𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟑

'𝓬𝓪𝓾𝓼𝓮 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓲, 𝔀𝓮 𝔀𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓫𝓸𝓻𝓷 𝓽𝓸 𝓭𝓲𝓮

Morning had barely touched the windows of the Cornelius household when the family gathered in the drawing room, as was their custom before breakfast. Sunlight streamed through the tall panes in long stripes, dust motes dancing idly in the air.

Albert sat in his usual armchair by the fireplace, his paper discarded for the moment in favor of a cup of tea. Lady Caity reclined on the chaise, in a pale peach robe, already attending to her embroidery. Isabelle sat curled in the corner seat, hair still loosely pinned and a book resting open on her lap, though her eyes were not reading.

Fordyce, unshaven and sluggish, lounged with one leg slung over the other, looking particularly aggrieved by the hour.

It was Caspian, of course, who had burst into the room a quarter hour earlier, Lady Whistledown’s gossip sheet in hand, waving it.

“I cannot believe the audacity—oh, you must hear this,” he said, dramatically clearing his throat as he stood near the center of the room. His eyes sparkled with something between glee and disbelief.

Lady Caity raised a brow. “Whistledown again?”

Albert let out a light grunt. “What’s she fabricated this time?”

“Not fabricated,” Caspian declared, grinning. “Scandal, shock, and delight. I quote, with exactitude:

“There will forever be just two words that come to this author's mind the morning after any good party, "shock" and "delight." Well, dear reader, the scandalous accounts from last night's soiree at Vauxhall are quite shocking and delightful indeed.

Emerging, phoenix-like from the ashes of irrelevance, is one Miss Daphne Bridgerton. The illustrious debutante was seen dancing not once, but twice with the season's most eligible and most uncatchable rake, the Duke of Hastings.”

A brief silence followed.

Isabelle blinked, then slowly sat up straighter. “Twice?”

Caspian nodded, lips twitching. “Indeed. Once may be a courtesy, but twice? Now that is intention.”

“Well, Isabelle had danced with Benedict twice does that mean anything?” Fordyce said with a yawn, “if the Duke of Hastings is a rake, then at least he has taste.”

Isabelle narrowed her eyes at him. “You wouldn’t know anything about taste, Fordyce. You once attempted to court a woman because you thought her father owned a distillery.”

“That was a calculated business interest,” he replied flatly.

“Oh, I’m sure,” Isabelle said, unconvinced.

Caity’s head turned, lips quirked in amusement. “It does seem the Bridgertons are rather entangled in intrigue these days.”

“I think it’s romantic,” Isabelle murmured, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “Not the scandal. The... intention.”

Albert folded his arms and shook his head. “There will be consequences if that young duke is trifling with Daphne’s reputation. The Bridgertons are family friends. And society does not forget quickly.”

Caspian flopped into the chair opposite his sister, crossing one leg over the other with deliberate elegance. “Or maybe he’s just decided to surprise all of us. Love is a strange little firework.”

Fordyce snorted. “That’s rich, coming from a boy who writes poetry.”

“I do no such thing,” Caspian replied calmly. “I write in the conservatory.”

Isabelle couldn’t help laughing, covering her mouth with a hand.

Lady Caity finally set her embroidery down and glanced toward the clock. “I believe it’s a good morning for a promenade. The air is lovely, and your father is not scheduled to meet anyone until noon.”

Albert grumbled softly, but nodded. “Fine. Let us all go before the park becomes too crowded with idle gossipers who cannot tell tulips from crocuses.”

The Corneliuses stepped out not long after. Lady Caity walked ahead with Albert, their pace leisurely, her parasol tilted just so to shield from the sun. Isabelle and Caspian walked a few steps behind, while Fordyce lagged slightly, drawing glances from young ladies who were far too hopeful.

“I’m surprised you agreed to come,” Isabelle said to her youngest brother, glancing at him sideways.

“I was promised fresh air and the possibility of feeding ducks. I live for such excitement,” Caspian replied dryly.

