 days ago

Text

Chapter Two - The Diamond and the Devil

Fandoms: Baldur's Gate 3 (Bridgerton AU)

Pairing: Viscount!Astarion x Debutante!Reader

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Chapter Two Tags: Slight Angst, Fluff, Gifts, Rumors, Astarion is bold, your brothers are furious, and your Mother is worried.

Word Count: Around 1500

Written For: Baldur's Gate 3 Regency Week Challenge Created By @lady-sapphyre

Squares/Prompts Filled: Baldur's Gate 3 Regency Week 2025 Day 2 - A Surprise Caller / A Peaceful Promenade

Dividers By: @/saradika-graphics

Astarion Art By: @demonicxtyrant

A/N: Here's chapter two, lovelies! Let me know if you wanna be added to my Astarion tag list! ❤️

The morning sun filtered through the tall windows of your family’s Mayfair residence, casting light across the cream-colored carpet and gilded moldings.

You sat with perfect posture, clad in the softest blush-pink muslin day dress, your hair pinned with mother-of-pearl combs, and your face schooled into sweet civility, even as you fielded your fourth caller before noon.

Tea had been poured. Your mother was perched like a hawk beside the pianoforte. Edmund stood like a statue near the hearth, and Thomas had taken it upon himself to polish his fencing blade in the corner, clearly trying to appear as threatening as possible.

“Yes, Lord Pembroke,” you said with a soft smile, nodding demurely as he fumbled with his teacup, “the Queen was indeed very gracious. I’m honored she named me her Diamond.”

“Oh-oh indeed!” he stammered, cheeks flushed. “You…you shone like Venus herself, truly. I...well...should you ever wish to attend Vauxhall…”

Edmund cleared his throat sharply.

Lord Pembroke jolted upright, nearly spilling his tea.

You hid your smile behind your teacup.

By midday, there had been four more.

Lord Timothy Whitethorne, the second son of a Viscount, whose family was hoping to find him a respectable match to distract him from his “artistic whims.” He bowed low, swept your hand up in both of his, and declared you:

“A celestial creature fallen from the very seams of the firmament.”

Your brother Edmund coughed into his fist.

He went on to recite a poem, his composition, of course, in which he rhymed ‘maiden’ with ‘unladen’ and ‘heart’s desire’ with ‘funeral pyre.’

By the end, your mother was smiling tightly, and Thomas looked like he might throw a pillow.

“That was…intense,” you offered kindly.

“I write from the soul,” he whispered, eyes wide and yearning.

“Perhaps you ought to try writing from the brain,” Edmund muttered.

Next came Sir Reginald Haversford, whose boots gleamed with fresh polish and smelled vaguely of lavender oil and too much ambition.

He greeted your mother first, already trying to win favor, and bowed precisely, the way etiquette manuals prescribed. You suspected he practiced in mirrors.

“My lady, might I say you have the bearing of Helen of Troy and the complexion of fresh cream?”

“You may not,” you replied lightly, sipping your tea.

Unperturbed, he leaned in, lowering his voice.

“I should like to accompany you to the theatre this week. I’ve already secured a private box.”

Your mother’s eyebrow lifted. “Rather presumptuous, don’t you think?”

“I find confidence is often rewarded.”

“Yes,” Thomas muttered. “And arrogance often leads to a punch.”

Sir Reginald smiled, unbothered, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You gave him a gentle smile and asked, “What’s your opinion on last season’s scandal between the Viscount of Elcombe and Lady Hathaway?”

He blinked. “Er…I wasn’t aware there was one.”

“Exactly,” you replied, sweetly dismissing him with a sip.

Lord Henry Dunmoor was, clearly, not prepared to be in the same room as you.

He tripped over the edge of the rug as he bowed, dropped his calling card twice, and called your brother sir three times, once even to Thomas, who was only three years older than him.

“I-I think it’s very brave of you to, uh, be so…um…fashionable?” he tried, voice cracking mid-sentence.

“That’s very kind,” you said warmly, unable to help your smile.

He blushed so fiercely that his ears went pink.

