𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 4

𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝓶𝓮 𝓱𝓪𝓻𝓭𝓮𝓻

The carriage rocked over the cobbled lane as the four Corneliuses—Caity and her three children—hurriedly conferred under the dim glow of its lantern.

Fordyce leaned forward, fists clenched on his knees. “I will not stand idly by while that cad threatens our name—and Daphne’s. I intend to challenge him to a duel at first light. He must answer for his insults.”

Caity clasped her hands in her lap, eyes wide with alarm. “Fordyce, you cannot be serious! A duel—my son! Do you not understand how easily a man can be killed over such folly?”

“I understand perfectly,” he replied, voice low and steady. “But I am heir to this family. I cannot allow dishonor to go unpunished, especially where the Bridgertons are concerned.”

Isabelle’s fingers twisted the lace at her cuff. “Brother, dueling is reckless. You’ll risk everything—your life, Father’s hopes for you, even our position in society. Must you gamble so boldly?”

Caspian, perched on the opposite seat, let out an exasperated sigh. “And I, for having punched Berbrooke—you forget that I could be thrown into Newgate for assault. Both of you sound like you’re bent on suicide.”

Fordyce’s jaw hardened. “One may meet a poor end at a duel, but It will not let disgrace be the legacy of my sister.”

Caity leaned forward, voice trembling with both fear and resolve. “No! I will not allow either of my sons to court death or imprisonment on behalf of some petty scoundrel. Fordyce, you are the viscount’s heir—do not throw away your life in a senseless field! Caspian, you must apologize to Lord Berbrooke—or face legal consequences. Physical violence is no solution.”

Isabelle rose from her seat, placing a hand on each brother’s arm. “Please, let cooler heads prevail. We protect our family by wisdom, not by pistols at dawn and fistfights in the grass.”

The carriage jolted over a rut, and Caity gently patted her children’s shoulders. “We will find another way to restore honor—through reason, through proper challenge to his reputation in society, not through blood. Understood?”

Fordyce and Caspian exchanged glances, each bristling, then nodded grudgingly.

Caspian muttered under his breath, “Next time, Mother, warn me before you conceive sons of such unmanageable honor.”

But as the carriage carried them homeward, the Corneliuses settled into quiet—learned, perhaps, that family sometimes must temper bravery with caution.

Night had fallen over the Cornelius estate. Yet the family within remained very much awake—Isabelle was seated cross-legged on the settee, sketchpad in hand, a few pencil smudges gracing her fingertips. Caspian, in a rather sprawl on the rug, scribbled furiously into his journal. Caity sat near the hearth, her needle gliding through embroidery with quiet precision. Across from her, Albert was buried in paperwork, murmuring now and then over ledgers and investment notes.

The peace was broken as Fordyce swept into the room, In his hand was a crisp sheet—Lady Whistledown’s latest scandal edition.

“Do you have something to do with this, Mother?” he asked, striding toward Caity and handing over the paper like it was evidence in a trial.

Caity raised an eyebrow, taking the sheet with a calm that only made Fordyce more suspicious.

He read aloud as she glanced at the ink:

“It has come to this author's attention that the ton is abuzz with a most sordid tale. It is said one cannot judge a book by its cover. But in the case of the bumbling Baron Berbrooke, it seems his displeasing appearance is quite an apt metaphor for the state of affairs in his household.

I would not be surprised if Lord Berbrooke were called away to the country on alleged business… Business which, perhaps, might involve sending some much overdue funds to one former maid and young boy, who we can only hope takes after his mother.”

“I’ve heard it from three sources today—Berbrooke has left town entirely,” Fordyce said, lowering the paper. “Gone. Vanished. I think this solution did not fall from the sky. Did you and Lady Bridgerton… orchestrate it?”

Caity returned the paper to her lap with a small, satisfied smile. “Daphne Bridgerton is family. Our families took an oath long before any of you could walk. Do you think I would let that bumbling Berbrooke marry into our bloodline? Not while I draw breath.”

“Well,” Caspian said, tossing his journal aside and sitting up with a grin, “remind me never to cross you, Mother. You’re far more terrifying than Fordyce with a pistol.”

“She’s the true general of this household,” Isabelle added with a soft laugh, setting her pencil down.

