#qcabs fanfic

[bohemian-nights]

Chapter 5 Lady Danbury

Word count: ~6,599

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Lord Ledger x Lady Danbury

Description: The new Lady Agatha Danbury was decidedly not happy. Neither was Lord Ledger. Perhaps they might find a bit of happiness in each other.

AN: This is a Lord Ledger x Lady Danbury AU fic. Some plot lines from Queen Charlotte: A Bridgerton Story have been axed 🪓

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4,

“You know my dear, you ought to try to find a husband among our side of the Ton.” That is how Lady Allen began when her maid had placed a tea tray in front of them. Dismissing herself with a bow. Causing Agatha to burn her tongue on the hot liquid as well as the roof of her mouth as she forced herself to down the remaining burning liquid. Nearly choking trying to compose herself. Feeling a wave of nausea that was all too common these days. Barely managing to swallow it in her haste.                                  

The older woman before had taken to calling upon the Danbury estate for tea. Calling herself a friend which one can never have too many of. Especially one who was her senior and fashioned herself into a motherly figure which she lacked. “You can not say I have not provided you with wisdom in your time of need Agatha.” Her wisdom though in this case, why she would even deign to say such a thing, was worrying. 

People talk. People always talk. Gossip was currency. Especially among the Ton. One would always take note of their surroundings. I saw Lord Calthorpe disappear halfway through the hunt with her footman. They were gone for hours. Lady Flinching said she saw them come back from the wood practically naked.

Lady Byron did not take ill. I heard she fled to France with Lord Bellings' eldest son. Not before the boy and her husband partook in a dual, as was his right. That is the reason for Lord Byron’s limp. The wrong word, the wrong rumor, true or not, could ruin one’s reputation beyond repair. It was so easy to fall. To falter. 

The Ton were no better than bloodhounds. Ready to pounce at the first whiff. A friend today was a foe tomorrow. If one felt slighted, a long-held grudge from past grievances, a debt owed, or even felt that they could gain something from it, those secrets would be traded around the Ton like the sweetest chocolates from Belgium and Turkish delights to children. Feasting upon the overripe fruit that had fallen off the tree of other's lives with glee. 

But no one could know of her own indiscretions. It was impossible for Lady Allen to know.  Agatha was just being paranoid. They had been careful. Her father did not even know and he lived under her roof nor their servants, With the exception of Coral, who only had a vague sense of just what her mistress got up to on her exceedingly long evening walks which sometimes lasted until the morning. 

She’d of course take her secrets to the grave, but no other soul had any idea. Lady Allen could not know so Agatha proceeded with caution. It was the best course of action. Give nothing away and nothing can be gained or used and dangled over her head like a carrot on a stick just out of reach as she tried to work for it doing whatever she bid and even then that carrot might be given to another and she tossed to the judgment of the hounds. 

“I do not believe anyone on your side of the Ton would have me for a wife.” She took another sip of her tea. This time she blew upon the drink, cooling it to avoid imparting further damage. Though it, unlike her tongue, would heal, a burn from a scorched name however would be fatal. A permanent stain that no amount of scrubbing from even the most experienced of Buckingham House maids would let out. 

“Nonsense, why Lord Allen would marry young in a heartbeat if I were to drop dead now he'd take you to wife on the morrow.” To that, Agatha did not contain her emotion. Levity returned to her. She let out the breath she held in with her laughter that had nearly caused her to burn her tongue once more. An entirely unbecoming moment for a lady, but she was relieved. Lady Allen did not join her in said laughter, but her green eyes told of her amusement.  She did not know just how much that smirk meant to her younger host. 

Agatha did not doubt that Lord Allen would not mind her for a wife, but he was not a very picky man. Provided that the lady in question was at least twenty years, preferably, thirty years his junior with a handsome face. He would most certainly not complain. 

None of the men who were like him would not mind. Those who had a gaggle of children. They had their heirs. There was no worry that her bloodline would inherit their estates even if she did manage to pop out a babe or two. A wife for pleasure would be what they wanted. 

“Laugh if you like Agatha, but do not doubt your own desirability.” She took a sip of her drink as her amusement grew. “You my dear have the pick of the lot.” The corners of her painted mouth curled.  Like a cat that had gotten into the cream. “That is of course if Prince Adolphus has not proposed by the end of the season.” Agatha's smile faded just the slightest while Lady Allen’s smirk shined on. Feeling her nausea once more returning.  She meant well for all her gossiping she meant well, but the reminder unnerved her rather than ease her from her worries. 

What should be a happy reminder, that there was more to Agatha’s life than the management and upkeep of her most intimate and precious secret.

Where his sister, after her most recent bid at escape, seeking refuge at the Danbury residence before she was reclaimed and reminded of her position, had grown distant, Prince Adolphus was more than friendly. The queen's brother was a kind man. He did not speak over her nor talk down to her as if a child. He did not stare at her breast or hips as if he were imagining what they looked like free from the confines of the intricate layers that made up her dress and stays. As naked as the day she was born. 

Prince Adolphus was polite. Easy going. Easy to talk to. He had a zeal for life. He was ever attentive. He enjoyed having actual conversations. He enjoyed listening to her opinions, took note of them, and asked for them regularly.

He was well. groomed. Pleasing to look at with his tawny skin that spoke of his Moorish background and frequent exercise. Complimented by his dark eyes that held a million smiles. Not a hair was out of place upon his person. Neither age nor drink had touched his physique. Instead, he was toned from riding as well as fencing activities which he took up at his leisure. 

He was tall. Taller than her even with the height of her heels and several of her sun hats. Though Agatha was not a very tall woman herself it was nice to look up to a friendly face. 

There was but a mere three and half years between them. He had his own lands, title, and estate that could not be taken out from under him on the whims of a fickle crown. 

He was a good man. A great man. Not at all like the late Lord Danbury, but he was not at all like another Lord either, and while she knew he would make an excellent husband she did not know if she could picture herself as his wife and all that it entailed. Nonetheless, he had his uses. 

Perhaps cruel to some degree to use him primarily for her own regard, but Agatha did find his company exceedingly pleasant. She did not have to force herself to endure his presence and in the words of Coral who had given her a pointed look as she had said it, “It is a good idea to keep your options open my lady.”  

She could not be too choosy. Not when her very future hung in the balance. Not when securing her nephew's title from a reluctant crown seemed as if it was a fool's errand and her own prospects even dimmer. So what of it if her mind drifted to another for a moment or two while she was in the duke's company? 

His courtship was certainly preferable to others her father dug up and perhaps in another life she would embrace it to the fullest extent. He kept the lions at bay who saw her as nothing more than a vessel for their ambition so she welcomed his attention as any woman in her position would. 

She was thankful for it, but by all accounts, she should worship him. Meet his courtship with unencumbered glee. He was the answer to prayers. Her salvation and yet there was something, something in his person, that stopped her from getting upon her knees to give her thanks like a feverish catholic to the very image of the Madonna. Something which she could not name nor would she waste her breath doing such at that moment. 

Agatha put everything out of her mind when Lady Allen finally took her leave. Once she had emptied the contents of her stomach into her chamberpot. Coral held her raven curls back with a slight frown, but she did not chastise for it. Merely asking as she rubbed soothing circles into her back in a maternal fashion, “Would you like for me to order the cook to make you some ginger tea my lady?” 

They had come to an agreement, after a spat a week past that had ended in a whispered match so as not to be overheard, “This is like the last time. Perhaps we should send for the doctor,” that it was a matter to be dealt with later. Although that later was steadily catching up for now it was how she dealt with the delicate balance that had become the amalgamation of her life. 

Agatha felt herself breathe easier once she had made it into the fields beyond her house. Taking her steps two at a time. Practically sprinting down the narrow lane. It was later than when she usually headed out. The moon's light barely illuminated the path ahead of her. If she had not known it well she would have surely stumbled over her boots. 

It startled her to see the lights had not been lit in that little cottage that had become their sanctuary when she reached the clearing. Well, less of a shock and more of a disappointment, but she ventured on with bated breath. Hoping that the lord had not left in her prolonged absence or he had been kept from her. She dreaded that thought. Pushing images of a certain tight-lipped grimace and a set of ice-blue eyes that seemed to follow her at during their teas with the queen out from her mind. 

In her haste, Agatha had thrown open the newly replaced wooden door to see a single lit candle placed on the end table by the bed. She felt her disappointment reach its climax gazing around the ill-lit one-room cottage when a warm masculine hand was thrown over her face. 

Backing her into his hold as he shut the door. Reigning open-mouthed kisses from her neck down to her ample bosom. Heaving with fright and heat that radiated out from her core. A heat which the cautious part of her mind, the one prone to worrying, told her not to give in, though it was hard to do so with the wandering arm that snaked itself around her middle drew her closer. 

She began to struggle in his strong grip until her nameless pushed her head back, exposing more of her heated skin to gaze up at him. A familiar set of darkened near onyx chestnut eyes greeted her. Catching her shock with his lips he pulled her further into him with a kiss that took what was left of her breath away. Not stopping until the need for air forced them to part. Even then he took to renewing his attention, lavishing it onto the sensitive skin behind her ear. 

“What kept you away from me sweet one?” He had asked between kisses. His voice was thick with arousal and a hint of relief. 

Agatha had swallowed a moan that desperately wanted to be let out in an effort to answer his query. It was ultimately a fool's errand for the lord before she enveloped her full lips against his once more. She lost all train of thought at his tongue licking at the roof of her mouth. Causing her knees to buckle as she felt that wanting ache in the pit of her belly grew. She gripped his forearm firmly wrapped around her middle though she knew that he would never let her fall. 

The lord who had dispensed of his waistcoat and cravat, made quick work to strip her out of the layers of fabric that made up her satin violet dress. A gracious and most welcome allowance due to her now that she was officially out of mourning. Her stays, stockings, and garter were thrown at odd ends of the room. 

At some point, she must have clawed at his shirt as half the buttons on his tunic had been opened. However, they were still left in an unequal state of undress as Agatha was as naked as a babe. A fact which she wished to remedy but the man who was working her into a frenzy would not allow her to. 

Instead, her lover wasted no time in gathering her up in his arms in a way one might a bride, though she did not try to dwell too much on that little detail, and focused instead on the delightfully overwhelming presence of his person. 

He deposited her gently, which contrasted with the intensity in which he petted and caressed her, on the bed that sat at the room's center. Despite his age and build he was surprisingly robust, but Agatha supposed he was a rather active man and he was more solid than truly out of shape. 

It did not seem possible, but his eyes only darkened when he gazed upon her bare heated figure spread out before him. Not taking his eyes off her as his hands went to undo his breeches, throwing them along with his tunic to join her garments in the far corner of the room. His erect member sprung free, greeting her as he moved closer.

“Touch yourself for me my sweet.”  She let out a whine that sounded like a mad woman to her own ears at his command. Her lover did not seem to mind it. There was no shame in it. Proprietary had long since abandoned them for the bliss that they gave one another. 

Agatha of course had felt some embarrassment when she had first touched herself in that intimate place. Had nearly collapsed into herself at his first suggestion. No matter if she was a widow nearing thirty, her governess’s lessons, a Christian need for modesty or the appearance of it, the fear of the sinful nature of lust could not be undone in an hour or two spent in each other's company. 

That place was meant to bring her husband pleasure. To birth his children. It was not meant for her own joy. She had thought so until he had sat her down on his lap at the edge of the bed and he pried open her thighs in front of a mirror he brought in and whispered encouragement into her ear as she brought herself to completion. “That's my beauty.” 

In her haze, she barely registered that her lord had come to her.  It was not until he had pulled her drenched fingers from within her warmth and licked a strip down her soaked folds that she realized he had joined her on their bed. “I wish to have my dessert.”  He did not wait for her to grace him with a reply.  Her protest for him not to tease and to take her as she was, for she was more than ready to receive him, turned into a moan. 