“Did you truly have to read that portion of Whistledown so loudly this morning?” Fordyce interjected, catching up. “You scared Cook into overcooking the eggs.”

“I’ll try shouting quieter next time,” Caspian said without looking at him. “Besides, it's far more exciting than your gentleman’s club wagers and card games.”

“You wound me.”

“No,” Isabelle said sweetly, “but I could if you’d like.”

Fordyce rolled his eyes. “Your tongues are getting sharper each season.”

“Yours has never dulled,” Caspian said.

Albert and Caity looked over their shoulders as the three bickered quietly behind them. Their father sighed, and Caity smiled as though secretly enjoying the chaos.

“You know,” Isabelle said thoughtfully as they neared the Serpentine, “I don’t think Daphne will allow society to dictate her heart. Not after last night.”

“She’s braver than most,” Caspian replied. “And if the Duke of Hastings is who she wants... I hope she gets him.”

Fordyce scoffed but said nothing.

They passed under a flowering cherry tree, its petals drifting down like snow. Isabelle looked up through the boughs, sunlight dappling her features.

“Maybe Whistledown is right,” she murmured.

Caspian smiled. “About ‘shock and delight’?”

“No,” she said quietly. “About phoenixes.”

The drawing room had long been cleared of morning clutter, and the rest of the household had dispersed after their promenade.

Isabelle remained behind, seated at the writing desk by the window, her fingers toying absently with the corner of a sheet of parchment she had no real intention of using.

The door creaked open.

Albert stepped in, not with the gentle quietude of a father hoping not to disturb, but with the deliberate gait of a man entering with intent.

“I trust you enjoyed the walk,” he said, voice low and cordial.

Isabelle turned slightly in her seat. “I did. The park was lovely today.”

Albert nodded, then moved toward the liquor cabinet and poured himself a modest amount of brandy. He took a sip, turned to face her, and said, “Isabelle, we need to talk.”

She folded her hands carefully in her lap. “Yes, Father?”

He exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh, and approached the settee near her. “You are a beautiful, intelligent young woman. Well-bred, well-positioned. And yet... here we are.”

Isabelle blinked, uncertain. “Here we are?”

“This is your second Season, Isabelle.” His voice was edged now, subtle but sharp. “Do you have any idea what people will begin to say if you go through another without securing a match?”

“I’ve had offers,” she said quietly, trying to remain composed.

“Offers you’ve rejected,” he countered, setting his glass down on the side table with a faint clink. “Lord Rowe, Viscount Layton, even the Rothschild boy—”

“They didn’t suit,” she said, her voice growing tight. “You always said I was not to marry for convenience alone.”

Albert’s eyes, steely and unreadable, rested on her. “That advice was meant for girls who had time. You no longer do.”

Isabelle stiffened. “I’m nineteen.”

“And unmarried,” he said coldly. “If you pass through this season without a suitor, you will be twenty and unmarried. You may as well hang the word spinster around your neck before your next ball.”

The word stung.

Spinster.

She looked away, trying to summon the breath to reply, but it sat like iron in her chest.

Albert continued, tone calm and matter-of-fact. “Do you know what they’ll say? That something is wrong with you. That the Cornelius daughter is too proud, too odd, too... choosy. You are not a Bridgerton, Isabelle. We do not have the luxury of their vast numbers.”

Her lips parted slightly, but she couldn’t find her voice. Not yet.

“Daphne Bridgerton,” Albert went on, “has already found herself the Duke of Hastings. That is how it is done. Quietly. Decisively. With sense.”

Isabelle finally stood, the motion slow and deliberate. “So I am to marry just anyone, so long as it’s quick and socially sound?”

Albert stood too. “You are to marry someone suitable, Isabelle. Before your name fades from the minds of those who matter.”

Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “And if I don't want to marry this year?”

He stared at her. “Then you will have made your own cage. Do not mistake indulgence for freedom. You have a window—use it.”

They stood in silence. The faint ticking of the grandfather clock down the hall filled the room like a metronome.