“Hmm,” Albert said without looking up, “I always did say your mother could conquer Parliament if she wished. Perhaps the queen should start taking tea here instead.”

Caity chuckled softly and resumed her embroidery. “There is no satisfaction in scandal, only justice in a world run by fools. Now,” she glanced at her children, “shall we have something sweet brought in? I believe this evening calls for lemon cake.”

The three siblings grinned at each other as if they’d just won a war.

“God save the Queen,” Caspian murmured.

“And God protect Lord Berbrooke,” Isabelle quipped. “Wherever he’s run off to.”

“Preferably far, far away,” Fordyce agreed with a smirk, settling into the chair beside the fire.

And so the Cornelius family carried on, the scandal fading behind them like smoke from the hearth—proof that a sharp mind and an oath well-kept were mightier than any titled fool.

Morning arrived at the Bridgerton estate, as the families gathered in the drawing room. The Bridgertons were in full presence, joined by the Cornelius family.

Daphne was seated beside her mother, while Isabelle sat near the piano, sketchbook in hand. Fordyce stood by the hearth, Caspian lounged on the arm of a chair, one boot barely touching the carpet.

“Daphne, have you thought about with whom you would like to dance at tonight's ball?” Violet asked, voice light but with a lilt of expectation.

“I have some ideas. Lord Weaver is a fine dancer,” Daphne said with careful consideration.

“Lord Hardy was asking about you at White's last night,” Anthony added.

“Lord Hardy? What about the duke?” Violet replied swiftly.

“The duke has not proposed, Mama. I am still considering my best course,” Daphne responded, chin lifted.

“Wise girl,” Anthony praised, folding his arms.

“And Lord Hardy is a fine option. Although, he is rather boastful,” Daphne admitted.

“My dear, why ever do you complicate matters so? You must simply marry the man who feels like your dearest friend,” Violet offered with an amused sigh.

“That is what Mother said last week,” Caspian chimed in, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Well, she wasn’t wrong,” Isabelle added with a smirk, glancing at her brother. “Though if I married someone who felt like my dearest friend, I’d be wedding the family hound.”

“Spare us all, Isabelle,” Fordyce muttered as he sipped his tea, tone wry. “Your taste in men already keeps Mother awake at night.”

Caity raised a brow but didn’t look up from her embroidery. “If only some of you would concern yourselves less with jesting and more with proper introductions. A season is not for idle games.”

“Is that it, Well, how very simple indeed!” Daphne exclaimed with a smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes.

“Yes, quite,” Violet said as she laughed ironically, though there was a knowing look shared between the mothers.

The ballroom light across the swirling dancers. Music soared from the orchestra, Servants slipped between couples offering flutes of champagne.

Isabelle lingered at the edge of the dance floor, her lavender gown a soft beacon among ivory and rose. She watched Daphne gliding across the floor with the Duke of Hastings, every eye following their effortless grace.

A familiar tap on her elbow drew her attention. She turned to find Benedict standing there, one hand tucked in front of him and a warm, hopeful smile on his lips.

“Miss Cornelius,” he said with mock formality. “Would you do me the honor of this dance?”

Isabelle felt a flutter she’d learned to disguise. “Mr. Bridgerton,” she replied, offering her gloved hand, “you know I cannot refuse when you employ such charm.”

He bowed as he took her hand. “Charming or not, I promise only my best steps—and at least one witty remark per measure.”

She allowed herself a genuine smile. “I shall hold you to that.”

They stepped onto the floor together, joining the waltz. As they moved, their hands found that familiar feeling—his palm steady on her back, her fingers alighting on his shoulder.

“You look radiant tonight,” he murmured, careful to keep his voice light.

She tilted her head, feigning nonchalance. “So does the entire orchestra—and I dare not flatter them all.”

He laughed softly. “True enough. Though I suspect they lack our particular rapport.”

Isabelle let her gaze wander to the other couples, then back to Benedict. “I did hear Lady Whistledown’s latest remark…” she began, arching an eyebrow.

“And?” Benedict prompted, leaning in closer so only she could hear.

“She declares you the foremost dancer of Mayfair—though she cautions you step lightly around your best friend’s heart.”