How could it not when his warm muscle so reverently lapped at her folds. Like a man dying from thirst. As if the damp meeting place between her chestnut thighs held an overflowing fountain laced with honey wine that he had been the cause of. Each lap sent a tiny shockwave radiating through her. Building up until they became a rapturous tsunami of pulsing ecstasy. 

By the time he entered her Agatha had become a miasma of molten ecstasy. She would have curled herself into a ball from his lappings at her soaked cunny if it had not been for the fact that Anthony had taken hold of her hands. Bringing one to rest in his graying waves and pinning the other at the side of her head as he rendered her incapable of speech with his tongue and fingers. 

She had nothing to compare him to. No one apart from the late Lord Danbury and that was not a fair comparison. Their couplings had never been half as pleasant and often bordered upon painful. Counting the minutes until her lord husband finished and she could be away from him. Watch off that odious stench he left her with, but the man inside her was different. 

Agatha had never been left with such a wondrous ache before him. A want to feel his bare skin upon her own. A need to be filled. To be torn apart and put back together over and over. To be left boneless yet yearning for more. Never wanting to part from him. To be apart from him, it thrilled and frightened her all the same. For she knew the dangers of that want. 

She had tried picturing Prince Adolphus once in his place.  While she was alone in her bed. Restless at the hour of the devil. It had made her feel queasy. So very odd. Her thoughts soon enough turned back to him and all felt right. 

She had come with his name whispered upon her lips. She knew she was gone. Had fallen into a hole which she could not or did not want to climb out from, but at that moment she did not care.  

It was his weight upon her that calmed Agatha in the most serene way that she had not known possible. She felt safe under him. In his arms. Surrounding her in him.  His smell. His taste. His touch. He stretched her in ways she did not think she could be. Taught her things that she had not known existed. Which she now could not live. 

He was close. She could tell now by how he deepened his thrusts. Chasing their high. How his thumb upon her pearl increased the intensity of the circles he drew into the erect little bundle of nerves. How his kisses had grown sloppy as his lips and tongue would not part from her mouth. 

She could tell by that deep grumble that he meant to pull away and empty his spend on her stomach but she drew her closer. Wrapping her legs around his middle and pulling his heated skin flush against her so that no space separated them. There could be no harm in it if her condition was as she suspected.

“Let go Anthony.” Agatha managed to moan into his ear as she began to pulse around him just as her body gave in to the pleasure it received. He was powerless to stop. To leave her warmth. He could not leave. Not when she fluttered against him. Her soaked cunny tightened around his rigid member. No, he was too far gone to leave her. He spilled into her with a groan of her name. 

She had thought he would be cross with her for it now that they lay in the afterglow. He had done so once before. Chastising her in his quiet way. Peppering a dozen kisses into her skin as he did so. “We must be careful, sweet one.” He had failed to heed his own warnings in their rendezvous that followed and now they were here where it no longer mattered. 

Agatha was the first to break the quiet. “Lady Allen.” She began still catching her breath. Wincing silently at the feel of the emptiness and the steady leak of his spent making its way upon her thighs and the sheets below. She nuzzled herself deeper into the heated slightly tanned skin at his neck wishing to remain in his hold. Resting her lips there as she made a silent prayer that the sun would never come out. “She is what kept me from you.” 

Agatha did not know entirely what possessed her to answer his question when there was no longer a need to. Perhaps it was the fact that she was still reeling from her conversation with Lady Allen and Coral's silent disapproval and worry over her. 

Or it was her general malaise these days of late or the million and one things upon her mind that swam back to the foreground. Or perhaps it was the fact the sun would make its appearance in a few hours and she must rise with it and she dreaded that most of all. Away from the vividness she had here with him and back to the muted shades of her life. Back to worrying over her precarious position and trying to secure her nephews. 

“She came over for tea and she could not stop babbling about how I will be married by the end of the season.” Agatha held her breath. Lifting her head off of the love-soaked skin slightly to scan his face. Waiting for his reply. 

Time slowed. It seemed an age before he let out a sigh into her hair. Placing a kiss into her frizzled coils as he gently stroked her forearm with the back of his calloused hand.  He did not miss a beat. They knew one another too well for him not to catch onto her unspoken meaning. The unspoken party.  “Perhaps you should not be so cavalier about the Prince's affections towards you.” 

At his words, instead of the rush of air that Agatha had hoped would revive her, she felt only a dark ever-growing pit.  A dark pit which her heart sank into. Her lover seemed to realize his mistake, for he began to make amends by brushing more kisses into her dark mane. 

“I only wish to see you happy Agatha.” Agatha. A small intimacy that they had allowed one another. She was Agatha and he was Anthony. Their titles shed if not for but a moment of respite. Shielded away from the world by the other's embrace. 

 At this moment, however, it did not feel so very intimate. Only yet another reminder of their respective places. Of what they actually were. They had no title for one another. Not one that denoted anything. Any real connection. Any connection that would be recognized for those titles belonged to others. They could not call each other by any other names apart from their own and even then those names which had become so very dear to them were only uttered in secret. 

“And well looked after.” He could provide her with neither. Not fully. He could give her some few hours of heaven upon this earthly plane. Of unrestrained joy, but that was the extent of it. That was the reality of it all. 

It is quite cruel how our perspective can shift in the course of a few words. In a mere sentence or two. His words were pure-hearted no matter their sting. They came from a place of affection. Of great care and tenderness. She knew that by the way in which his eyes became doleful when he spoke of the prince and her safety with him, but they were not the words of a lover. Or at least not the words Agatha wanted to hear coming from her lover's lips. 

They were not words of love or passion. They spoke only of duty. Of comfort. Of quiet contentment instead of a burning desire that made one never want that paradisiacal feeling of belonging to end. They were words of truth. A bitter reminder of what they were to each other and what they could never be to one another. 

It did not matter what she gave to him or he to her, what pleasure they took, what pleasure they freely gave to each other, or what they made the other feel, it could not exist outside of the four walls of the cottage which they occupied. The tides of the Ton may have changed, but the circumstances that kept them apart from loving one another freely were more than just the division of the old Ton versus the new one. 

Lord Anthony Ledger was a married man. He had a living wife. A healthy wife who unlike her late husband was in no danger of departing from this earth anytime soon. He was a baron. He was a respected member of the Ton. A title that his family had held since the Middle Ages. Agatha herself, though she may be in dire straits,  had not one speck upon her name. 

Of course, there were ways around the issue of his marriage. Divorce was allowed. As they had no children the church would more than like grant it. It was what it was founded upon. A quick tour out of the country, to Paris maybe, or Venice, somewhere where no one knew of them. They could come back in a year or two after the scandal had run its course and the dust had settled, but Anthony had never expressed a wish to be with her in that way. For her to be his outside of their time together. For her to be his everything?  Did he want to be with her in that way? Truly? 

He had not meant to hurt her. She knew that, but he had and as cruel and childish as it was she wanted to return the sting. So she leaned into his touch and began again. Remembering with great detail the last time she had been in the company of his beloved wife. His supercilious wife seemed to take glee in seeing her discomfort. My husband is so very thoughtful. He knows me as I know him. The ice overtook her irises as she reached a pale hand out to brush Agatha’s curl off her shoulder. 

If he could talk about her suitor then she could talk about his lady wife. 

“Lady Ledger had on a bracelet when I saw her last.” It was his turn to stiffen at her change in subject. Having the good sense to flit his gaze to the wall opposite of where they sat at the mention of his dear wife’s name. “A pretty string of pearls with a figurine at its center. She said that you gave it to her.” She lorded it over her. 

“A wedding gift.” His reply was stiff. As stiff as the air had become in the room. Air Agatha could no longer breathe. She needed out of it. Out before she said something she would regret. Before words poured out from her mouth that she did not mean. That he could not know. That was utterly pointless. “It was a wedding gift.” He reached out a hand to her, but she sprang up from the bed, in search of her clothes. Letting the silence build. 

“Perhaps I shall ask the prince to gift me one for ours.” Agatha had not wanted to, but she had only managed to put her underthings on. She turned back to the forlorn man. Wordlessly commanding him to lace her stays. He did not complain. He never did. He was so very patient. Always so patient and understanding. He never took more than what was offered. Never reached for her beyond their time even though she wanted him to. Hopelessly so. He knew the rules well and he never crossed the line. It drove her mad. 

“Perhaps.” He replied quietly. She could feel his eyes on more than just her laces. They followed her every move. She could feel him exhaling a hand moving from the hooks on the back of her dress to her arm. The bed creaked as he began to lift his weight off of it. She wanted no part in that. “Agatha—”

“I fear I must take my leave now.” She rushed out in a single breath pulling away from him towards the cottage door. “I have to meet with the dowager Princess about Dominic’s title.” It was the truth, but they both knew she had no reason not to stay. The man was ever polite even in his displeasure; he would not stop her after she made her discomfort known. 

Agatha pinned her hat back to her hair as best as she could with no assistance. Not giving too much of a worry about it. She threw open the door to the cottage. Coral would be the only one waiting up for her and she'd shoot off the rest of the servants if they came looking. The sound of the bang of the door shutting carried her home. 

This time it was she who did not wait for his reply. She did not dare to.  She did not wish him to stop her on the off chance that he realized the danger of letting her depart in such a state. With so much unsaid, but she did not wish to hear his apology.

She knew it would not amount to anything real. Anything which they could loudly proclaim without worry or judgment. Anything outside of secrecy and nights of passion and days of woe. That they should never have if not for a miracle and Agatha had never been one to believe in such things. 

Agatha slept fitfully that night a total of. She awoke to a buzzing in her head that bordered on a headache that caused her to put her hand to her temples trying to soothe the splitting pain, A feeling of lightheadedness, and nausea.

The first two were what she had grown used to, but the last was a new symptom to add to her fatigue. She had thought she would feel better after a breakfast of buttered toast, a bowl of strawberries she only ate a handful of, which was about all she could stomach,  and some tea. Surely the cause of it was a lack of proper nourishment, but the buzzing continued. 

Agatha had to strain herself to listen to her fathers, chidings against the onslaught. Though the effort may have been spent better elsewhere seeing how his topic of conversation remained the same as the day last. The concern always lay with her forthcoming nuptials to the prince. 

Critics on her lack of a proposal and her focus remaining too much on her young charge. With suggestions on how to get the prince to propose to her. On how it was her duty to flatter him so that he may see how amenable she was. How she had no choice, but to become his duchess. 

He of course made pauses between his little chastens for her replies. Yes father. No father. I will father. I am father. A few simple chirpings in acknowledgment sufficed. It was all that she could get out between his ramblings which only served to add to her headache this morning, but she had borne them as she was made to. As best as she could. Quite successfully for she was nearly out of the wood. 

Agatha had made it through breakfast. Through the terror of her father's prattling. She had reached the dining room's doorway. She was almost there. Almost out, on with her day to the business of Dominic's title, when the buzzing increased by a margin. 

The blinding pain greeted her like a knock on her head. She had fallen to the ground clutching at her temples. Coral was by her side before anyone else could reach her. 

“My lady, I must insist that we call the doctor to check on you.” For the second time. She had to give credit for her maid's boldness. It was a well-played move. Calculated to be sure, but it was born from a place of concern and not underhandedness. Perhaps it had even just slipped out in her urgency to make her see reason. Having been left with no other alternative. “I’m sure I can find Dr. Simmons's card among Lord Danbury's things.  He examined you the last time. He would be happy to do so again.” 

“The last time?” Agatha winced at her father's question. His umber face turned to ash. Mr. Robinson was not senile. The man may be old, but he was quick of wit. Those dark eyes that narrowed saw everything. He had a wife. He had a daughter grown. He was not naive. It would be hard to convince him what he heard was nothing, but try she must. 

