Pinkest Bluestocking of the Ton

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/52277722.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: F/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationship: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter
Characters: James Potter, Lily Evans, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew,
Euphemia Potter, Minerva McGonagall, Albus Dumbledore, Horace Slughorn,
Severus Snape, Amos Diggory, Marlene McKinnon, Mary Macdonald (Harry
Potter), Petunia Evans Dursley, Vernon Dursley
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Regency, Inspired by Bridgerton (TV), Regency
Romance, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Drama, Fluff, Smut
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2023-12-17 Updated: 2024-02-11 Words: 49,301 Chapters: 11/?
 Pinkest Bluestocking of the Ton
by ritaskeetered

Summary

Dearest Reader, the ton are abuzz with the latest gossip, and so it is my honour to impart to you the
news that the Duke of Peverell has returned to London at last! A year after setting off on his tour of
Europe, Lady Peverell's son has returned and rumour has it that his mother is preparing for the most
joyous of occasions: a late summer wedding that sees her son wed the next Duchess of Peverell. It
is my sincere hope that you have stored a bottle of wine for this most delightful of upcoming events
for if ever there were a more determined mama, this writer is Icarus and this society paper has been
scorched for flying too close to the sun.

A Jily Regency Romance inspired by Shondaland's "Bridgerton".

 The Prodigal Son Returns
Chapter Notes

Like most "Bridgerton" and romance enthusiasts, I had hoped for a Christmas or early 2024
release of season three. Since we still have six months to wait, however, I decided to still my
Bridgerton hunger by writing a Jily Regency Romance inspired by Shondaland's "Bridgerton".
I hope you will enjoy it!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

 Dearest Reader,

The ton are abuzz with the latest gossip, and so it is my honour to impart to you the news that the
Duke of Peverell has returned to London at last! A year after setting off on his tour of Europe, Lady
Peverell's son has returned and rumour has it that his mother is preparing for the most joyous of
occasions: a late summer wedding that sees her son wed the next Duchess of Peverell. It is my
sincere hope that you have stored a bottle of wine for this most delightful of upcoming events for if
ever there were a more determined mama, this writer is Icarus and this society paper has been
scorched for its author's flying too close to the sun.

Light filtered in through the curtains which were yanked open. As a result, he let out a groan,
placing his forearm over his eyes in an attempt to block out the unwelcome London sun. When he
had returned, he had hoped for grey skies and drizzle as these would perfectly reflect his state of
mind. He had fulfilled a promise in ending his European tour after twelve months, returning to his
mother whom had graciously allowed him to find himself after his father's death and his inheriting
the title of Duke of Peverell. Yet, a full rotation of the earth around the sun had not been enough for
him to recover any sense of self and the day before - when he had first been referred to as His
Lordship - he had flinched, had wanted to turn around and get the first train to the coast in order to
get the first boat to the continent, going back into hiding and ignoring any and all responsibility his
father had left him upon his passing.

"I do hope," his mother's voice - of course, it had been her whom had barged in - made him wince,
the wine he had drunk the night before making his head pound, her tone one that indicated that she
had very little patience for his current sorry state, "that you do not intend to waste away your day in
bed." He lifted his forearm, only to replace them with his hands, rubbing his face in an attempt to
sober up. "Life is awaiting you, James," she continued sternly. "Your father had plans for you and
now is the time to seize all the opportunities you have been handed, to stop squandering away your
father's, your grandfather's, your great-grandfather's hard-earned family fortune. You have had three
hundred and sixty-five days -"

"Surely, I can take just one more," he let out, but he sat up all the same, his sheets falling to his
waist, revealing his naked chest. He opened his eyes, meeting his mother's, one of her eyebrows
cocked in clear and deserved judgement. "All right," he muttered, swinging his feet over the side,
toes and heels touching the carpet of his childhood, standing to his full height now. He towered
over his mother, but the weight of her gaze on him, made him feel small nonetheless.

"I realize that you had other plans for yourself, but our privilege - our title - comes with a
responsibility which your father and I have always been convinced you could bear -" he grabbed
the shirt he had thrown on the floor next to his bed the night before, pulling it over his head, "- it is
time for you to square your shoulders and become the man your father and I always hoped you
would."

"No pressure, of course," he grumbled, running a hand through his hair. He had no right to resent
either of his parents - the living or the deceased one - yet, he did. One of them for asking him to do
what he felt he was incapable of doing still, the other for leaving him with the expectation that he
would always do what was right and not being there to guide him for it.

"I have granted you one entire year, James, to experience life without so much of an ounce of it."