He paused mid-turn, a playful spark in his eyes. “Is that so? Then I must ensure my feet—and my sentiments—are equally graceful.”

She felt a warmth bloom in her cheeks and turned with him, their steps in perfect harmony. Around them, the ballroom spun in a whirl of silk and laughter, but for that moment it felt as if they alone danced on a world all their own.

When the music drew to its final chord, he guided her smoothly to a gentle stop.

“Thank you, Isabelle,” he said earnestly, bowing once more. “I’ll count that as a most delightful evening.”

She curtsied, her heart fluttering at the soft sincerity in his voice. “The pleasure was entirely mine, Benedict.”

They parted with a shared glance—friendly, proper, yet charged with everything unsaid—knowing that, for now, the waltz would have to suffice.

The hallways of the Cornelius estate lay silent the lamps had long since been extinguished, and the household slumbered.

Except for Isabelle.

She sat upright in bed, breath caught somewhere between restlessness and reverie, her nightgown tangled in the sheets. The dream still lingered—Benedict’s hand brushing hers, the press of a dance between them in a ballroom that existed only in her mind. His eyes, soft and knowing, had met hers with a promise she couldn't define. A dream, only a dream.

Frustrated, Isabelle slipped her feet into her slippers, wrapped her shawl over her shoulders, and tiptoed from her room. It was then that she heard it—a soft melody drifting through the corridor. A violin.

Drawn to the sound, Isabelle padded silently down the staircase, careful not to alert the servants. The music guided her to the drawing room, where the fireplace had yet to die completely.

There, seated by the tall window with the light streaking across his white shirt, was Caspian, his eyes half-closed as he played the violin. He swayed slightly with each stroke of the bow, the instrument pressed against his neck.

She watched him for a moment in quiet awe before whispering, “I had no idea you played like that.”

Caspian startled slightly, lowering the violin. “I didn’t know I had an audience.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Isabelle admitted, stepping closer. “You?”

“Same,” he said, setting the instrument down gently. “The house is so quiet it feels unnatural. Thought I'd keep the ghosts company.”

She chuckled softly, perching herself on the arm of a nearby chair. “Do you always play when you can’t sleep?”

“Only when the thoughts are too loud,” he said, shrugging one shoulder. “It helps.”

Just then, the door creaked again.

Fordyce stood at the threshold, shirt slightly askew, hair uncharacteristically tousled. “You too?” he said gruffly, stepping in.

Caspian gestured to the room with a faint grin. “Welcome to the Night Owls’ Club.”

Fordyce crossed his arms and glanced at the both of them. “Couldn't sleep. Thought perhaps I'd go to the library... but apparently, this is where the family has decided to convene.”

Isabelle smiled. “We might as well have a midnight tea party.”

“Milk, more like,” Caspian said. “Can’t sleep with tea, and we’re not old enough to drink.” He jests

“I am old enough,” Fordyce quipped, heading toward the door. “Though fine. Milk it is.”

The three siblings, now thoroughly awake, made their way down to the darkened kitchen. The scent of hearth and the faint remnants of baked bread lingered.

They stood there for a moment—three Corneliuses of noble blood and impeccable standing—staring blankly at the iron stove and jugs of milk on the counter as though they had entered a foreign country.

“Well?” Fordyce said, turning to Caspian. “Go on then. You suggested it.”

“I suggested drinking it,” Caspian muttered. “Not making it.”

Isabelle lifted a pewter pot. “Do we pour it in this thing?”

“Where’s the fire? We’re not about to start one, are we?” Fordyce asked, frowning.

“Move aside,” Caspian finally sighed. He rolled up his sleeves, took the pot from Isabelle, and confidently located the small cast iron kettle beneath the stove. He added a few coals from the banked hearth, set a small flame going, and carefully placed the milk on top to heat.

Both Isabelle and Fordyce stared at him as if he had suddenly revealed he knew how to sew his own clothes that rivals Madame Delacroix.

“Where did you learn to do that?” Fordyce asked.

Caspian smirked as he stirred the milk. “A stable boy taught me. I used to sneak out to ride, remember? He heated oats and milk for the horses, and once, for me. I paid attention.”

“You paid attention?” Isabelle echoed, blinking. “To chores?”