“I am fine Coral.” She took deep breaths regaining her strength as she kept her eyes upon her maid. In. She closed her eyes for a moment hoping it would help. “We need not call anyone.” Out. She opened her eyes. “It is nothing to concern yourself with Papa.” Let him be a fool just this once she silently begged whoever was up there to answer her. To hear her prayers. To give her this peace. Let him let it go. 

“It is my concern if you have brought shame upon this house.” He sneered at her. Baring his white teeth. No longer controlling his volume. “Upon your name Agatha.” The name he had forced her into. The name she had helped make.

“I have done nothing, but try to preserve this name.” She would not be chastised for her decisions. Not when she had done so much for them all. Not how she had done what was her duty without complaint for years. For most of her life, she had only done what was asked. Chirping whatever song sounded prettiest. Not caring how much it wore upon her to hum it over and over with a smile as long as they benefited from it. 

“It is the reason why we stand here.” The reason why they were seeing the progress that they had. Why they could go where they wished. Why they could do business where they wished. Why they mingled with each other. She had done that. Lady Agatha Danbury had done that. Agatha had done that. She would not let him forget it and for that moment it seemed as if he was to acknowledge her contributions. 

“The doctor will examine you when you get back Agatha.” His grip loosened, but his eyes remained cool. There would be no argument. A thought that chilled her to the white of her bones.

She had tried to put it in the far corner of her mind. She would worry about it when it came to it, but she could not because she knew what would await her later. It was one thing to suspect something, but it is entirely another to have confirmed. A confirmation that would seal her fate. 

She brought that chill with her when arrived at the palace. The buzzing reached its peak. She could feel the web she had carefully strung together all these months breaking one string at a time. Her fate closing in on her. Every door shut. Every demand was made tenfold. Setting her adrift. 

The prince and his kindness. Lord Ledger’s patience and passion. His everything. His nothing. 

Her father and his expectations. Corals worry. Lady Ledger’s ice smiles. A queen who was too preoccupied with keeping her husband in line with whatever ailed him to truly care for her people. The princess demands for more. Her need for information on a queen who shut them all out. On a naif of a girl who did not know her own power.  

How her fate depended upon betraying the confidence of a girl who had been thrust into this savage court. She could not go to the queen. She could not go to the. She could not even return home without being bombarded by more demands and scowls. She could not even control her own life. She was alone at sea. Lost. Utterly lost to even herself. 

At some point, Princess Augusta’s speech faded into the background. That buzzing would not let her make out anything apart from a word or two here and there. Her nausea returned with a vengeance. Rising like a storm at sea.  Agatha tried to focus, to regain herself, but the current only pushed her further out into the depths of the ocean. 

“Would it not be a shame for you to lose the very fine estate in which you reside.” Her face was drawn tight. Like she had sucked. She cracked. The storm overtook her as she burst into tears upon the settee. 

Princess Augusta tried to hush her. Dismissed her manservant. Offered her pear brandy from Germany which Agatha had almost reached for it. Told her of how her own father-in-law, the old king, treated her and her son like they were his personal playthings. Little better than animals. When even that had not worked she Had hesitantly reached out a hand to pat her forearm, but her tears would not stop. The bile in her throat burned. Her head was a swarm. The room spun. Over and over. Nothing would stop. Everything unraveled with great speed. 

Agatha’s own body betrayed her when she was made to jump from the couch. Retching her breakfast into one of the painted vases that decorated the room. 

“Dear lord, what is wrong with you now girl.” Princess Augustus stood up. Her mouth still held onto that thin line of irritation, but her eyes widened the slightest with something akin to panic. Increasing the creases upon her regal face. 

“I am not well, your highness.” She had never felt so unwell. Not even when she had last been

in this position. She did not need a doctor to tell her what her body already knew. That buzzing in her head would not stop. Her nausea would not stop. 

Agatha glared up at the princess. At that moment she hated that look on her face most of all. The concern was only there for her benefit. She did not truly care. It was only a mask. They all wore a mask of falsities to cover up their own selfishness. 

She wished to rip it off her. She wished for Princess Augusta to hear. For someone to hear her. For someone to see her. For someone to not treat her as an afterthought to their own wants or the demands of society. To see what she needed. To see what it had done to her. How a lifetime of chirpings had ruined her. 

Her mask was gone, but she could no longer care. She gave in to that buzzing. Shouted over it. “I’m with child.” The buzzing in her ear stopped as did the nausea. The look upon the king’s mother's pale face, pinched and drained of all life, filled her with nothing.

Ao3 Link:

Taglist: @dd122004dd@nametoshort@gracienna@woahwwes-blog@librarydame

[writtenbygracewilliams]

Peerages & Titles: everything you need to know

[A heavily researched 6.5k+ hyperfocus from my Google docs, to help your fanfics]

Disclaimers:

Sources are not consistent. You’d think they would be. They are not. I’ve corralled several reliable websites and books into something that I think makes sense, is accessible, and fits [largely] with portrayals in Bridgerton/modern media.

That being said, Bridgerton/modern media make mistakes. You might notice in reading through all this that there is something different to how it is portrayed in media. Feel free to discuss with me, I could very well be wrong, but also know that you are consuming fiction and this is intended to be fact.

However, whilst trying to be correct, many sources are modern and it is difficult to confirm how titling and forms of address may have changed in the past 200–300 years. Though, I imagine not greatly given the peerage and aristocracy still exists.

Where possible, I have used Bridgerton characters as the examples so that it is easier to make sense/contextualise it. Names in red are not characters, just placeholder names. Hence I have reduced, reused, recycled these names.

On the note of using names from within the Bridgerverse, the Marquess of Ashdown was not married when we met him. I’d also like to know what Julia Quinn has against Earls and Marquesses, Marquesses especially.

Second note of using names in the Bridgerverse, I refuse to use Baron of Kent because it is a factual/historical disaster. More on that here.

This only applies to aristocracy of Britain/UK [minimally Ireland, read here], if I do more of Europe/anywhere else I will link it below but let me know if you want that.

All of these posts may be edited/expanded at any time as my research continues.

Further posts:

General info, start here!

Glossary

A brief history of the peerages/titles

The different peerages [England, Great Britain, United Kingdom, Scotland, Ireland]

How royal titles work

Peerage applications and functions in the modern day

Privileges of the peerage

How titles apply to the child of peers

Rank and precedence within the peerage

Titling rules for non peers

Other roles and titles I can give address information for

Female inheritance of titles

Territorial designations, and when the surname differs from the title name

Haven’t decided if I will do a post on grammar rules when writing peers because despite studying etiquette and titles for over a decade, and linguistics and grammar for seven years, the grammar/capitalisation rules of writing peers broke my final straw of sanity. Let me know how much you want it, or just drop any specific questions.

Put any questions about any of this in my ask :)

–GW xo

[grace-williams-xo]

If you ever wanted to know anything about English peers or titles [royals included],,,, I did weeks of hyper focused research so you don’t have to! There are 12 posts, here is the master post with easy to ready tables about basic forms of address and links to the 11 other deep dives.

LOWKEY if it doesn’t get a modicum of attention I’ll cry and I wish I was kidding

[sissytobitch10seconds]

Gentleness

Fandom: Queen Charlotte: A Bridgerton Story Summary: Sometimes, he has a need that he has to ask for. Brimsely has never really been good at that. Warnings: Period-typical homophobia, anxiety, crying during sex, and romantic misunderstandings Word Count: 4,615 Ship(s): Brimsley/Reynolds

Archive link!

A/N: My first work in this part of the fandom! I don't know what these two are typically headcanoned to be or the way that they're always written, but I thought that this would be cute. I really liked writing them being soft with each other but I had to throw some angst in there because that's just who I am. Hope you guys enjoy! Stay sissy and bitchy everyone <3

He could feel the need for something itching under his skin like nettles.

Sam Brimsley almost physically shuddered when he realized the comparison that his mind had come up with. He had been very young when he had first encountered the plant in the back of his father’s home. Unfortunately, he wasn’t young enough to forget the painful way that the rash had spread over every part of his skin that had touched it. The tiny spines had wormed their way under his skin and then further throughout his body until they were trapped deep under his skin. His mother had to take one of her sewing needles, hot from her fingers and the fire, to his palm so that she could get all of them out.

It was an accurate description to how he was currently feeling, however. He could taste the desire that he had for something on the back of his tongue and his skin felt tender at the idea of getting it. It was almost painful, the way that his heart ached with the need of it.

He would never admit that was what he needed, not when his queen still had need of him. He had gone through all those years of schooling and months of grueling training, including on how to stand still with nothing to do for hours and how to exist on very little sleep, specifically so that he could always be five steps behind her. He was glad that Queen Charlotte had turned out to be the kind of royal that was willing to bid him back to his chambers and sent random people after him instead of always keeping him at his post, at least.

As soon as the door to the study shut and the normal noises that came on even days began to emit from it, Sam stepped further away from the door. He was glad that the royal couple was making progress on procuring an heir for their family and the people of the United Kingdom as a whole, but that didn’t mean that he wanted to hear it necessarily.

“Do you want to come back to my chambers?” Reynolds asked, his hard clear blue eyes flickering down to the other man.

Reynolds was about a head taller than him, with blond hair that was always perfectly styled around his face and pulled back into the traditional ponytail. He wore a similar uniform to what Sam did, but it was blue instead of the red that signified he was to be kept by the queen. Their status difference was so slight, nothing like what actual nobles had to go through, but he felt it every time they were standing as they were now. 

They had the same purpose, the same job, but they served different people. Sam was to be at Her Majesty’s side until death or punishment separated them, while Reynolds did the same for His Majesty. That slight difference, the ever-so-tiny change in pronouns for the title of who they served was the reason that the power imbalance hung between the two of them. It was the reason that Sam had always kept that fiercely burning desire stoked just enough to emerge inside of him instead of letting it die out. Sometimes, Reynolds needed to be put in his place and there was no better person in the entire world to do that than him.

“I think that we ought to head to mine today,” he replied just as quietly as the proposition had been given.

“Mine’s bigger,” the blond quipped. He had turned slightly so that they were facing each other, but it wasn’t enough that the guards would begin to panic about them breaking from their training. Everyone in Buckingham House was aware that they often snuck off when their masters were otherwise occupied anyway.

“That’s not what you said the other night,” Sam replied. He felt almost like Shakespeare, speaking something so obscene into the air without saying it outright.

Reynolds let out a snort in the back of his throat and then his cheeks tinted pink. As soon as he realized what he had done, he cleared his throat and then tilted his head down towards the hallway that would lead to the servant’s quarters. “Right, we best be on our way before they hear us talking and begin to yell,” he said.

“Of course,” Sam replied, stepping to the side so that he was able to pass. He almost waited for five paces to start going after the other man before he caught himself and hurried after him.

They walked in silence, as they always did when they were traveling to one of their quarters. The days where they spoke to each other in hushed arguments around kisses were reserved specifically for when they were very angry or frustrated about their jobs. It had only happened once or twice, and that was during the times that they never got to see each other. They now lived in the same building and could see each other whenever their masters were not being tended to by themselves. There was no need to incorporate their positions into their intimate relationship with each other.

Sam held the door open so that the other man could step through and then followed after. As soon as the heavy wood had swung back into its frame, he switched the lock into place so that no one could barge in on them. He focused on pulling off his gloves so that they could be as efficient as possible, not paying attention to what the other man was doing in the process.

“That’s new.”

He turned around when he heard the voice of his almost-lover, his eyes flickering around the room. He spent quite a bit of his time there, almost every waking moment that he wasn’t doing something with or for his queen. Finally he found it, the one thing that had been moved out of place from what the room had been the last time that Reynolds had occupied it.

“Just a bunch of letters that I haven’t gotten around to replying to yet. I was going to work on it this morning but the queen rose before I was expecting her to,” he explained. He sat down on the edge of his bed and began to work on the fiddlier buttons that were hidden above his chest. The waistline of his coat had to be taken in again, he had lost more weight since the queen and king had moved in together, so those buttons had gotten substantially easier.