At last, Albert said more gently, “I am not your enemy, Isabelle. I only want to see you secure.”

She looked at him—this man who had protected them, educated them, clothed them in privilege—and saw not a villain, but a man of a different generation, fighting he believed were real.

“I know,” she said, her voice brittle. “But that doesn’t make it easier.”

He nodded once. “Then I suggest you try harder, my dear.”

And with that, he turned and left her alone in the quiet room, with the soft press of sun against her cheek and the word spinster echoing behind him like a ghost.

After the conversation at home, Isabelle found herself walking the lively streets of Mayfair alongside Eloise and Penelope. Their chaperones lingered a few paces behind, more absorbed in their own gossip than in supervising the three girls.

“So, Daphne may be in love,” Eloise began, her tone sharp and full of disdain. “Does she think it an accomplishment? What exactly has she accomplished, then? She certainly did not build that man or bake him. He simply showed up. Now he straggles about. He likes her face, probably. Perhaps her hair. Having a nice face and pleasant hair is not an accomplishment.”

Isabelle exchanged a glance with Penelope, half amused, half exasperated, but said nothing.

“Do you know what is an accomplishment? Attending university!” Eloise huffed, throwing up her hands.

“If I were a man, I could do that, you know. Instead, I shall have to stand by and watch dear Mama appear proud because some man should like to admire my sister's face and hair and fill her up with babies! Oh, Penelope, you're not listening to a word I say.”

“I know of someone… with child,” Penelope said suddenly, her voice just above a whisper.

Isabelle blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Is it your mama?” Eloise asked, squinting toward her with an arched brow. “Is she not advanced in age? I suppose your father should still want a boy—”

“It is not Mama. It is a maid,” Penelope said quietly.

Isabelle’s eyes widened slightly. “One of yours?”

“Which one of your maids is married?” Eloise asked.

“She is not married.” Penelope’s voice dropped even lower.

“How did she become with child if she is not married?” Eloise asked, confused.

“I do not know, but I will find out,” Penelope promised.

“You must. Otherwise, how can we make sure it never happens to us? We have accomplishments to acquire.” Eloise declared, then promptly looped her arms through theirs with sudden, reckless cheer.

Isabelle smiled faintly, letting herself be tugged along. “I suppose not falling pregnant out of wedlock counts as a triumph now?”

“Perhaps the only one available to us,” Eloise replied dryly.

At the Bridgertons' drawing room, the room was filled with the sound of chatter and the notes of a pianoforte. Caspian lounged beside Benedict and Colin, a wry smirk playing on his lips as he leaned back, one ankle lazily crossed over the other. Fordyce sat by the window, absorbed in a book, his brow furrowed in quiet disdain. Daphne played the piano softly, her mother Violet watching proudly, while Caity leaned close to her, whispering happily. Gregory and Hyacinth was too absorbed in their world to pay attention to the older ones.

“Two dances? With a duke?” Hyacinth exclaimed, her eyes wide as she turned toward her sister.

“He was quite taken with your sister, Hyacinth. The entire party was, for that matter. All eyes were on Daphne,” Violet said, handing a plate to Daphne without breaking her smile. “At least enjoy some toast, dearest.”

“I am not hungry, Mama,” Daphne replied with a sigh.

“Are you certain the entire party was not simply eyeing a tear in her dress?” Benedict said, raising an eyebrow as Caspian snickered beside him.

“Perhaps it was the duke’s eyesight they should have questioned—two dances with the same lady? Scandalous,” Caspian added, earning a laugh from both Benedict and Colin.

“Or a misstep she took on the dance floor?” Colin chimed in teasingly.

“I do wonder, Daphne, might we count on the duke at the Crawford ball?” Caity asked with a gleam in her eyes.

“I should think it a fair chance,” Daphne answered cautiously.

“What about the Ramsbury ball on Friday? And what about the grand picnic?” Violet asked, her excitement bubbling.

“We shall see, Mama,” Daphne muttered, clearly flustered.