“Unlike you two, I don’t mind watching people work,” he teased. “Servants have all the best gossip anyway.”

Once the milk was gently warmed and poured into mismatched porcelain cups, they all settled around the large kitchen table. The cups steamed between their hands as the silence settled in again—but this time, it was companionable.

Fordyce broke it first.

“I truly was ready to duel Berbrooke,” he murmured. “Even knowing it would have endangered everything.”

Isabelle glanced at him. “You were serious, weren’t you?”

“Of course I was,” he said, quietly now. “We’re family. That man threatened our allies, our name. Daphne… she’s like your sister, and she’s been like one to Caspian too. I wouldn’t have stood by.”

“You’re reckless,” Isabelle said softly, but there was pride beneath it. “But you would’ve made a fine knight, Fordyce.”

He smiled faintly, the lines around his eyes softening. “And you, Belle… you always try to carry things quietly. But I see it. The worry. Especially when it comes to the family.”

“I worry because I love you both,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Even when you’re both insufferable.”

Caspian nudged her arm. “Speak for yourself. I’m the favorite.”

“You’re the loudest,” Fordyce said dryly, but there was affection there.

They sipped quietly for a moment, steam curling between them.

“I’m glad we’re us,” Isabelle said suddenly. “I know it sounds foolish, but… even when we argue, or when Papa is impossible and Mama is planning every detail of our lives—I wouldn’t trade this. Us. For anything.”

Fordyce nodded slowly. “We grew up in a world that tells us to protect our name. But the truth is… I’d protect you first. Both of you. That’s what matters.”

Caspian leaned back with a yawn. “You’re both getting sentimental. But… I agree. You're my favorite people. I may not say it often, but I love you both.”

A long pause. Then Isabelle smiled softly.

“And I love you, too.”

They sat like that a little longer, the milk now warm in their bellies. Just three siblings in a quiet kitchen— and the comfort of knowing they were never truly alone.

Eventually, they rose together, leaving their empty cups behind, and walked back upstairs with tired smiles and full hearts, the night gentler now than when it began.

The Cornelius and Bridgerton families found themselves gathered within the halls of Somerset House, where an exhibition of paintings had drawn nearly all of the ton.

Isabelle drifted through the gallery at her own pace, her gaze alight with fascination. As an artist herself, she was particularly attuned to the subtle brushwork and interplay of shadow and light. Though many of the works struck her as technically proficient but emotionally hollow, she appreciated the discipline and vision behind each one.

Turning a corner to the far right of the gallery, she caught sight of a familiar trio: Eloise, stood with Penelope—and, to Isabelle’s faint amusement, Caspian, whose scowl could rival any classical sculpture. It was no secret he’d been reluctantly dragged along, much to Eloise’s equal displeasure.

“Quite dull, would you not agree?” Eloise said coolly, her eyes fixed on the painting before them, her tone making it clear she wasn’t speaking to Caspian.

“It is terribly familiar, yet I am sure this is the first time I have seen it,” Penelope mused, tilting her head.

“That is because, like all of these paintings, it was done by a man who sees a woman as a decorative object,” Eloise remarked dryly.

Caspian folded his arms, already bristling. “Not all men are like that.”

“If they weren't,” Eloise shot back, “I assure you—it would still not be you.” She rolled her eyes with the force of a thunderclap.

Penelope giggled under her breath, while Caspian muttered something under his breath involving “feathers” and “insufferable,” but Isabelle floated past them with a wry smile and chose not to intervene.

Before she could retreat deeper into the exhibition, a warm, gloved hand slipped around her arm.

“There you are, dearest girl,” came the familiar voice of Lady Danbury. “I’ve heard a most delightful rumor about your artistic talents. Would you mind accompanying us to view something rather... controversial?”

To Isabelle’s mild surprise, Benedict stood beside her, walking in step with both families. He offered her a half-smile—one part mischief, one part awkward apology for whatever Lady Danbury might say next.

“Come,” Lady Danbury insisted, steering them toward a large canvas displayed at the end of the room.

“It’s much too cold,” Benedict said, eyeing the painting with a critical squint. “Where's any sense of the subject’s spirit? And the light! Given the quality, I do wonder why the piece was not skyed with the other daubs.”