“If you’re letting your work escape you so that we can have a romp together then perhaps I should retire back to my chambers. Alone,” Reynolds said, eyeing him in that way that he always did. It was hungry and hard at the same time, like he held some kind of disdain for the man that he was always running off with.

“I would never leave my work to do until after I had relations,” he scoffed. He couldn’t imagine why he had ever given the impression that he was so flippant about the things that he had been assigned to do as the queen’s man. Just because he didn’t have some grand secret to keep the same way that Reynolds did didn’t mean that what he was doing wasn’t important.

“Then what are they?” While he spoke, Reynolds was trailing his hands over the front of his jacket. He undid the buttons with quick, harried flicks of his fingers as if it were the most natural thing in the entire world. It made Sam want to bite him, he could almost feel the itching in his teeth over it.

Sam didn’t really want to answer, not when it could possibly get him in more trouble. He was so exhausted, had been for weeks, that the only thing he wanted was a big of pleasure before he had to return to work. He didn’t have to deal with an interrogation from someone that didn’t like him very much. “Personal letters. From friends that I studied with and my family. Now are you going to come over here or not?”

“Perhaps having you be the queen’s man was a mistake when the woman that the princess chose is so bossy,” Reynolds nearly snarled. He had such a feral animalistic side to him, it was as enthralling and sexy as it was annoying and tiring.

“You don’t like it when someone else finally has the upper hand, do you?” Sam asked, tilting his head to the side. He had grown up with three older brothers, one who had died in war and two who had gone on to be servants in other houses across the Empire, so he knew what it was like to be at the bottom of the pecking order. He had worked long and hard to refine his skill enough to work with the best of the best. Reynolds may have served the king, but Sam was going to be serving every king they had going forward by tending to Her Majesty when she was expecting.

“I wish you would just stop talking,” Reynolds replied. He leaned down and their mouths connected in a fiery, passionate kiss just as they had every time before. Tongues danced and pushed at each other while teeth nipped and pulled at every bit of skin that they could get any access to. While their mouths were occupied, their hands went to work. Both of them had been raised as servants so there was nothing that they could do that would settle them more than multitasking. Reynolds quickly pushed back the fabric of his coat so that it tumbled down to the ground and he was left in nothing but his thin white cotton shirt.

Eventually they had to break apart so that they could both gasp for breath. Instead of taking that time to snipe back and forth at each other even more than they had before, Reynolds began to trail nips and kisses down Sam’s neck. He whimpered and tossed his head to the side, allowing the other man more access. Even though he had been smart before, even though he had been snappish and short, there was nothing more that he needed in that moment than to have the control taken from him.

Sam reached out and grasped both of his arms so that he could take the other man with him as they tumbled down onto the bed. It was cushioned by the amount of quilts that he had snuck into his space to make it more inviting, but the mattress was so thin that it was still quite uncomfortable. “We’re doing this in my room next time,” Reynolds informed him as if he was the only one in the relationship that got to have any kind of a say in how it worked.

“Mine is closer to this side of Buckingham House,” he protested.

“But the Queen always has to come to the King on even days,” Reynolds replied. He ended the conversation by smashing their lips together in another long kiss. Sam was, for once, too tired to let the conversation continue. Usually when they got like this with each other he was more than willing to show his teeth and bite back just as passionately. This time, though, he was too worn down to try and get hot and bothered over an argument. It was just making him feel sad.

They shifted further back on the bed so that their entire bodies were encompassed by the sheets and pillows, before the disrobing continued. The shoes and socks came next, then the pants and smalls, all dumped down onto the ground beside the bedframe where their coats and shirts had already been.

Sam could do nothing more than let his hands fall down onto the pillows above his head, fingers grasping at the loose fabric so that he had something to ground himself. His cock was already painfully hard, weeping against the course dark hair that lined the bottom part of his stomach. He was gasping, throwing his head back so hard that his neck began to crook.

Reynolds continued the work that he had been doing without saying a single thing. His teeth, tongue, and lips all worked in conjunction with each other to make Sam feel as though he was going insane. The other man trailed kisses down from his neck, sucking a dark bruise onto his collarbone on the way, stopping only he reached Sam’s nipples. Reynolds then took the bud into his mouth and grazed his teeth over it until it was pert and darkly pink, blossoming obscenely against his skin.

While he was working with his mouth, his hands also continued their harried movements. He trailed his hands down Sam’s body until he reached the divots of his hips, holding them down and yanking him around whenever he began to squirm too much. He only continued his work when he had grown bored of just teasing his sort-of lover. His hands, calloused and rough as they were, contained nothing but gentleness as they reached for his cock and then began to stroke it.

It was an overwhelming sensation as it always was. Sam could feel his breath coming in gasps as fingers brushed over his cockhead and dragged his foreskin down before releasing all of it at once. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do other than whine when he felt a tongue flickering over his other nipple and then nails brushing against his ballsack.

Suddenly, it was all too much. The overwhelming pleasure that he usually felt when he was being manhandled turned to the awful overstimulation that he got when he had masturbated too much as young teenager. His skin felt like it was on fire and his throat was constricting around nothing. He needed to be free, he needed something that would soothe the aching burning hurt that was now coursing through him.

“Rey-Reynolds!” he cried, the tears that had been collecting in the corners of his eyes now pouring down his face like water boiled for a bath. He was shaking, all of his muscles constricting and loosening all at once.

This wasn’t the first time that he had cried during sex and he doubted that it would be the last. There was always something, on the back of his tongue and buried within the thoughts of his job in his mind. He knew that what they were doing was a sin against God and the church, it was dirty and shameful. But it felt so good that he couldn’t believe that it was inherently bad, that God had tempted them into something that they both enjoyed so fully only to condemn them for it by falling.

“Do you like that?” Reynolds asked, pulling his mouth away from where he had been teasing Sam’s nipple within an inch of his life. His beautiful lips, swollen and bruised from their kisses earlier, twisted into a smirk. The look immediately dropped from his features when he saw what his lover was going through.

Sam had barely even registered the fact that he had opened his eyes again, or that the hand on his now soft cock had been removed. The arousal that had tightened like a coil in his gut was long gone, instead of releasing so that it sent energy throughout his system dissipating like sugar in tea. He would have kept going or changed how things were going if it turned out that his body was simply too tired to maintain an erection. It was clear to both him and Reynolds that something was wrong.

“What is the matter with you?” the other man asked as he righted himself. His lovely golden hair had escaped the pompous hairdo that he contained it in every morning, allowing the long locks to brush against Sam’s face as their eyes leveled.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “I… I am so tired.”

He knew that wasn’t the whole reason. He knew that there was more behind his sudden fit of crying, that he was upset for many other reasons. He couldn’t let a single one of them pass his lips, not to Reynolds. The other man wanted him for a quick fuck and nothing more. They had never shared more than an hour or two passed out next to each other and they never would. He had already tried to make his peace with that.

“I do not believe that hysteria and crying are something that comes with general exhaustion,” the blond replied. He slowly lowered himself down onto the bed next to Sam, and there he was able to feel the other man’s stiff member slowly loosing the arousal.

It should have been a relief to him, to know that he was no longer going to be expected to have the vulnerability of a man’s cock in his mouth when he felt so fragile and broken. Instead, he was simply overwhelmed with an unbelievable amount of grief and hurt. “I’ve ruined this whole evening.”

“Brimsely, you have done no such thing,” Reynolds replied. His usually harsh voice was so gentle, and that only made him cry harder.

Sam was unable to keep the sobs down in his chest, locked away below his throat where no one would ever be able to hear them. It was something that all servants learned how to do so that they would not end up wailing in front of the cruel masters that signed their paystubs and housed them.

“Please, do not call me that right now,” he whispered. Usually the name and the way that it was said gave him a sense of pride. He was doing something that provided for the family that he had left a hundred miles away, but now it brought him nothing but sorrow.

“Then will you finally tell me your name so that I can call you something else?” Reynolds asked.

Where their skin was touching felt like it was electrocuting and burning him at the same time. He had never known what it was to feel lightning through one’s blood, but he had to guess that it would feel something as he did now. He was exhausted and his heart and soul ached, but somehow being close to the other man in the way that he was now soothed it. “Sam,” he finally managed to get out.

Reynolds tilted Sam’s face up towards him like he had many times before when they were having some of their other daliances. “Please, tell me what is the matter, Sam.”

The words, thoughts, and feelings, had been trying to rise to the top of his skin since he had realized what they were the day before. He had tried to bite and swallow them back down so that he wouldn’t get threatened for being treasonous, even if one couldn’t police their own thoughts that far. Now that he was being asked, it all came tumbling out of him at once. 

“I do not feel as though I am wanted here, I feel as though my only purpose on this earth is to be used. I know that is the point of being a servant, but Queen Charlotte so often tells me that she does not want me with her and she dismisses me every time we have a moment where she might begin to trust me more. She has only very recently allowed me to start speaking freely with her when she is having a problem. I was told to expect the worst because no one had any idea what kind of a woman she would be. When she arrived, she was so young and so obviously scared of what being Queen would mean for her. I tried to be there to support her but everything that I did was wrong. She does not want my help and that is the only thing I can offer her. Day in and day out, I follow five paces behind her and I wait for her to need something from me. I cannot give her anything.

“The only person that I can give something to is you. You take and it’s rough but at least you actually want something and I know what it is,” he finally ended his tirade. He had shared more than he had meant to, dug deeper into feelings that he had only prodded at until that point. He should have stopped long before he had spilled his entire heart out between them on the bed, but there was not a single way to unspeak something.

“Sam,” Reynolds whispered. “I was doing that because I thought that it was what you wanted. You are always so ready to argue with me that I just kiss you when I’m finished or can’t think of anything.”

“You’re so demanding when we come in here, I thought that you wanted to argue with me. I know that you do not see me as an equal, but I thought that you wanted someone who would push back and yet know his place,” Sam replied. “It is why I have never asked anything of you, not even your name.”

Before he could wince and hide his face away, ashamed of all the things that he had spoken when he had meant to keep them a closely guarded next to his heart, Reynolds was speaking again. “I’m sorry that I made you feel that way, Sam. It was never my intention, I hope that you know that. You are the first man that I ever felt safe being my true self around. I had a single dalliance before you and it was with someone that was gone the next day, while I was traveling down here from my school in Wales. I… I suppose that I should have started this apology by telling you what my name was, shouldn’t I have?”

“It’s alright, you don’t have to be perfect all the time,” Sam replied. He reached one of his hands up so that he could caress the other man’s face. This was mode tender and intimate than anything they had ever done, including the day where Reynolds had been inside of him while they bathed together.

“My name is Frederick. You may call me Freddy if you so wish,” the king’s man said, his voice still soft but in that deep baritone that made Sam feel as if he were falling apart.

“I think I would like that very much,” he smiled shyly.

“I should be the one that’s telling you that you don’t have to be perfect, because you do not. I know that you are newer to the job than I am. Serving royalty, especially being the head valet to the queen or king, is a very difficult job. We are expected to see them at their worst and at their best. We are expected to know what they want before they say it because they should not have to ask. They were appointed by God to rule the land that we and our families live in, which means that they have more power than either of us could ever dream of,” Freddy said. He was speaking more than he had since their first initial argument. It was the kind of sound and affection that Sam wanted to drown himself in.

“I just wanted to be the best servant that I could be,” Sam sighed. “I think I’ve failed on that, and being what you needed from me.”

“What I needed was a companion, which was why I refused to be near you when other people were watching. I have to make sure that we are both kept safe, when the world is such a hostile place to people like us,” Freddy murmured. He leaned down and pressed a kiss so tender and full of love to Sam’s brow that he felt as if he might die on the spot. “I do not want to lose you. You are not just a rider to me, you are someone that I cherish deeply. I was overjoyed when I found out that the king and queen were going to move back in together and it would result in us being able to live together. You do not know how hard it was for me to restrain my jubilation.”