As if the thought of returning to a London without my father has not been a burden to me. He found
his glasses, perched them on his nose, seeing his mother more clearly now, recognizing the fact that
the lines around her mouth had deepened, that her cheeks were somewhat sunken, her eyes dulled
and lacking the sparkle that had always glinted back at him and his father. Guilt gnawed at him,
knowing that he had left her behind too, just as his father had.

He nodded, looked away from her, shuffled awkwardly on his feet, feeling at once as if he were
half his age, being rightfully admonished for misbehaving at one of his parents' dinner parties. "I
will try, mother," he said to his bedroom floor.

His mother's hand on his cheek and the palpable relief that her words carried, was enough to make
him realize that he would do what he could to make her happy again, even if he had very little
energy to spare. "That is all I ask, my son. Nothing more."

Eighteen months after the tragic death of his father, the Duke now appears ready to take on the
responsibilities of his title and is said to visit the Houses of Parliament on his first day in the city to
meet with Prime Minister Albus Dumbledore, claiming the seat attached to his Dukedom. The
Duke's travels through Europe, it appears, have given the young gentleman a healthy dose of
ambition and a fervent passion to reform the Britain of today. Let's all hope, however, he hasn't
taken any inspiration from the past decade's happenings in France.

Prime Minister Albus Dumbledore had been a friend of his father's. It was, therefore, not surprising
that the man welcomed him with open arms and had taken James to his office, passing a rather
sour-looking young man who was bent over parchment, his quill scratching loudly as he copied a
document or other. His hair was long, black and tied back by a ribbon, his hooked nose nearly
touching his desk.

"This is Mr Snape," spoke the Prime Minister, causing the young man to look up, "he is my scribe,
attends all of the House of Parliament's meetings with me." James nodded politely, not exactly
caring about anything beyond the fact that he felt remarkably out of place here at Westminster. Not
so much because he believed he didn't fit in. Rather, because he felt his father's ghost in every nook
and cranny of the building. "Actually, Mr Snape and yourself share an acquaintance, I believe."

Not altogether interested - his headache was mightily distracting and he had to keep breathing
through his nose to keep the nausea at bay - James found himself looking around the office. It
reminded him a lot of the one his father had held, the mahogany desk Mr Snape was seated at only
different in the sense that it didn't hold any of his father's personal effects. He was so absent-
minded even that he would have missed the connection between himself and Mr Snape if his heart
wasn't so used to lurching and leaping at the mere utterance of the name that spilled from
Dumbledore's lips.

"Miss Evans?" His head had shot up, eyes flitting to Mr Snape. The corners of the scribe's mouth
were downturned and the scowl on his face was similar to the one the eldest Evans sister had
always worn. He supposed he should not be surprised that the two of them were acquainted. "Is she
well?" The words spilled off his lips, followed by a hasty, hungry, thirsting: "What about her sister?
Miss Lily?"

"Oh, you haven't heard?" His eyes moved from the Prime Minister's scribe to Dumbledore himself,
a mildly amused smile playing at the older man's lips, barely - or, rather, poorly - concealed by his
beard. "I thought your mother would have informed you the moment you set foot on British soil.
Miss Evans the elder married at the end of the last season to the Reverend Mr Dursley, meaning
that we refer to her as Mrs Dursley now. Her youngest sister is now Miss Evans and she remains
with her ward the Dowager Duchess Lady McGonagall. They just returned from a visit to the
Dursleys last week, so I believe."

His head spun, his mouth having gone dry, his heart hammering inside his chest. For a moment, he
had thought that it had been her, his heart gripped by an iron fist, the metaphorical point of a dagger
causing a sharp pain to pass through it as he had imagined her walking down the aisle to meet her
husband. Never mind that he had promised himself to erase any and all thoughts of her from his
mind forever and always.

He swallowed hard, forced a smile - more of a grimace, he feared, his feelings when it came to her
always difficult to conceal - on his face. "What wonderful news!"

"Yes, Mr and Mrs Dursley are very happily married, I take it," Dumbledore hummed, his eyes
twinkling as if he knew all too well that James found himself having difficulty to stay upright.
"Anyway, James, if you will follow me to my office, we will distract Mr Snape no longer -"

He followed the Prime Minister obediently, drawing the door closed behind him, his hands coming
to rest behind his back, so Dumbledore wouldn't see how his knuckles had whitened as he had
curled them into fists. "Is she well then?" He couldn't stop himself from asking, even if he was
quite certain she never wished to see or speak to him again, even if his own heart could not quite
bear to hear the question answered either way. "Miss Evans, I mean. It has been -" he paused for a
second, gathering his thoughts, "- quite a while since I last saw her. I believe it was my father's
funeral and I left for Europe shortly after -"

He had blocked many a thing from that day, but he had held on to the image of her standing at the
foot of his father's grave, her eyes - red-rimmed, shining with tears - meeting his for a fleeting
moment, he feeling guilty to have been caught looking, fully aware of the fact that he had no right
to observe her, to pine after her. Especially not while his father's coffin had only just been lowered
to the ground. He remembered too, the soft touch of her gloved fingers against his wrist as she had
passed him to embrace his mother and to offer her heartfelt condolences.