“I-I brought you these,” he stammered, thrusting a bouquet of daisies at you with such force, petals scattered like snow across your gown.

Thomas leaned toward Edmund. “I almost feel bad for this one.”

“He won’t survive another five minutes in here,” Edmund replied.

You accepted the flowers with gracious calm, even as Henry nearly knocked over a side table on his way out.

The one that nearly earned a second glance was Mr. Elias Greaves, the soft-spoken son of a well-respected antiquarian.

He brought a slim leather-bound book as a gift, a collection of translated elven poetry, and spoke with a warm timbre, his hands moving with nervous honesty as he explained his favorite lines.

“I thought…perhaps this verse reminded me of you. Not the words themselves, but the sense of it. The stillness behind beauty.”

That one you did smile at, genuinely.

“Thank you, Mr. Greaves. That’s a lovely thought.”

Edmund approved. Your mother, too. Thomas even grudgingly said, “At least this one reads.”

But as sweet as Mr. Greaves was…there was no fire. No curl of danger. No spark of awareness in your belly.

And so the day wore on, one caller after another. They smiled and stumbled, recited and rambled, gifted you handkerchiefs, painted miniatures, sweets, pressed flowers, and once even a framed sketch of a horse “He reminded me of your grace,” the gentleman had explained. Your mother needed a full glass of wine after that one.

But your heart remained untouched.

Until the final caller.

It was just after seven when the butler entered once again.

He bowed, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes.

“Viscount Ancunin,” he announced.

The room went still.

You rose slowly, heart thrumming, as he entered.

No coat or cane, no flourish or pretension. Just Astarion, clad in a dark tailored frock coat that clung to his form like a second skin, blood-red silk cravat at his throat, and gloves the color of onyx. A single curl had fallen forward over his brow.

His crimson eyes flicked over the room once, taking in your mother, your furious brothers, and then settled on you.

“My lady,” he said, bowing low, “you look positively radiant tonight.”

You inclined your head, voice calm despite the sudden fluttering in your chest. “Viscount Ancunin.”

“Astarion,” he corrected gently, and from the gleam in his eye, you could tell he loved the game, this careful dance of propriety and defiance.

From behind you, Edmund took a step forward. “I’m afraid my sister is quite fatigued from the day’s-”

“I’ve brought her a gift,” Astarion interrupted smoothly, holding out a small velvet-wrapped box. “Something to ease the exhaustion.”

Your mother’s lips tightened.

You took the box without hesitation, fingers brushing his gloved ones, and oh, he lingered just long enough to make your skin burn.

Inside was a delicate silver bracelet, shaped like coiled ivy leaves, dotted with garnets. Deep red. Like blood.

Like the rose.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmured.

“I thought it might suit your complexion,” he said, eyes sliding to your bare wrist. “Might I?”

You nodded, breath catching, and he stepped closer, undoing the clasp with skilled fingers and fastening it around your wrist with exquisite care. His touch lingered just a heartbeat too long.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Edmund snapped, breaking the spell.

“And yet, here I am,” Astarion replied, entirely unfazed.

His eyes met yours again. “May I request the honor of your company for a short promenade?”

The air snapped tight.

Edmund stepped forward again, voice hard. “You can’t just waltz in here with trinkets and charm and expect-”

“I expect nothing,” Astarion replied lightly. “I merely ask. Lady Y/N is free to say no.”

“Absolutely not,” Thomas said, stepping forward. “Not without a full escort. We’re not fools, Ancunin. We know what happened in Bath. And in Suffolk.”

“Ah,” Astarion said lightly, “the rumors. They do travel faster than carriages these days.”

He looked to you again.

“I make no excuses, my lady. I simply request a walk. With your family’s loyal guardsmen close behind, of course.”

You smiled, not coyly, but with quiet, steel-laced decision.

“I would enjoy some air.”

Fifteen minutes later, you stepped out into the gardens, your hand resting in the crook of Astarion’s arm. The sky had darkened into soft lavender, stars beginning to pierce the velvet overhead. Your slippers whispered against the grassy path as you walked beneath wrought iron arches tangled with night-blooming jasmine.