“I was scared, I thought that you would grow tired of me if I was no longer something you only got on special occasions,” the smaller man answered with a small shake of his head.

The phrase that he had used seemed to anger Freddy. Without realizing it, they had moved so that they were laying together as a married couple might. Freddy’s head was pillowed by the headboard and some of the sheets that had been rucked up, his back supported by the pillow. Sam was resting with the side of his head against Freddy’s shoulder and left pectoral, his middle pressed against the other man’s hip. Freddy’s arm was around his shoulders and brushing soft lines that might have been shapes or words on the skin of his upper arm.

“I wish that you would not refer to yourself in that way,” Freddy said gently. “You are not something that someone gets to have, like you are chattel to be bought and sold. You are a person and anyone that is blessed enough to get to spend time in your presence should be grateful for it.”

He had wanted someone to say that to him since he was a little boy. He was the fourth boy in his family, absolutely no prospects were going to be passed down to him even if something terrible happened to the rest of his brothers. He had always been treated as something that another family could use, a husband for an errant daughter or a hand for a struggling farm. Even when he had risen to the top of his class during his training to become a servant, he had been treated as if he was a tool for some noble that would never learn his name or age would use.

But Freddy saw him as the person that he was. Despite him grandly misconstruing what their relationship was going to be so that neither of them were getting or giving what they wanted, Freddy had seen through it and to him. He was able to speak the affirmation into the air like it was both a promise and something that should have been a given. 

It made Sam feel as though he was disintegrating. He tilted his head up so that he could stare into those crystalline blue eyes that his lover held, finding the words that would have usually come so easily to him. “I’m sorry that I created a disaster out of our relationship, Freddy.”

Freddy pressed his nose down into Sam’s hair, “Again, love, you do not have to be perfect. I am as much at fault for the way that our dalliances were going as you were. I would only ask that you promise to tell me when you need gentleness in the future so I do not have to see you cry and worry it was something I had done.”

It was the easiest thing he had ever had to say, both in their current conversation and throughout his entire life. He tilted his head up, a kiss on his lips and breath flooding into his lungs for the first time in days.

“I promise.”

[princess-of-songs]

How Charlotte and George fall in love over the course of Even Days.

[lelasg]

New Charlotte and George completed fic. I really can't get enough of these two

[metalandmagi]

The gay butlers from Queen Charlotte: A Bridgerton Story made me feel some kinda way, so last night I wrote a Captive Prince fanfic where Damen and Laurent have their own gay butlers who judge everything they do.

[ao3feed-charlottegeorge]

Announcement New AO3 Feed: Queen Charlotte/King George III (CharlotteGeorge)

This blog is an automated list of the stories posted on the Archive Of Our Own under the Queen Charlotte/King George III relationship tag in the Queen Charlotte: a Bridgerton Story (TV 2023) fandom.

Follow this blog to know every time a fic tagged Queen Charlotte/King George III is posted on AO3.

Note: Because of the way that AO3 filters work, there is no way to make certain that the stories will be CharlotteGeorge only relationship ones. They may contain other relationships involving Queen Charlotte/King George III.

The stories are automatically posted here from the AO3 RSS feed using an IFTTT recipe.

If you have any questions, please contact me.

[agreysexualromantic]

I would very much like an Upstairs Downstairs view of this season fully from the perspective of the servants as they try to figure out WTF to do with these two on a daily basis. These lady's maids trying DESPERATELY not to giggle along with Charlotte when George picks her up, the mad rush to get out of the room when Charlotte and George go from arguing to ripping each other's clothes off ON THE DINING TABLE. I need to hear their conversation downstairs because you know this crew has OPINIONS.

Do the Kew and Buckingham staff compete with each other all the time like Reynolds and Brimsley do?

How long did it take Charlotte to charm every damn one of them? Who were Charlotte's allies among the staff early on?

How many times did the Kew staff consider tying up Doctor Monro and driving him out to the middle of nowhere and leaving him there?

Clearly I need someone to write this fic... Any takers?

[bohemian-nights]

Lady Danbury Chapter 4

Word Count: ~6,353

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Lord Ledger x Lady Danbury

Description: The new Lady Agatha Danbury was decidedly not happy. Neither was Lord Ledger. Perhaps they might find a bit of happiness in each other.

AN: This is a Lord Ledger x Lady Danbury AU fic. Some plot lines from Queen Charlotte: A Bridgerton Story have been axed🪓

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3,

Death is not always a great tragedy. Befalling on those not deserving to be taken away so soon. It is not always a burden. A misfortune to those closest to them. It is a fact of life as simple, as involuntary, as breathing. Depending on one’s definition it can be a release of said burden. Bringing about long-awaited freedom, but it is not quite the freedom one hopes for those left behind. Especially the freedom which is bestowed upon young widows.                           

Freedom is a most curious and strange thing. Agatha had learned that over the years. The definition of the word she had looked up many a time. Liberation from restraint or the power of another. That is the definition she liked best. The one she lacked.                      

She had felt as if she were a bird. Trapped in a pretty gilded cage made to do tricks, chirp out niceties, and sing songs for all those who visited her. For those who owned her. She had no recollection of life outside of that cage. Of sun on her, the wind fanning her with a gentle breeze. She had been put there before she had learned the world around her.  

That gate was now open. She could venture out any time she wished to. To come and go as she pleased or never step foot in it again. She was free. Freed from her capturer. Freed by death. In name she was free, but name is different than practice.

Death is simple. It is the easy part of it all, Agatha decided. Freedom is not. For it is living and living is never so simple. It was living that followed after it all, after being trapped in that cage for so long that she found the hardest.   

Coral found her wandering the halls alone in the wee hours of the morning after Lord Danbury's funeral. Drinking a glass of port. There was a whole case of it left without its owner. “His favorite,” Agatha told her. Not hers. Never hers.   

It had been a long day and an exceedingly tiresome fortnight. The doctors had come and gone the morning Lord Danbury was carted away for one final time at the Danbury residence. The hermit had come out of his shell. Arriving at first light, word had been sent to him by one of her late husband's men, from his country house where he spent his widowerhood in seclusion with a daughter off married, but she was no longer married. 

She had joined him in widowhood. Agatha supposed she gave her father a renewed purpose. He had presided over the whole business. The first order of which had been her womb. Ordering his doctors which he had brought with him to inspect her person. 

“One has to be sure of these things, Agatha. We must know.” They would not take her word for it. They had to be sure that she did not carry the Danbury heir inside her. The new Lord Danbury. The pronouncement was the same as all the times before. She was not with child. Her belly remained empty. 

With the last of the doctors dismissed, the funeral was the next line. To that, too her father took command of. Agatha had not left her bed for a week. She did not grieve for her husband’s passing.  She had not the grief for grieving. She honestly did not know what she felt then, but she did not wish to deal with it all. To fake her sadness which she did not have. 

She wished to run and never stop, but would not be allowed to be out and about, to go on, and she did not wish to deal with the army of those who wanted to pay their respects to her. So she feigned fatigue. Melancholy. Despondency. Whatever she could, she said. Whatever act she had to perform, she did. 

She burst into tears when Lady Kent and Lady Smythe-Smith had come up to visit and would not take no for an answer. When her sister-in-law had come down from Bath she had fainted at tea. Having to be carried back up to her room by a footman as Coral took to fanning her. “Give my lady some room to breathe.” 

Agatha had tried the same with her father when he had called her to Lord Danbury’s study on some opinion on the service, having set up camp there among her dead husband's things, but he saw through her act.  “My dear it is just us. There is no need for theatrics.”  He would not bother her as long as she kept appearances. “You will need to save it for his funeral.”

She did. Lord Danbury’s funeral was a procession.  It seemed a silly thing to dress up so fine for one in mourning.  Her act of pretend languishing around her room seemed more real than having her stays laced so tight that she could barely breathe. To be stuffed into an ostentatiously black embroidered gown like a bird for show. A lace veil fastened to her curls to hide her tears that would never come, but yet that is how one mourns. 

Lord Ledger was there.  His wife was nowhere in sight as he stood a lone figure draped in black like and unlike the others. A shock to her eyes for he was one of the few from the old Ton, along with Lady Allen who winked at her from where she stood with an ever-present ill-contained grin, who had come, well Agatha could not name why she had come other than to imagine herself in her place and Lord Allen in Lord Danbury’s. 

Agatha wished to speak to the lord. He was the only person among the parade of falsity she wished to speak to, but she was whisked away to greet and thank the murmurers who wanted to give their vain condolences. Apart from Lady Allen who had paid her respects with a kiss. Not so quietly imparting to her with glee that caused a stir from the other mourners, “Now the fun begins my dear.” 

Lord Ledger had disappeared when she gazed back at the spot where she saw him last when she had managed to pull her attention away from the jackals. Agatha half wondered if she dreamt his person for she found nowhere in sight once Lord Danbury had been lowered into the ground. She put the lord out of her mind for a time. Everything that morning had passed by in a blur.  

Soon enough she had found herself in the entryway of her home. Standing in the morning she thought was still night. Drinking a glass of port. Finally giving words to that feeling which she could not name. Emptiness. 

She felt empty. Lord Danbury took up so much space in their marriage that he left no room for her. Agatha was a foreign creature. She caught glimpses of her in her reflection some days, but Lady Agatha Danbury was his creation. She was molded for and now he was gone. 

Lady Agatha Danbury drank port because that is what he drank. She suffered through blood lettings, stale food, lecherous doctors, and foul tonics because she had to bear him a son. She wore gold far too often for her taste because that was his favorite color. She did not dance at parties, becoming a sentient who stood on the edge of the dance floor gazing on because he could not or would not do so. 

Lady Agatha Danbury wore gowns of black because her husband was dead. She wore a veil over her face because she must mourn a man who had taken away her girlhood. She had to cry, to faint, to languish around, or say her thanks to those who pitied her loss all to show her grief over his death. 

That girl who wished to drink what she may, wear shades of violet, and be twirled around the dance floor with laughter was stifled under Lady Danbury.  Agatha could not exist. Her existence was a thing that continued to be ignored. Lady Danbury may be free for she could no longer exist as she was, but Agatha was not.  

The funeral had not put an end to the mourning business nor had it given her the freedom and independence of a widow. Her freedom had in fact become a  complicated matter. Agatha was a widow, yes, but a childless widow. A young childless widow who had yet to reach the age of thirty.

“You are not me Agatha,” Her father warned her when he had called her to Lord Danbury's study that morning after.  A room that she wanted to lock up and never step foot in again, but it was slowly turning into her father’s place. Joseph Robinson had become a permanent fixture at the Danbury residence. “You are too young for widowhood. The Danbury line is lost to us, but our line must continue on.” His dark eyes had grown uncharacteristically soft, but his words told another story.  

There were girls, respectable girls from the best families in the country who had never married at her age. The Danbury’s, the Robinsons, and families of the like were the new blood of the Ton. They could not afford to make mistakes. They could not afford to do as the others did. Especially when so much of their futures remained uncertain. 

Agatha was not free. This widowhood was a temporary thing. A thing that would be remedied once her mourning period ended. She was young. Well bred. A pretty thing that men wished to gawk over. More than like fertile with a more virile match.

Agatha of course made her protests. Tried to argue. She had her duties. She was the queen's lady-in-waiting. She had married once. She had tried to give birth to her husband's big-headed babe. She had done that duty, perhaps in time she might find some worthy man to, but her father held firm. She could not stay a widow for there was one area in which she lacked. An area that prevented her freedom. Income.  

He treated her like a child because of it. Ordering her about. Keep watch over her. Telling the servants to keep an eye on her when she ventured from her room. It was fine when he had first come down, a relief in fact when he helped her with Lord Danbury’s funeral arrangements, but Mr. Joseph Robinson had begun to overstay his welcome at his daughter's home. 

Though he had not been entirely wrong about her predicament, he, much like Princess Augusta, would not help her solve her circumstances. Not when it benefited him to do nothing. 

