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JUNE 12TH, 1812
"ARE YOU PROPOSING, MY LORD?" Lady Elizabeth Beaumont sputtered out, choking on her tea, leading to a brief coughing fit. Slowly, she lowered the teacup from her lips, allowing the fragile dish to rest upon its saucer once again as her coughs subsided. That morning when she awoke, the possibility of the Viscount calling wasn't even a thought on her mind. Nonetheless, when he called upon her, she was not expecting his visit to bear such news. Well, as she sat before him moments before, she wasn't sure what would come of his call, certainly not a proposal that is.
The manner in which he asked was pragmatic and unemotional. A simple phrase without the ambiguity that finds itself in intricate sentences with several clauses. The lack of such obscurity in the phrase made deriving the meaning all that easier. Yet Elizabeth was still surprised by his question. The man she had spoken to thrice before and who had never shown her a sliver of interest could not have asked for her hand in marriage. It was too unrealistic. It was unexpected and unlikely. Surely she had misheard him. She must've.
Perhaps the soft yellow wallpaper with intricate floral detail that she had become rather familiar with over the months the Beaumont family spent in Grosvenor Square each year was not what it seemed. Perhaps her reality was fractured, her memory failing, and all that surrounded her — even the large portrait of the Beaumont sisters above the fireplace — was simply part of her dreams. Yes. Yes, of course. The piano in the corner was not real, nor was the upholstered blue couch she was sitting on. For in a world where nothing made sense, Anthony Bridgerton asking for her hand in marriage made the least sense of all.
"I believe that is the intention behind the words 'do you accept my proposal of marriage'," he replied with an amused smirk dancing on his lips. "We have similar concerns, Lady Beaumont. Simply put, we can aid one another."
The late morning sun seeped through the open drapes, accentuating his sharp features and painting a golden shine to his chestnut locks. Even his eyes, which Elizabeth always assumed to be a modest brown, were detailed with dancing swirls of honey. His shoulders, covered by his blue velour tailcoat, were broad and confident. Objectively, Viscount Bridgerton was handsome, even the most foolish soul in the ton wouldn't dare disagree, but even so, Elizabeth's heart plummeted at his knowing smirk. For he sat there as if the world owed him something; as if she was just another puzzle piece of the grand scheme of his life.
He even admitted it himself, although only noticeable in the intonation of his words. He did not love her, he was not proposing out of interest. No, it was contractual. She had something he wanted and in return, he had something she wanted.
She hummed, urging him to continue. What their similar concerns could be was beyond her, for her familiarities with the Viscount began and ended with his large and affluential family. Oh, and she supposed she was rather familiar with his rakish tendencies. Anyone who set foot in the ton longer than a mere three hours would hear of such. His less than desirable qualities for a husband ran rampant in gossip, nonetheless, he continued to be a sought-after bachelor. He was handsome, titled, and rich — what else could the eager mamas of the ton want for their daughters?