"Miss Evans is in excellent health and spirits," Dumbledore spoke, sitting himself down behind his
desk and gesturing for James to join him on the opposite end. "She and the Dowager Duchess
visited Rome a short while ago. I believe that you had just left for Paris or your paths might have
crossed. Wouldn't that have made for a lovely reunion?"

His nod was rather more a jerk of the head, his stomach turning at the thought that she might have
met some of the same people he had, that she might have heard what he had been up to, how he had
indulged himself, how selfish he had been. "I would have liked to have seen them," he replied,
although his answer lacked any sincerity. He had never been more grateful than he was now to find
that he had been truly anonymous as he exploited his freedom in Europe. "I am rather fond of the
Dowager Duchess."

"And of Miss Evans, of course," the Prime Minister looked at him knowingly, making James
wonder what he knew exactly, but then deftly instigated a change of topic: "Now, my dear Duke of
Peverell, please tell me how you would like to use your seat in the Houses of Parliament for the
greater good."

Yet, while the widowed Lady Peverell might wish to expand her modest family unit, it remains to be
seen if the Duke of Peverell is willing to take part in his mother's scheming. The Duke is known to
be quite the rule-breaker and this author thus wonders if the young gentleman has truly sown his
wild oats while in Europe, or whether he will use any welcome excuse to avoid his mother's
intentions to see him betrothed by the end of the season? For we all know that the new Duke of
Peverell - quite the prankster in his youth - will do whatever it takes to overturn the ton's
expectations.

"You might have said something," he told his friend, pacing the hardwood floor of 12 Grimmauld
Place, the Black family's London residence. "I had no idea. For a moment I feared she might have
gotten married -"

Sirius Black sipped his whisky, watching him over the rim of his glass, intrigue in his eyes. "I
believe you ordered me never to speak of her again. Granted, you were quite drunk for it, but you
seemed quite insistent that not ever hearing her name repeated again was the only way forward."
"I did, yes," he ran a hand through his hair, "and I am most grateful for it, but -" he inhaled sharply.
"She was in Rome, she was in Rome right after I had left and what if she heard -?" He halted in his
speech, face having gone quite warm as he found himself struggling to voice exactly what he had
been up to in many of the cities he had visited. Sirius' lips twitched in amusement.

"What if she heard about all the broken hearts you left in your wake? About your rakish ways and
the many squirrels you hunted, you mean?"

He let out a groan and then plopped down on his friend's sofa, taking up the entirety of it. "This was
supposed to be a time in which I could forget about the misery London has brought me. It was
supposed to be the last year of my life I would get to enjoy myself -"

"Now, that's rather dramatic," his friend snorted. "You're the Duke of Peverell! You can find
yourself a more than willing adventuress here, I am sure. The streets of London are positively
crawling with them these days and if not there, there is always the opera house." His friend paused
for a moment before he continued, his eyes narrowed, his lips curled at the edges. "Unless you do
not want to do such a thing here, because you do not want a certain unmarried young woman to
think badly of you..."

"She already does," he muttered unhappily. "Has done so since her parents died and I recklessly
asked her to marry me." Saying the words out loud pained him, the memory of her standing in front
of him, the way she had recoiled the moment he had gotten down on one knee, the way she had
begged him to get up and halt this nonsense, her eyes wide and panicked - all of which he hadn't
done, bracingly hopeful and foolishly in love as he had been. "A proposal which she firmly shot
down, may I remind you."

"She had only just lost both her parents to Cholera and her sister was on her sickbed still. She had
no idea if any of her family members might survive -"

"I was selfish, I know," he lamented. "Seeing her so distraught, I didn't know what to do! The only
thing I knew at the time was that I wanted to make her feel better, that I wanted to be able to hold
her in my arms and make her feel as if the whole world hadn't just let her down completely. I
fancied her in love with me too," he chuckled miserably, remembering the many hours they had
spent in each other's company, either playing cards or speaking of books or taking a stroll around
the garden of his family's Godric's Hollow seat, Gryffindor Palace. "How wrong I was!"