The Dowager Countess Lady Agatha Danbury was not a wealthy woman. She had found that out when her husband’s solicitor had been called for. It was he, and a host of others who Agatha herself procured replaced the doctors who frequented the Danbury residence. 

Under normal circumstances, her late husband's title and estate would pass on to their eldest son, but they had no children let alone a son which to pass his earldom and all that was entailed upon him to. His title would die with him. His estate would wither.  A fact which caused the other lords and ladies, of the new ton, much distress 

“Lord Danbury was the first of us to pass on.” Lord Smthye-Smith had said when the lot of them came over requesting an audience with her. “What is to become of us?” 

That was their woe. Their titles and estates. What would become of them when they too followed Lord Danbury to the grave? What would become of their children? Their heirs. What would become of the next generation after them? 

Would their sons inherit what had become their birthright? Their titles, their land, and their place in society. Will their daughters be seen as the sweet genteel young ladies of good breeding they were? Would their children be seen as worthy matches for the sons and daughters of their fellow lords and ladies? Would they be accepted and seen as true equals in mind and title?  Or would this progress be gone in a generation? 

The crown was no help with providing no answers to these dire queries. “It is up to the king to decide whether or not this experiment will continue on past this generation.” ‘Twas Princess Augustas reply at the palace. The king, that is how she skirted around the issues. How she loved to remind Agatha that she was the king's mother, not the king himself. She did not have the authority to act. She, like the others, was but a humble servant. Serving at his majesty’s pleasure. 

“How is our queen?” Information. That was her price. Her face was marble as she sipped upon her infernal tea. Lord Butte sat a sour-faced statue at her side though he looked pleased with the Princess's steadfastness. The other lord’s in attendance were not worth noting. They simply did nothing. 

The representatives' crown and the government would never act to secure their interests. Princess Augusta would not advocate for them unless she saw some manner of gain or benefit in it for said crown. They would watch on and see how things played out as if they were an orchestra merely there for their entertainment. 

Mayhaps the king might have been more sympathetic to their needs and endeavored to resolve their precarious state, but the king was nowhere to be found. His queen was too busy worrying over her distant king on top of her carrying the next.  Agatha would not add to her stress nor would she be the case of. So they were set adrift.  Their circumstances were left to run their course unaided. Oh, how they ran. 

Under normal circumstances, Agatha would be a wealthy woman. By the laws that governed their country the bulk, which amounted to two-thirds of her husband's fortune prior to his lordship, was to be inherited by Dominic Danbury, her husband's nephew. The boy was his closest living male relative and his chosen heir in the absence of a natural-born legitimate son. 

The remaining third, a mini fortune that could sustain her independence, as well as her dowry, which was rather a meager sum of five thousand pounds, was entitled to Agatha as his surviving widow. However, Lord Danbury’s estate had been left in near ruin.

“These are unprecedented dealings. Of course, we know that Dominic can not inherit your late husband's title or estate. The crown would never bestow the lordship and its holding upon anyone who was not Lord Danbury’s direct male descendant.” The solicitor had begun when he had answered her summons. 

Riffling through her late husband's papers in that study of his. Their meeting place after she had forced her father to vacate Lord Danbury’s chambers. Agatha was still the lady of the house and her father a guest. He could not nor would he keep her from conducting her affairs.  

The solicitor was an older fellow. Agatha reckoned that he had attended Eton with Lord Danbury. He was not patronizing. He did not treat her as a simpering widow or speak to her as if she lacked sense. Quite the opposite for he did not mince his meaning. 

“Your husband spent a great deal trying to appear as one befitting of his new station that  he failed to take into account the limitations of his income.” The man let out a sigh as he peered up at her. “His personal holdings not tied to the earldom are few and far between.” Agatha felt as if she dunked in ice water at his words. 

“My husband was one of the richest men in the country.” She wondered if perhaps she might be dreaming. Retracing her steps that day and her surroundings to see if anything was amiss. Surely what she heard had to be a lie. A figment of an overactive imagination from sitting inside this cursed house most days with her only outlet being teas where she was made to simper and conciliate. 

The late newly titled Lord Danbury was the son of a king. One of the wealthiest kings in Africa. He held one of the greatest fortunes on the continent. That kind of wealth could not be spent in a lifetime. “My husband's fortune could rival even the wealthiest of dukedoms. How can it be gone?” 

Gone it was. Lord Herman Danbury was a spendthrift who was prone to bending the truth. On so many accounts it seemed. He had spent his money on well-bred horses and fine carriages. New staff, lavish furniture which to decorate their new estate, tailors who made their suits and dresses, and club fees. “The fortune I'm afraid was not so great as your late husband led you to believe.”

Her dowry along her husband's fortune, a mere fourth of the sum he boasted of holding, was near depleted. Spent to assuage the man’s avarice. The money that was not spent for mere vanities sake was put into the estate. Out of reach to Agatha and her nephew. 

The old estate where she had spent the majority of her marriage was gone as well. a considerable number of linens was placed upon the property in exchange for lines of credit. Her late husband's greed knew no bounds.  

Agatha needed to remarry. She could not stay a widow. She lacked. Her freedom would be sacrificed and she would become some other lord's wife. His plaything. With haste. Or attempt to secure Dominic’s position. Secure a lordship for the boy. Attempt to secure her position as a woman in her own right by way of his guardianship, she could be free from the will of a cruel master twice over. 

She had taken a page from Princess Augusta’s playbook. Inviting her sister-in-law to join her for afternoon tea in the sunroom. The woman had not left for her home, but Agatha could see that she, unlike her father, grew weary of her continued stay at the Danbury residence. 

“I trust you find your stay with us pleasant under the circumstances dear sister.” Even to Agatha’s ear, her words dripped of false pleasantries. The woman sat before her had never been dear to her nor a sisterly, however, appealing to one’s better nature, establishing a more familial connection never harmed. Especially when one was trying to keep her son for her own benefit. 

“I have never been one for society or these people. Not as you or Hermain.” Her sister-in-law's characteristic air of disdain was absent. She looked hesitant as she sat her tea down. Drawing nearer to Agatha to occupy the seat next to her. 

“I leave for Bath on the morrow. I have already told your papa.” The two got along well. Agatha imagined that her papa would prefer a daughter like Mrs. Danbury to herself. A daughter who did her duty without complaint. Who had secured the family line .“I do appreciate what you are trying to  do for Dominic, but your father is right about your widowhood.” She placed a pat on the back of her hand. If it had been meant to comfort Agatha it only served to distress the lady further. Hoping that her leave would trigger her father to make his own preparations for his leave of her.

True to her word Mrs. Danbury departed for Bath that morning. Leaving her son in Agatha’s care. However, her father showed no signs of preparing for his departure. Mr. Robinson seemed content to stay right where he was. 

He was content watching Agatha scramble for independence. Content to see her make her way back from teas at the palace dejected. Or coming home from visits with the queen at Buckingham House with a headache. Quite content to see her under his thumb once more. Floundering and clawing trying to reach the surface. Drowning and he would not save her. Even to toss her a line so that she may save herself. Sinking deeper. Suffocating.

It came to a head when she had come back from tea at Buckingham house, reassuring the queen over her own woes, to find a man in her sitting room. Seated in her husband's favorite chair. A gaudy thing which, as with most of their furnishings in this tomb of a house, cost thrice than what it was worth. 

Richard Stokeworth. Dickey, he wanted her to call him. “Your papa tells me that you are fond of art. Montague House is to open a new exhibit this weekend with some pieces from Macedonia.  It would be my honor if you would oblige me with your company, my lady.” A smile stretched across his face as he leaned back awaiting her answer. 

 He was tall. A head taller than Agatha. Handsome with a straight white smile that stood out against his dark skin. Young. Not a blemish to cloud his complexion.  He couldn’t have been older than six and twenty. Richard Stokeworthwas a statue carved from onyx yet she felt nothing, but a creeping pit of dread when she gazed upon him.  

She stuttered for a moment before sprouting up from her chair with a start. Words caught in her throat. She couldn't speak. She did not wish to speak. Fearing what words that might slip out. I’m sure you are perfectly lovely. You might be lovely for someone else, but I would rather fall into a nest of thrones than be your wife. With one last stammer. her eyes flitting to her father's ashen face, Agatha ran from the room as if she were a child. 

She needed out. To be out of the house. To be out of the race. Out from the demands of the queen, crown, and the Ton alike. Out from under him. That man who sought to tempt her back into imprisonment. It was a prettier cage than the last, but a cage nonetheless. She’d lose herself all the same. She'd lose her mind if she did nothing. 

Sitting there staring at the walls in her room. Attending endless teas where most of the ladies in the room wanted her gone, or to use her be it for information or to soothe themselves Finding strange men in her parlor while her father held a self-satisfied countenance standing lurking in some shadowy corner of the room. A puppet master who had grabbed ahold of her strings and would not release them until a new master was procured. This time one who would get the job done. 

Coral had offered to come with her when she had seen her darting out from the parlor into the entryway. Forgetting her cloak along with proper shoes as she grabbed ahold of her veiled hat. Her maid and her father rarely got on, but both acted as mother hens watching her every move, albeit her reasons were much more benevolent than that man. 

Agatha waved away her maids' concerns. “I shall be fine Coral.” She needed solitude. Required it. A break. A breath. That is what she needed. Setting out on her into the wilderness of her estate, well her estate for as long as the crown did not recall it.   

She could not recollect the last time she had felt the sun kiss her face. A sable face covered by black lace, for she was supposed to be in mourning despite the pulling of forces that would not let her be and her own lack of feelings besides resentment towards her late husband, nonetheless she could still feel its warmth on her cheeks. The breath she held in, released.  Carried off into the air. 

Her run had turned into a walk once she had made it to the edge of her garden. The green manicured lawn turned to wild brown grass. It would have reached her shoulders had she not walked along the narrow trail cut between the blades. A well-worn path. Blanketed by sunbaked grass with its rays beating down on it. As if someone had wandered upon it without a destination a thousand times before as Agatha did now.

She happened upon a small house. A shack really. Mayhaps it once had been a gamekeeper's cottage, but its occupiers had long since deserted the desolate place. A carriage wheel and an assortment of broken ends and odds were placed in a half shed next to the cottage.

An old, but sturdy in appearance, bench sat in front of the structure's entrance under the cover of shade. A lucky find for her feet, which were still in her heeled black pumps, an entirely impractical shoe for her wandering was starting to hurt. The leather of her shoes pinched at the skin. 

Setting herself on that dusty bench, whose appearance did not lie of its durability, she hiked up her layer of skirts to slip off her shoes. Freeing her aching feet from their confines. Focusing on trying to draw circulation back into her lower limbs she was utterly oblivious to the sound of steady footsteps nearing until a voice spoke. 

“I would not think those were quite the best shoes for the fields.” She had not seen him in weeks, but there Lord Ledger stood before her. Cloaked in green with a walking stick at his side and a hint of a smile. Bowing, not forgetting his manners as  Agatha scrambled to put back on her blasted heels. 

The lord's presence was not entirely alarming though a bit startling. For she had not expected him. “What are you doing out here?” On her estate in the middle of this little valley. Only it was not her estate nor her valley. It was in fact his. 

“There is your estate.” He pointed a finger over to where she had come from. “And here is mine.” His stick planted itself softly into the ground “We abut, my lady.” She was the trespasser though he did not seem to mind her presence in his fields. Promising to not set the hounds upon her with a smirk holding no menace. It was teasing yet kind.

“I cannot fault you for taking a ramble.” Rambles that is what he called them. To assuage Lady Ledger. One could not have a mad husband. Or the appearance of a mad husband. Agatha imagined that appearances meant more to someone like her than personal satisfaction and happiness. To all of that side of the Ton. 