Your brothers followed at a distance, seething in silence.

Astarion leaned closer.

“They would sooner set me on fire than let me near you.”

“They don’t like you,” you murmured.

“They shouldn’t,” he said with a smile. “They’re right not to.”

You turned to glance at him.

“You don’t deny the rumors, then?”

He was quiet for a beat.

“Some of them are exaggerated. Some…are not.”

Then, softly, “but I have never ruined anyone who did not wish to be ruined.”

Your heart thudded.

He turned to face you beneath a flowering arbor.

“I am not a good man,” he said, voice like smoke and velvet. “I never will be. But I am entranced by you, my diamond. And I will not pretend otherwise.”

You looked up at him, this elegant, mysterious man who wore danger like a crown, and felt the first ache of real desire coil low in your belly.

Your brothers’ footsteps scuffed behind you. A cough. A clearing throat. A warning.

But you stood firm.

“Then I suppose we shall see,” you said quietly. “Whether I wish to be ruined at all.”

The hour was late.

The hall outside your chamber had finally gone silent, no more footsteps pacing, no more brothers arguing, no more doors slamming or whispering behind fans. The drawing room battles were over, your mother’s nerves soothed with a fresh glass of wine, and your brothers sent to bed with stern looks and unfinished threats still simmering on their tongues.

But you were wide awake.

Wrapped in your nightgown and robe, you sat on the cushioned window seat of your chamber, forehead resting lightly against the cool glass pane, the city beyond cloaked in silver shadows. London was quieter now, its lantern-lit streets dim with the hush of midnight.

Your fingers toyed absently with the ivy leaves of the bracelet resting on your wrist.

Garnets.

Blood red.

They're dark as wine, rich as sin.

You hadn’t taken it off since he fastened it there, hadn’t dared. It felt like a claim tethered to your skin, tingling with suggestion.

You could still feel the ghost of his fingertips, the press of his thumb against your wrist as he closed the clasp.

It shouldn’t still be on your wrist.

And yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to remove it.

Because this...this felt like a secret just for you. A silent promise that bypassed all the pomp and protocol of the Season.

He hadn’t brought a calling card.

He hadn’t left a note.

He had left only a single blood-red rose, its petals soft as a lover’s whisper, its meaning unmistakable.

No gentleman would have been so bold.

And no proper young lady would have accepted.

You curled your legs under yourself and sighed, the hem of your nightdress spilling like cream across the window seat cushion. The air was cool, but your skin burned, warmed by the memory of his voice, the way it curled around your name like silk dipped in wine.

His words haunted you. Not because they shocked you, but because…they thrilled you.

“It’s cruel, really…to shine so brightly, and still be unaware of how many men would damn themselves to possess you.”

The rest of the night had passed in a whirlwind. The moment the front door closed behind Viscount Ancunin, your brothers had erupted.

The drawing room had practically shaken with the force of their outrage.

“He should not have been allowed entry!”

“Did you see the way he looked at her?”

“He’s dangerous, Mother, you know what they say about him!”

You hadn’t spoken much. You hadn’t needed to.

“He’s playing some game, and she’s the pawn,” Thomas insisted.

But you weren’t a pawn. Not anymore.

Because no game ever felt this electric.

No polite caller ever made your knees soften with just a glance.

No well-mannered prince or awkward baron had ever made you feel like the air was charged, like every moment was one heartbeat away from shattering into something…forbidden.

You touched the rose again, where it now lay in a crystal vase beside your bed. Its scent still lingered, spiced, sweet, and dark like something from a faraway story.

You should have been frightened.

You should have listened.

But their warnings slid from your heart like rainwater.

Because if he was dangerous, if he was the villain of every debutante’s whispered cautionary tale…

Then why did you already hope to be next?

Outside your window, a cloud passed the moon.

And for a fleeting second, the city fell into complete shadow.

You shivered.

Not from cold.

From anticipation.

And in the silence of your room, your fingers traced the garnet bracelet once more, lips parting with a breathless murmur.

“What are you, Astarion Ancunin?”