“How terrible for Fran that she'll be off practicing pianoforte with Aunt Winnie all season and miss Daphne's engagement to the duke,” Hyacinth said dramatically.

“Did Francesca leave for Bath already?” Gregory asked curiously—just as the door burst open.

Eloise and Isabelle stormed in, cheeks flushed from walking too fast.

“How does a lady come to be with child?” Eloise asked loudly.

“Eloise, what a question!” Violet gasped.

“I thought one needed to be married,” Isabelle added in a softer voice, still catching her breath.

“What are you talking about?” Daphne asked, whipping her head around.

“Apparently, it’s not even a requirement,” Eloise said, causing Daphne’s hands to still on the keys.

“Eloise, that is enough,” Violet said firmly, shooting a look of warning toward the girls.

“Oh, well…” Eloise muttered, plopping down unbothered between Benedict and Colin. Isabelle glanced around awkwardly before settling beside Fordyce, who hadn’t lifted his eyes from his book.

“Daphne, you were playing so lovely. Please, do go on,” Caity encouraged gently, offering a smile.

“I take it the three of you know?” Eloise said, turning toward the three boys.

“Do not look at me,” Benedict raised his hands.

“Have you ever visited a farm, El?” Colin started, grinning mischievously.

“Oh, heavens,” Isabelle muttered under her breath.

“Well,” Caspian cut in helpfully, “there’s this entire ordeal with—”

But before he could finish, Benedict swatted the back of Caspian’s head, accidentally catching Eloise in the shoulder as well.

“Ow!” Eloise growled.

“I hope you are not encouraging improper topics of conversation,” Violet warned.

“Not at all, Mother,” Benedict said, standing up quickly.

“In fact, we were just heading off to… take our sticks out,” Colin added hurriedly, rising with a dramatic flair.

“Colin Bridgerton!” Violet scolded, scandalized.

“A round of fencing!” Colin amended quickly, as Benedict and Caspian stood and followed him out of the room with muffled snickers.

The Cornelius estate was alive with the usual loud and joyous chatter. Sunlight streamed into the drawing room. The scent of warm scones and blackcurrant jam drifted faintly from the breakfast table, now mostly abandoned.

Fordyce lounged in an armchair, ne resting over one knee as he idly paged through a discarded racing form. Caspian was sprawled across the settee, idly twirling a half-peeled orange between his fingers. Isabelle sat at the writing desk with a journal open before her, though her pen had long stilled. Their father, Albert, stood near the window, nursing his second cup of tea and perusing the morning paper with an unreadable expression.

The quiet hum of the room broke when a liveried footman stepped into the doorway, holding a silver salver.

“A letter, my lady,” he announced, bowing slightly. “Delivered directly from the palace.”

“From the palace?” Caity repeated, already rising from her seat near the hearth.

The others turned, alerted by the word. Isabelle set her pen down at last. Caspian sat up straighter. Even Fordyce looked over the top of his paper.

Caity accepted the note, her expression curious but composed. The wax seal bore the unmistakable crest of Queen Charlotte. She broke it delicately and unfolded the thick, cream-colored parchment with care. Her eyes skimmed the page once… then widened.

“Well?” Albert prompted, folding his paper.

Caity cleared her throat, her voice lifting with the slightest edge of pride. “It is an invitation. From Queen Charlotte herself.”

Caspian blinked. “We’re being summoned to the palace?”

“We are not,” Caity said, casting a glance at her sons. “Violet Bridgerton and I have been invited for tea. At Buckingham House. In two days’ time.”

“Just the two of you?” Fordyce asked, brows furrowing. “Whatever for?”

Caity folded the letter carefully and placed it back on the tray. “The Queen is taking an interest in the season’s progress. I suspect she means to discuss the young ladies...”

Albert gave a thoughtful grunt. “If the Queen is calling for Violet and Caity, that means something is brewing. Likely to do with Daphne and that bumbling Berbrooke.”