Sirius Black let out a heavy sigh. "To me, it still sounds like rather horrible timing on your behalf.
You have never spoken to her since -"

"How could I? The embarrassment was rather enough the first time!"

"- you were eighteen at the time and so was she. Surely, you cannot avoid her for the rest of both of
your lives? You move in the same social circles, the Dowager Duchess is your mother's most
trusted confidant -"

"I do not intend on attending any social events this season -"

"- there are only so many excuses you will be able to give, James. Not to mention that your mother
is set on finding you a Duchess, you heard her at dinner last night -"
"Something I did not and do not agree to!"

"Because you are still deeply and painfully in love with Miss Evans," Sirius spoke, setting down his
whisky. "Look, I may not understand and I most likely never will, but clearly you have been blue-
devilled ever since she broke your heart and things only got worse last year when your father
passed of pneumonia. The only cure I see -"

"There is no cure," James interrupted, sitting up and shaking his head, having lost all fight within
him to pretend as if the other nobleman in the room had lost his wits when it came to his
insinuations about his feelings for the woman in question. "If there was, I would have found one by
now. Believe me, I tried."

"The only cure I see," continued Sirius Black, ignoring his obvious self-pity, "is that you speak to
Miss Evans again. You will either find out that - not that four years have passed - you have little to
nothing in common with her anymore, that she no longer is the woman you put on a pedestal at that
time, or you will come to find that your heart indeed beats for hers still and can then make a valid
attempt to court her -"

"Court her?" The laugh that escaped him was one of disbelief. "Are you sporting with me?"

”Alas, I wish I was,” Lord Black gritted his teeth, “as you know I do not believe in love and matters
of the heart, they do not interest me in the slightest, but seeing as I do not wish to see my friend
squander his life away, because he is suffering from that all-encompassing malady called
infatuation -” his friend pointed to him, waving his hand about as if he was showcasing clear
symptoms of it. “I fear that as a friend it is my duty to encourage you in your endeavours.”

“My heart needs no further encouragement. It does plenty of that itself already.” He gritted his
teeth, achingly aware of his being a laughing stock. “She need only glance my way once and it will
have convinced itself that she does not thoroughly despise me.” His friend looked as if he were
ready to argue, but James shook his head, grabbing the canter of whisky off the side table and -
ignoring the lingering headache from that morning - took a swig. “Now, how about we get
positively off our faces together? It has been too long due to my needing to drag my arse all over
the continent.”

For a moment, it looked as if Sirius were about to argue, but then his lips widened in a Cheshire
grin: “I thought you would never ask, my friend.”

Still, whatever the Duke's personal plans may be, the mothers of the many eligible ladies of the ton
will rejoice at his return and will be waiting with bated breath for the first event of the season His
Lordship might attend. Which conspiring mama, after all, does not dearly love a duke?
The Duke of Peverell awoke in the middle of the night to Lord Black’s loud snores coming from
the armchair across the sofa he himself was sprawled out on. His cravat hung loose around his neck
and his boots had somehow found their way under the coffee table. He sat up, hand to his head as
he reflected on the poor choices he had made since returning to London just over twenty-four hours
ago.

What would his father say if he would encounter him in such a state? If he and Sirius were
sprawled all over the furniture in the living room of his family’s London residence? Actually, in
retrospect his father would not have said much, the look on his face, however, would have been
telling enough - the disappointment there readily displayed - the greatest punishment James could
ever receive.

It would be his mother now, he knew, who would scold him the next morning. He almost didn’t
want to make his way back home, so he would not have to face her anger, her suffering as a mother
of a gentleman who struggled to make something of value of himself and who had done so for an
extended period of time already.

Who was he even and when had he first lost himself? Had it been his father’s death that had made
him spiral or was this merely the final straw and had he barely hung on in the years following the
rejection of the woman he still considered to be the love of his life, the one he could not even bear
to think of for fear of his breaking, aching heart halting its steady pace?

Perhaps Sirius was right. Perhaps he ought to face his fears. Perhaps it was time he attempted a
conversation with her once more, that he bridge the divide, held out a hand for her to shake. He
knew she valued being seen as an equal, even if - in his opinion - she were his superior in every
single way, always had been and always would be.

Maybe it would lighten his heart, maybe he would be able to let go of the pain that had practically
consumed him for the better part of the last four years, maybe he would find himself capable of
looking at her again as if she were a dear friend rather than feeling as if he was a failure for being
incapable of making her love him as he did her; fully, truly, wholeheartedly.

Maybe once he did, he would one day be able to move on.

Maybe.