Isabelle studied the painting for a moment—its composition was clever, the strokes measured, but it lacked a heartbeat. Still, there was something melancholic in the distant eyes of the subject that stirred her curiosity.

“I don’t disagree,” Isabelle said softly, folding her hands in front of her. “It’s technically sound, but it feels... contained. As if the artist was too afraid to let the emotion spill through. Almost as if they cared too much for perfection, and too little for truth.”

Lady Danbury lifted a brow, clearly pleased. “Perhaps we should ask the artist himself.”

“That would be something, Lady Danbury,” Benedict said with a laugh.

“Mm… Mr. Granville, why was your piece not skyed?” Lady Danbury asked the man standing beside them with a wicked twinkle in her eye.

“Hm,” Mr. Granville hummed, caught off guard.

“Mr. Granville, I—” Benedict started, voice strangled with sudden realization.

Isabelle tried—truly tried—not to laugh, but a soft chuckle escaped her lips, betraying her amusement.

“If you’ll excuse me, um, I must find my wife,” Mr. Granville said dryly, then turned and walked off.

“You diabolical… How could you let me rattle on like that?” Benedict groaned, glaring between the two women as his ears turned slightly pink.

“How could I not, my dear Mr. Bridgerton?” Lady Danbury replied, entirely unrepentant.

“It was riotously funny, you must admit,” Isabelle added, her smile lingering as she turned back toward the painting.

Benedict gave a resigned sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “If the next painting is yours, Belle, do warn me first, won’t you?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Isabelle said sweetly.

And beside them, unseen by the crowd but not by Lady Danbury, the tiniest flicker of something—a smile, an almost-blush—passed between the two artists.

After the exhibit Caspian and Fordyce had found themselves at their Father's study

Albert reached into the drawer and produced a neatly folded piece of parchment, sealed with the Cornelius crest. With care, he slid it across the desk toward Fordyce.

“A list,” Albert said simply. “Curated by your mother and myself. Suitable young women of good breeding, respectable dowries, and fine family ties. Several of whom are in their first seasons.”

Fordyce took the list but did not open it. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing at first.

Albert leaned back in his chair. “You are the heir to this family, Fordyce. You must do your part. The future of the viscountcy depends on it. I do not intend to see you reach thirty still unwed, while the estate withers into uncertainty.”

“I am aware of my duties, Father,” Fordyce said coolly. “I simply believe such decisions require time and consideration.”

“Time is a luxury you no longer have,” Albert replied, not harshly, but firmly. “I will not place our legacy upon your brother’s shoulders, nor rely on Isabelle’s future to secure alliances. She is in her second season now. If she does not marry soon, she will begin to face whispers. You know what the ton says of women who linger too long unchosen.”

Caspian, who had been quiet by the mantel, stepped forward sharply.

“That’s unfair,” he said, voice tinged with heat. “Isabelle isn’t some package to be bartered off for political comfort. She deserves love. The right to choose. To be happy.”

Albert turned his eyes to Caspian. “You speak of things you do not understand. Happiness is not a guarantee in marriage. Stability, however, is. Your sister has had ample time and opportunity. She is not a fool, but she is… selective. Too much so.”

“She’s not too selective,” Caspian muttered. “She just hasn’t found someone who sees her for who she is. She’s… she’s extraordinary.”

Albert exhaled softly, but his features remained composed. “You’re still young, Caspian. Idealistic. That will fade.”

Fordyce, still holding the list, finally spoke. “And what of me, then? Must I wed and sire an heir simply to keep the ledger in balance? Is there no room for preference in my own fate?”

“You have the privilege of preference, my son,” Albert said. “But only within the path expected of you. One day, this estate will be yours. The title. The land. The legacy. You cannot wait for something as… frivolous as love to decide what must be done.”

Fordyce glanced at Caspian. “He believes in it.”

Caspian straightened. “I do.”

Fordyce’s tone was dry. “You believe in many foolish things. You also once believed sugar cubes could float forever.”

“I was eight,” Caspian said indignantly.

Albert raised a hand. “Enough.”

There was a brief pause.

Albert’s voice softened just slightly, though it did not lose its steel. “Fordyce. Your mother and I have spent decades preserving the name Cornelius. Our children must continue it—not simply wear it.”