Isabelle crossed her arms. “Whatever it is, it must be important. The Queen does not sip tea idly.”

“Indeed,” Caity said firmly. “And if she has her eye on the Bridgertons, it means the ton will be watching closely. This is no ordinary invitation.”

Albert nodded. “Make certain your dress is perfect, Caity.”

Caity gave him a look. “When is it not?”

Fordyce leaned back again. “Well, do send our regards to Her Majesty, should you manage to get a word in edgewise with Violet Bridgerton at your side.”

“Do try not to gossip about us too freely,” Caspian added with a teasing smile. “I’m still undecided on whether I’d like a title or not.”

Isabelle said nothing but watched her mother quietly, a strange expression flickering across her face. Something between pride… and apprehension.

Caity simply smiled and turned toward the hallway, the silver salver still in her hands. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a dressmaker to summon. Tea with the Queen is not an engagement one arrives at unprepared.”

She left the drawing room in a rustle of silk, leaving the Cornelius household with speculation—.

The morning continued at the park's grand picnic, already teeming with society’s finest, filled with activity. Parasols fluttered like butterflies, footmen carried hampers to and fro, and laughter tinkled like wind chimes beneath the canopies set up by the ton’s most prominent families.

Beneath a grand shade of cream and green, embroidered with golden tassels, the Bridgertons and Corneliuses were gathered in careful arrangement. A crisp linen cloth spread neatly across the grass held a selection of pastries, tea cakes, and chilled lemonade, while the finer dishes were reserved on a table nearby.

Isabelle sat beside Daphne, the two of them settled on a thick cloth embroidered with floral designs. Daphne hardly seemed to notice the brightness around her. She stared across the open meadow, her gaze lost in thought—distant, fixed on something far away… or rather, on someone.

“What happened on Vauxhall,” Isabelle said gently, twisting a napkin in her lap, “was not your fault.”

“I should have known something was amiss with Lord Berbrooke,” Daphne murmured, her voice distant. “I was foolish. I let it go on too long. If not for the duke, Anthony wouldn't have listened …”

Her voice trailed off, and her hands tightened ever so slightly.

“You handled yourself with more grace than most would have,” Isabelle replied, giving her a small, reassuring nudge of the elbow. “I would have kicked him rather than punched.”

That coaxed the faintest smile from Daphne—brief and brittle, but real.

A few feet behind them, Benedict sat in a folding chair, legs crossed, a sketchbook discarded at his side. He leaned toward Caspian, who slouched lazily in his own chair with one leg thrown over the armrest. Between them sat a single silver plate holding three flaky butter biscuits, which had become the center of their latest skirmish.

Benedict narrowed his eyes at the crumbs speckled around the edge of the plate. “Would it kill you to eat like a gentleman, Cornelius?”

“I am eating like a gentleman,” Caspian said flatly, taking another delicate bite—before brushing a fresh cascade of crumbs off his lap and directly into Isabelle’s direction.

“Oi!” Benedict snapped, reaching for his handkerchief and flapping it at the crumbs, which only fluttered toward his sister.

Isabelle turned halfway over her shoulder. “Are you two children?”

“She’s going to step in that,” Benedict muttered as he attempted to brush the crumbs away—somehow managing to sweep them even closer to Isabelle’s skirt.

Caspian didn’t move an inch. “It’s a biscuit, not a bomb. She’ll survive.”

“I’m going to kill him,” Benedict muttered as he leaned over again, now attempting to flick the crumbs off the edge of the cloth, with little success. A few landed squarely near Isabelle’s shoe.

“Stop harassing the picnic,” Isabelle hissed. “You’re both men. Pretend it.”

Benedict sat back with a sigh. “This is what I get for being civilized.”

“Next time, bring your own biscuits,” Caspian offered unhelpfully, polishing off the last one.

Isabelle, once seated calmly beside Daphne, stood abruptly, her spine stiffening. Her eyes narrowed as Lord Nigel Berbrooke approached their shaded area with an ill-placed grin that made her stomach churn.