A ramble was merely a break from all the chaos. Not a break of one’s mind. Insanity is the key difference between an aimless walk and a ramble. Though Agatha felt as if she were on the edge of it. Her father would not care if she were on that edge. If she walked off that ledge just as long as she did her duty he would not question. The dowager princess would not waste and queen might spare a two 

“I do not believe I am rambling. I am sure it is just a walk. For I feel mad.” A walk nowhere. A walk perhaps into insanity. Marching to a slow doom set out to consume her. “Or that I will go mad.” She felt like screaming at the wind. If Lord Ledger had not come upon she would have. If that was not madness she did not know what was.

Concern was written across his lined face. His amber eyes softened as he apologized for her loss. Agatha had to bite her lip to keep from saying that she was not very sorry. Angrier at the fact that Lord Danbury’s death had not freed her from want. That it had brought on a new set of complications. “Walking or rambling, it will make you feel better.” 

He straightened as another smile overtook his face, wiping away some of her weight that held her down. “I expect you to wear riding boots tomorrow.” He pointed to her shoes with his stick.  “We shall ramble together at the same time tomorrow.” He took his leave of her with a bow. Leaving no room for argument nor did Agatha wish to. Curiosity seeped through her bones overtaking the melancholy she had felt from inaction and invisibility. 

True to his word, Lord Danbury was there. At that same gamekeeper's cottage. That same time when the sun's light was at a high. The corner of her eyes crinkled up when he caught sight of her. It increased the lines upon his face, but she thought it suited him. He greeted Agatha with a My Lady and she with a Lord Ledger. She felt her cheeks heat when their eyes met. Thankful that her chestnut skin hid her blush. 

They talked for hours. Of nothing, and nothing was a great distraction. Her worries and fears faded away as she focused on what was there. They talked about nothing as well. The plants they came across. The trees. The birds. Games. Wordplay. Riddles. Poetry. He recited to her poetry. His eyes held a warmth in them when he spoke.  A warmth that traveled throughout her. No topic was too small or too great for the other ear. Sometimes they did not talk at all and yet that pause did not need filling. 

They walked for hours. Her legs burned from the exertion. Her curls frizzed from the intricate style Coral had carefully crafted, but In those hours spent in his company that blush did not leave her. Nor that fluttering when he spoke or when he simply turned his gaze towards her. A  Fluttering of life. She felt alive. She knew that now. She had not been alive. Not truly. She had been existing, occupying space on this plane,  but existence is not life,  and this was just a taste of it. 

A ramble turned into a dozen. Turned to two dozen. Meeting at that little cottage. They would walk side by side along that narrow brown path where they were undisturbed apart from the rumblings of nature. It never lost its appeal. 

It was easy enough. Finding an excuse to get out of that suffocating house. I am going for a walk, father.” Just a walk. “I shall be back before dinner.” It was the truth in a way. Agatha had found that a partial truth was always easier than a lie.  

Mr. Robinson did not mind. He did not ask to accompany her. Even when her dinner sat cold Why would he when she was just wandering around the estate's empty land? She never took a carriage. Her dress was not askew upon arriving. Her makeup was untouched and her hair was kinked by the wind. 

No strange men lurked about in shadows or letters from unworthy admirers were delivered at the Danbury residence. She was just in need of a clear mind. 

He knew of her frustrations. Her will for independence, but she in turn knew how things went. A walk was the extent of the relief from those frustrations. She could gain. After all her father thought it better to have a contented daughter if he were to auction her off like cattle once more. Give her some measure of freedom, some measure of control, leave that door open and she shall not complain of her cage too much when it is shut. She will always want to come back through that door. 

While her father remained oblivious to Lord Ledger's presence with her in what was supposed to be a solitary exercise out from her cage, Agataha suspected that her maid knew. Coral was, if ever, a busybody. A gossip who could rival the likes of Lady Kent or Lady Allen. but she would not tell her father or another soul of whose company she kept on her walks. She was good for keeping her secrets.

“Do not forget your hat, my lady.” Gifting her a sly smile that made the corners of her mouth upturn in a feline way while she helped her pin her veil and hand her an umbrella.

Off she went and yet when she came back she was reminded of just how dreary her reality was. The queen who was a mere girl beyond her depth that their very place within society depended upon. Princess Augusta and her displeasure with her absence of information. The line of suitors her father had procured that looked at her as if she was a piece of meat or a trinket to be possessed beneath their pleasantries. 

She had lived for a few hours in Lord Ledger’s company with the wild surrounding them and when she arrived back through that door her cage was there to greet her. Agatha had lost and she had gained so much yet she was still in that gilded cage. 

And so those talks of nothing turned to something. Sitting upon that old bench under the cottage's awning with Lord Ledger at her side. Squinting as the day's dying light sought to impair his view. The Lord was a more than willing audience as she unburdened herself to him. 

“What is there?” His gaze was upon the grassy landscape before them. His voice a gentle timber. Apart from Coral, it seemed as if he could sense her moods better than anyone.

“My maid Coral.” Her friend. Her only friend. She was Lady Agatha Danbury the widow of an Earl who was the son of a king and the only true friend she had which she could depend on and who wanted her complete happiness was her small maid. 

“What is not there?” She let out a sigh at that question. Pursing her lips as she ruminated. The absences. The wants. There were too many to name. 

Her title. Her estate that could be recalled by the crown at any moment. The men who vied for her hand who viewed her only as a vessel for their own ambitions. To further their line. Her father among them. Her supposed access to the crown. They wanted it all.

Everything. It seemed the appropriate answer, but at the same time, it failed to convey the extent of her troubles. It was far too simple an answer for that. “A future in which I do not dread waking up in the morning.” The truth. She did not wish to go back to the life she lived. 

“Lord Danbury?” She turned to face him. His eyes remained glued to the landscape, but his tone was hopeful. He wanted an answer. A real answer. He would not judge her for telling the truth. 

“I would not say he is something that I lack.” She missed him least of all. Agatha did resent him for the mess he left her to deal with but did not miss or want for his presence. “ I might be a monster for thinking so.” She teased the lord before her with a smile. It was the unchristian thing to say. Not a sentiment that any good respectable wife, a grieving widow, should voice. 

“You are no more monstrous than I.” He finally turned to her. His eyes held a sadness as he continued on. Freedom. He called her free. She had to hold back a laugh. If this was freedom. If this was the extent of her freedom then she was truly doomed. 

“My father wishes to see me marry again.” She did not dare glance over at him. Her smile was gone as she joined him in his watch of the setting horizon. “I’m a girl to him. He is my keeper.” Lord Ledger was trapped in a loveless marriage, but he was a man. He could do as he pleased even in the confines of his dreary marriage. 

 “Next week is my birthday.” Another year gone. “And I have nothing to look forward to.”  Another year was wasted. Another year to come that would not be her own. 

Perhaps with a babe on the way. That is what her dear papa would want. What her new husband, who she will doubtlessly be married off to by the end of the year when Agatha could no longer use the excuse that she was in mourning, would want.

That was what awaited her. Nothing apart from life as someone's pet once more. Someone’s doll, an incubator, a spy, a servant who was to perform and act as they all wished with no account of her own wants and desires. Happiness and joy were not hers to have. She was a reed bending in the wind at other's whims. 

Agatha supposed she had one final option. The life of a nun. No one would stop her. No one could stop her from saying those vows no matter how much it inconveniences them, but that was not a life either. That was not a life for her. Not a full life. 

She had the allusion of freedom for a few moments. For a ramble every evening beside Lord Ledger, but that was the extent of her freedom and that freedom too would be gone like the others all too soon. Trapping her forever in darkness. 

“Rambles are there.” It was as if he had lit a candle in her darkness as he spoke to her. The lord turned to face her. A quiet conviction in his voice. With hope in his eyes. A hope that reached past her woe gripping her. Commanding her to wake from the abyss that surrounded her. Guiding her out of it. Into something unknown yet it made her feel riant. “I am there.” Agatha felt her breath catch.  “Are you?” He beckoned her to him and she followed. Eagerly. Heading towards that light. It was like a spell as they leaned into one another. An internal magnet drawing them together. Lord Ledger's breath, which smelled of mint and spice, fanned her warm face as he hesitated for the span of it before they plunged into each other’s depths. His lips landed upon hers and Lady Agatha Danbury was gone.

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[writtenbygracewilliams]

Peerages & Titles: female inheritance

[Full list of disclaimers is in the master post but tl;dr is that sources for this information are not consistent, sources may be modern, and this may be edited/expanded at anytime as my research continues.]

I knew this was gonna be a messy one but I didn’t think it would lead to me reading a 40 pg UK parliamentary report 😭 strap in, but it’s fascinating and also lowkey relevant to the Featherington’s and Michaela Stirling.

Some baronies and earldoms in the peerage of England may be inherited by women/daughters.

Some old earldoms issued by letters patent are able to pass to heirs of the body, with no male preference, and follow the same rules of baronies by writ (see below).

In the early medieval period earldoms were passed to the son of the earl, or the brother of the earl if he had no children. If he had a single daughter, his son-in-law would inherit the lands and usually the peerage—but more complex cases may have been decided by the crown. [If passing to a son-in-law, it would presumably be abeyant until she married but I did not find this specifically mentioned.]

In the 13th century, the son-in-law would automatically inherit the peerage when inheriting the land.

In the 15th century, the earldom reverted to the crown—who would often regrant it to the eldest son-in-law.

In the 17th century, the earldom would revert to abeyance unless and until there was only one remaining daughter.

Women may inherit certain baronies in the peerage of England, if they were baronies by writ. From the late 14th century [1388 to be exact] most peers have been created by letters patent, however most baronies created before this time were by a writ of summons.

Having no letters patent, or remainder, baronies by writ are not limited to male heirs. A baron who left a sole daughter may have his daughter inherit the barony, and either be a baroness in her own right or her husband will inherit the barony. [I cannot confirm which for the life of me, but based on prior knowledge I lean toward the latter.] [Maybe it’s a choice? Highly unlikely.]

Where there is more than one daughter, the barony will fall into a state of abeyance between the co-heirs.

The co-heirs should reach an honourable agreement (without bribery or corruption) as to who will claim the title, the claimant then petitioning the crown to terminate the abeyance.

A claimant must represent at least one third of an abeyant title, and the title must not have been abeyant for more than 100 years.

If there is ever only one remaining co-heir, they do not have to petition the crown in order to assume the title.

The crown may intervene and terminate an abeyant title at any time.

The inheritance of Scottish peerages varies, but in many instances [and this applies to all Scottish peers] a daughter may inherit the title, and will do so over her younger sisters. Co-heirs and abeyance are avoided entirely in the peerage of Scotland. [I have plans to extend this point since the introduction of Michaela, bear with me, but as always feel free to drop q’s in my ask]

Many original limitations for succession in the peerage of Ireland are not known. Today, there is only one Irish viscountcy and one barony that may pass through the female line and they are both held by the same person. [Viscount Massereene and Ferrand].

Titles that cannot be inherited by daughters do not automatically go to daughter’s sons, a special remainder must be in place. [This is what Portia does/forges to say that her first grandson will inherit the Featherington estate, she creates (forges) a special remainder.]

For example, IF the Featherington Barony was created by writ [it clearly was not, but I think it would be cool if it was] then after the death of Lord Featherington the barony would have become abeyant. [Instead it becomes dormant]. Phillipa, Prudence and Penelope would have to agree amongst themselves who should inherit the title. Do I see that happening? No, they’re a trainwreck, but it would make good tv. Queen Charlotte [technically the Prince Regent] could intervene at any time to choose who will take the title/peerage/estate.

Kind of can’t believe I got through that, mad props if any of you did. Link to the master post here with all the peerage information, drop any questions in my ask :)

–GW xo

[writtenbygracewilliams]

Peerage & Titles: rank and precedence within the peerage

[Full list of disclaimers is in the master post but tl;dr is that sources for this information are not consistent, sources may be modern, and this may be edited/expanded at anytime as my research continues.]