He motioned to the list in Fordyce’s hand. “Begin here. There is nothing dishonorable in choosing wisely.”

Caspian, quieter now, looked to his brother and said, “Just don’t forget that duty and affection don’t have to be at odds.”

Fordyce didn’t respond. He merely stared down at the list for a long moment before slipping it silently into his coat pocket.

Albert returned to his ledgers. “That will be all, unless you have further arguments.”

“No,” Fordyce said curtly. “None that would matter.”

The two sons exited the study, the door clicking shut behind them.

In the silence that followed, Albert sat still in his chair, staring into the flames of the hearth, perhaps thinking of his own choices long ago.

Isabelle Cornelius sat cross-legged on the fainting couch near the window, sketchbook in hand, her charcoal pencil dancing lightly across the page. Her brows were slightly furrowed in concentration as she leaned over her latest creation—an expressive portrait study of a woman lost in thought, half-formed but already alive with emotion.

Nearby, Caspian sprawled on the floor, elbow propped lazily on a cushion, chin in his palm as he stared at his sister with a look of boredom that barely masked his mischievous intentions.

“What are you drawing now?” Caspian asked, stretching the question into a long, exaggerated whine. “Is it another sorrowful-looking woman staring at an invisible sea? Or a pair of hands clutching a flower?”

Isabelle didn’t look up. “It is none of your concern.”

“That’s not a no,” Caspian muttered, peering over her shoulder with the stealth of a child who knew he was poking a bear. “Let me see—just a glimpse. I promise not to say anything unkind this time. Unless it’s hideous. Then I shall have no choice but to save you from yourself.”

“You’ll smudge the page with your impertinence.” Isabelle pulled the sketchbook slightly away and fixed him with a cool glare. “Why do you always find the need to pester me when I’m working?”

Caspian grinned, entirely unaffected. “Because when you’re drawing, you become terribly serious. Look at it, It’s practically begging for disruption.”

At the far end of the room, Fordyce sat in an armchair of dark green velvet, legs crossed neatly as he read the list of names his father gave him not long ago. His expression remained serene, utterly unbothered by the storm of his sibling squabbling nearby.

“Are you even hearing this?” Isabelle snapped toward him. “He’s being insufferable.”

Fordyce folded the page as he bats an eye to his sister. “Caspian has been insufferable since the day he learned how to speak. You must stop reacting or he’ll think it’s working.”

“That’s incredibly rich coming from someone who threatened a duel last week” Caspian shot back with a smirk.

Across the room, seated on a low settee, Albert and Caity watched their children with the weary fondness of seasoned parents. They each held a porcelain teacup— Between them, a plate of untouched shortbread sat on the tea table.

“He gets that dramatics from you,” Caity murmured to her husband, her gaze on Caspian as he attempted to snatch Isabelle’s sketchbook.

Albert sipped his tea slowly. “I believe that specific brand of annoyance is entirely yours, dearest.”

“I am never annoying,” Caity replied with a dry arch of her brow.

“I seem to recall you once faked fainting during a dinner with my mother just to avoid eating stewed trout.”

Caity tilted her chin with pride. “And it worked, did it not?”

Back by the window, the argument had reached a new crescendo.

“Just one look!” Caspian pleaded. “It’s probably a portrait of him, isn’t it?”

Isabelle froze.

Caspian’s eyes lit up. “It is! I knew it.”

Isabelle turned slowly. “Say that again and I shall throw this pencil at your face. Point-first.”

“Do it,” he dared with a grin, hands raised in theatrical surrender. “I shall welcome death if it comes from artistic indignation.”

Albert let out a low chuckle. “At least they’ve inherited passion from somewhere.”

Caity watched as Isabelle chased Caspian off the carpet, as his laughter echoing down the hallway.

“They’re impossible,” she muttered—but she was smiling.

Fordyce finally looked up. “I trust this means I shall be left in peace now.”

“Don’t count on it,” Caity said, sipping her tea with amused grace. “You’re next, darling. They’ll start questioning your courtship prospects any moment now.”

Fordyce blinked once. “I’m going back to reading.”

Albert chuckled again. “Coward”

(📚)--->