“Bridgerton!” Nigel called, waddling confidently under the shade. “Cornelius,” he added, nodding toward the family as if they were old friends. “I bring cheerful news!”

“Oh no,” Isabelle whispered under her breath.

Nigel beamed. “I have taken matters into my own hands and sought a special license for my wedding to Miss Bridgerton.”

Heads turned sharply. Daphne and the Duke of Hastings had just arrived, and her face drained of color.

“There is to be no wedding,” Daphne said firmly, standing beside the Duke.

“I told you. The arrangement is canceled,” Anthony added sharply.

Violet clutched her hands tightly, her voice tight. “Lord Berbrooke, you look in a great deal of pain. Shall we continue this in a more private location?”

But Nigel wasn’t finished. “I require no further conversation.” He turned toward Anthony with a sneer. “Though perhaps… I am finally speaking to the true head of the Bridgerton house. For if it were you, I imagine you would have instructed your sister to take better care… than to encourage certain attentions while alone with me on the Dark Walk at Vauxhall.”

A hush fell over the party.

Nigel’s voice darkened. “Of course… mere hearsay of such a scandal could wreak havoc on even the most influential families. What would someone like, say, Lady Whistledown, do with such unseemly information?”

The entire Bridgerton and Cornelius families were now standing, all gathered under the canopy. The Duke of Hastings looked ready to erupt.

Isabelle’s knees buckled slightly, her corset feeling suddenly too tight. Her breath caught in her throat.

“Isabelle!” Fordyce rushed to her side and caught her before she could faint, steadying her with a firm grip.

Albert stepped forward, his tone cold and commanding. “Is that a threat, Berbrooke?”

“It is certainly not,” Nigel said with a smug shake of his head. “Because in three days, I am to marry. I have the diamond of the season. I have the very best the ton has to offer. I have a Bridgerton. And I shall save her, as well as your entire family, from the ruin which you could not protect them from.”

The Duke stepped forward suddenly, fists clenched, but Fordyce and Benedict caught him just in time, each grabbing an arm to restrain him.

But in their haste, they forgot someone.

Nigel straightened his coat and took one last glance around. “Bridgerton,” he nodded stiffly. Then to the duke, “Hastings.” And finally, as he turned, “Corneliu—”

He didn’t finish.

Caspian’s fist collided with his jaw in a sickening crunch. Berbrooke stumbled backward and landed hard on the grass, blinking in disbelief.

“You insufferable, disgusting bastard!” Caspian snarled, advancing on him again. “You think anyone would ever let you become family? I'd rather gouge out my own eyes than watch you marry Daphne. If you want a duel, name the time. Name the weapon. I’ll carve every lie off your tongue myself.”

“Caspian!” Albert barked, grabbing his son by the shoulder and pulling him back just as Berbrooke scrambled to his feet in panic, wobbling and holding his bleeding lip.

“I’ll have you arrested for assault!” Berbrooke cried, stumbling away from the scene as quickly as he could.

Caspian fought against his father’s grip, eyes blazing with fury. “Let me go. Let me break the other half of his face.”

“Enough,” Albert said through gritted teeth, holding him firm.

The group stood in silence, the park’s chatter around them continuing on, oblivious to the storm that had just erupted beneath the shade.

Daphne, trembling slightly, looked at the Duke. “I suppose… everyone knows now.”

He met her gaze. “Let them.”

And as Berbrooke vanished, limping and humiliated, the scandal he meant to wield had already crumbled into dust.

(📚)-->
authors note

I feel so relieved now that I've been uploading consistently, I finally broke my cycle of procrastinating.

I had been busy with studies as well, I am currently a law student. Which takes up half of my time, but I do wish to write Fordyce's book too.

More Benedict and Isabelle scenes soon, I'm just focusing on world building for now and establish further relationships (especially Fordyce and Isabelle’s relationship because we haven't seen their true dynamics)

Any thoughts? Critiques? I'd love to hear them, I do hope you guy's are enjoying this whole book series.