Sovereign > Royal family > Archbishop of Canterbury > Archbishop of York > Great Officers of State [eg Prime Minister] > Peers

Peers of England > Peers of Scotland > Peers of Great Britain > Peers of the United Kingdom > Peers of Ireland

However, never will a peer of a lower rank precede one of a higher rank [regardless of peerage]

Duke > Marquess > Earl > Viscount > Baron > Baronet

A married woman will always take on the title and precedence of her husband, even if it is her subsequent marriage and/or a lower rank or title.

A dowager peeress precedes the present holder of the same title. For example; Violet precedes Anthony.

A divorced peeress is no longer entitled to the privileges and styles of peeress that their marriage granted them. However, in the case of a Duchess, she may use the title without the The. For example; if they were to divorce, Daphne would go from Your Grace, The Duchess of Hastings to Daphne, Duchess of Hastings. The inclusion of the first name is to differentiate from a future wife of The Duke. If Simon remained unmarried, Daphne may be simply Duchess of Hastings.

Duke > Marquess > Duke’s eldest son > Earl > Marquess’s eldest son > Duke’s younger son(s) > Viscount > Earl’s eldest son > Marquess’s younger son(s) > Baron > Viscount’s eldest son(s) > Earl’s younger son(s) > Baron’s eldest son(s) > Viscount’s younger son(s) > Baron’s younger son(s) > Baronets

Children of the eldest son of a peer have precedence. For example; if Edmund was still alive [meaning Anthony would not yet be Viscount] then it would be Edmund > Violet > Anthony > Baby Edmund II > Benedict > Colin > Gregory > Anthony’s younger son(s)

Daughters take precedence after the eldest son’s wife, but before the younger son(s)’s wives. For example, if Edmund was still alive, Daphne [as Duchess, as she takes her husband’s precedence] Edmund > Violet > Anthony > Kate > Benedict > Colin > Gregory > Eloise > Francesca > Hyacinth > Sophie > Penelope > Lucy.

Canon example, because Anthony is Viscount, Daphne > Violet > Anthony > Kate > Baby Edmund II > Edmund II’s wife > Anthony’s younger son’s > Anthony’s daughters > Anthony’s younger son’s wives > Benedict > Sophie > Colin > Penelope > Gregory > Lucy > Eloise > Francesca > Hyacinth. Much like Daphne, Francesca will outrank Anthony once marrying an Earl.

Let’s all get on the same page about the full ranking/precedence, at the end of s3. Simon > Daphne > Auggie > John > Francesca > Saphne’s younger children (boys first) > Violet > Anthony > Kate > John & Francesca’s hypothetical eldest son would go here > Portia > Baby Polin, Baron Featherington > Baby Edmund II > John & Francesca’s hypothetical younger children (boys first) > Baby Polin’s eldest son > Kanthony’s future children (boys first) > Baby Polin’s younger children > Benedict > Sophie > Colin > Penelope. Polin will be outranked by their grandchildren. [I know that canonically John and Francesca have no children, but I wanted to illustrate].

This one melted my brain a little ngl. Master post here, it’s got general peerage info and links to all my other deep dives. Drop any questions in my ask :)

–GW xo

[novelist-hobbyist]

No because I shit myself seeing my fic advertised 😭

yearning for him: brimsley X reynolds - queen charlotte: a bridgerton story

by Novelist_Hobbyist

reynolds and brimsley love behind closed doors, but there is no hiding the longing they have for a future together.

Words: 909, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Queen Charlotte (TV 2023), Bridgerton Series - Julia Quinn

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Reynolds (Bridgerton), Brimsley (Bridgerton), Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz (1744 -1818), George III of the United Kingdom

Relationships: Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz (1744-1818) & George III of the United Kingdom, Brimsley/Reynolds (Bridgerton)

Additional Tags: Angst, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes

link

[writtenbygracewilliams]

Peerages & Titles: how titles apply to the children of peers

[Full list of disclaimers is in the master post but tl;dr is that sources for this information are not consistent, sources may be modern, names are all Bridgerton characters unless in red, and this may be edited/expanded at anytime as my research continues.]

The eldest son of a Duke, Marquess or Earl uses his father’s subsidiary title as a courtesy title, without the use of The. For example, The Duke of Hastings is also The Earl Clyvedon so his eldest son [and heir apparent] is be Earl Clyvedon.

If a Duke, Marquess or Earl does hold any subsidiary titles, it’s common for his eldest son to make one up entirely. He may be addressed as Lord Windsor, despite his father not holding any peerage of Windsor, or the title of Viscount Windsor or Baron Windsor to avoid confusion with an existing Lord Windsor.

A holder of a courtesy title is not a peer, therefore not entitled to sit in the House of Lords. However, until 1999, by way of writ of acceleration, a peer with more than one peerage could enable his heir apparent to attend and vote in the House of Lords while he was still alive—using one of his father’s subsidiary titles. It was introduced in the mid 15th century and was a rare occurrence, only used 98 times in over 400 years.

If an eldest son did not receive a writ of acceleration, it was not uncommon for a new peerage to be created for him. There are examples of this happening where the father is a baron, meaning that he has no subsidiary titles.

Until the 20th century, it was relatively easy for eldest sons with no courtesy title or peerage to be elected to the House of Commons if they still wished to be in politics.

Eldest daughters do not get a courtesy title, because they are not heir apparent.

In the peerage of Scotland, both heir presumptives and heir apparent of a peer use the title/address of Master or Mistress. For example, The Master of Edinburgh. This is not a courtesy title, and the heir of a Duke, Marquess or Earl may still use a courtesy as outlined above.

The sons (and son’s wives) of Dukes, Marquesses and Earls who are not heir apparent are addressed as My Lord/Lady or Lord/Lady, using their first name and surname—though the surname may be dropped following the first use/reference. For example; Simon and Daphne’s son (aside from the heir apparent) would be addressed as Lord Edward Basset. That son’s wife is Lady Edward Basset. This title persists after the death of his father, but because it is considered a courtesy and it is not inherited by his children.

The sons (and son’s wives) of Viscounts and Barons are addressed as Sir, Mr, Madam or Mrs. This is why Benedict, Colin and Gregory are all Mr Bridgerton. To differentiate between brothers, Mr Bridgerton would refer to the eldest son and the younger sons may use their first names as well when required. [Much like the bottom point, about daughters].

The daughters of Dukes, Marquesses and Earls who are addressed as My Lady or Lady, using their first name and surname—though the surname may be dropped following the first use/reference. For example; Simon and Daphne’s daughters would be addressed as Lady Amelia Basset, Lady Belinda Basset and Lady Caroline Basset. If they married a man with any peerage, or courtesy peerage, they would take that rank and title. If she marries a commoner, she retains her rank and title but uses her husband's surname instead of her maiden name. Her husband does not gain any right to a courtesy title/style. For example; if Amelia married commoner William Brien, she would become Lady Amelia Brien, but he would remain Mr William Brien, and their children would not inherit any titles.

The daughters of Viscounts and Barons are Miss (unmarried), Mrs (married to a commoner) or Madam (married or unmarried)

The eldest unmarried daughter of a family is addressed using their surname, and all subsequent daughters are addressed using their first name with the surname optional. This is why it is Miss Sharma for Kate and Miss Edwina or Miss Edwina Sharma for Edwina. Once Kate marries, Edwina should be formally addressed as Miss Sharma.

Link to the master post, drop any other questions in my ask :)

–GW xo

[writtenbygracewilliams]

Peerage & Titles: non peerage related titling rules

[Full list of disclaimers is in the master post but tl;dr is that sources for this information are not consistent, sources may be modern, names are all Bridgerton characters unless in red, and this may be edited/expanded at anytime as my research continues.]

The eldest unmarried daughter of a family is addressed using their surname, and all subsequent daughters are addressed using their first name with the surname optional. This is why it is Miss Sharma for Kate and Miss Edwina or Miss Edwina Sharma for Edwina. Once Kate marries, Edwina should be formally addressed as Miss Sharma.

Correct address to a Mr on an envelope for a letter of a personal nature is Esq. (as in Esquire). This is antiquated in modern times, and should not apply to modern AUs/works/translations.

A married woman is known by her husband’s name, as in Mrs Colin Bridgerton. A widow is addressed the same way.

A divorced woman, traditionally, uses her own first name but retains her husband's surname. As in, Mrs Penelope Bridgerton. [This is NOT me manifesting their divorce or unhappiness, I swear I love them].

If someone has a profession that warrants a title [ie Doctor] but is also otherwise titled [such as a peer] then their profession goes after their name. For example; Lord John Windsor, M.D.

Link to the master post, drop any other questions in my ask :)

–GW xo

[writtenbygracewilliams]

Peerages & Titles: how Royal titles work

[Full list of disclaimers is in the master post but tl;dr is that sources for this information are not consistent, sources may be modern, and this may be edited/expanded at anytime as my research continues.]

The full style of the monarch is Charles the Third, by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of His other Realms and Territories King, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith [Queen Elizabeth II used the same].

The full styles of King George III were George the Third, by the Grace of God King of Great Britain, France and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, Archtreasurer and Prince-Elector of the Holy Roman Empire, Duke of Brunswick-Luneburg from 1760–1801; George the Third, by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland King, Defender of the Faith, Arch-treasurer and Prince-Elector of the Holy Roman Empire, Duke of Brunswick-Luneburg from 1801–1814; George the Third, by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland King, Defender of the Faith, King of Hanover, Duke of Brunswick-Luneburg from 1814–1820.

Full list of the styles of English monarchs can be found here.

Monarchs always also hold the Duchy of Lancaster, Duchy of Normandy [used when on the Channel Islands] and Lord of Mann [used when on the Isle of Man, only from 1765 when it was purchased by King George III].

On Lord of Mann; Queen Elizabeth II was referred to as Lord of Mann however Queen Victoria was Lady of Mann. I imagine it is personal preference, somewhat influenced by public perception/opinion at the time.

The monarch, man or woman, is referred to as the Duke of Lancaster and Duke of Normandy. Despite their difference in regards to Lord/Lady of Mann, both Queen Elizabeth II and Queen Victoria were referred to as Duke’s.

If a peer succeeds to the throne, the peerage merges with the crown and ceases to exist.

A fount of honour is someone with exclusive right to grant titles of nobility and orders of chivalry. In the United Kingdom, it is the monarch. [The concept is older, but the specific term dates back to late feudalism around the 15th century. It is appropriate in your fics.]

A Queen Regnant is a queen ruling in her own right.

A Queen Consort is the wife of a king.

A Dowager Queen is the widow of a former king.

Queen Mother refers to a dowager queen of a queen regnant, but is rarely used as a formal title.

A Queen Regnant’s husband is never the king consort, as a king will always outrank a queen, but they are still a royal consort. They are whatever other title(s) they may hold. They are not automatically a prince. Queen Elizabeth II made her husband Prince Philip in order to elevate his title and status to be in line with that of their children, otherwise he would have remained only The Duke of Edinburgh. The only man to hold the official title of Prince Consort was Prince Albert, husband of Queen Victoria, who held no other peerages or titles.

The Prince of Wales belongs to the heir apparent of the Crown, an heir presumptive does not hold the title. Therefore, the Princess of Wales is/was only a title for the wife of the Prince of Wales. [Given the abolition of male inheritance primogeniture for royals in 2012, it is unclear whether this would change in modern/future applications. It is entirely possible, given girls can now be heir apparent, that a girl may one day hold the title of Princess of Wales in her own right].

The heir apparent also holds the Duchy of Cornwall.

The Princess Royal is the oldest daughter of the monarch, and the highest title for a female member of the royal family (other than queen). Queen Elizabeth II was never The Princess Royal, as there can only ever be one at a time and her aunt Princess Mary of York already held the title when Elizabeth became eligible.

All people in the below tables are real British royals from the 19th–21st centuries.

Link to the master post with other forms of address, drop any questions in my ask :)

–GW xo