This author looks forward to how all of this shall unfold and - rest assured, dear readers -
endeavours to find out exactly whom the Duke of Peverell intends to court. Will it be the newly-
appointed Diamond of the Season Miss Greengrass? Or, perhaps, the Princess Royal herself?
 Suffice to say that a beau such as the Duke himself will be positively spoiled for choice once the
courting season commences.

Yours Truly,
Lady Whistledown

Chapter End Notes

Bluestocking is a term for an educated, intellectual woman, originally a member of the 18th-
century Blue Stockings Society from England led by the hostess and critic Elizabeth Montagu.
The Bluestockings attempted to replace social evenings spent playing cards with something
more intellectual. Afterwards, the term bluestocking came to be applied to women with
learned or literary interests. Furhtermore, the Pink of the Ton is a term which is generally
applied only to males and refers to a man at the height of fashion. A dandy.

Combining these two, I have created the title "Pinkest Bluestocking of the Ton", meaning that
Lily is the ton's most popular learned young woman, which will most certainly be true for Lily
in this Jily Bridgerton AU. She will have her pick of suitors, even if she will only ever truly be
interested in one.
 The Restless Sister Awaits
Chapter Summary

Dearest Reader, the ton are abuzz with the latest gossip, and so it is my honour to impart to
you the news that the Duke of Peverell has returned to London at last! A year after setting off
on his tour of Europe, Lady Peverell's son has returned and rumour has it that his mother is
preparing for the most joyous of occasions: a late summer wedding that sees her son wed the
next Duchess of Peverell. It is my sincere hope that you have stored a bottle of wine for this
most delightful of upcoming events for if ever there were a more determined mama, this writer
is Icarus and this society paper has been scorched for flying too close to the sun.

A Jily Regency Romance inspired by Shondaland's "Bridgerton".

Chapter Notes

Thank you so much for your enthusiasm on the first chapter. I truly appreciate it! It is lovely to
know that I am not alone in my Regency passion. I hope you'll enjoy this chapter from Lily's
POV!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

 Dearest Reader,

The Season has only just begun, but the gossip already runs fast. A mere week after she was
appointed the Diamond of the Season, it appears that Miss Delia Greengrass has set her sights on
a certain newly-returned Duke. The young lady - metaphorical hearts in her eyes - was seen
conversing with Lady Peverell on a promenade as the Duke himself attended a meeting with Prime
Minister Albus Dumbledore. Yet, to no one's surprise where this eligible bachelor is concerned, our
Diamond is not the only one to show her interest. Early this morning, the Duke and his mother were
visited by Dowager Duchess Lady McGonagall and her ward Miss Evans, longtime acquaintances
of the Peverell family.
Rarely had she felt more nervous than she had been at present, awaiting the Duke of Peverell's
presence at morning tea. She hadn't dared pick up the cup that Lady Peverell's maid had poured her
for fear of giving her nerves away, the porcelain rattling, the hot liquid splashing over the edges and
staining the skirts of her chemise dress. She knew that her cheeks were pink already, had been from
the moment that her guardian - the Dowager Duchess Lady McGonagall - had announced they
would visit the Peverells the night before.

"He shall be down shortly," spoke Lady Peverell, her mouth pinched slightly as her eyes flitted to
the clock which rested on top of the fireplace. "Dear James is quite worn out from all his travels
still. He truly did try and make the most of his tour of Europe."

"As he should," agreed Lady McGonagall politely, calmly sipping her tea. "I hear he visited Albus
yesterday. Is he set on taking his father's seat at Westminster?"

"I am, yes," the Duke's mother spoke, sounding rather impatient. "If it were up to himself, he would
not have gone to see the Prime Minister so soon, but it is high time he takes on the responsibilities
of his Dukedom. Wouldn't you say so, Miss Evans?"

She startled, cheeks heating further as she gathered her wits about her. Luckily, however, the Duke
used this moment to storm in, his cheeks flushed, too - albeit, she was certain, for a different reason
than hers were altogether - hair still slightly wet after a bath and curling around his ears rather
charmingly. Her heart skipped a beat and - at this realisation - she dropped her gaze, hoping to
conceal the fact that she thought he was altogether too handsome.

I could have been your wife, she thought quietly to herself. If only I had said yes, if only I hadn't
felt embarrassed for being pitied, I could have been his and he could have been mine.

"My sincere apologies," he bumbled, making to sit next to his mother on the other end of the sofa.
"I had not been informed that you were due to visit this morning." She looked up at him through
her eyelashes, noticed that he avoided her eyes and she wondered - not for the first time - how she
could ever have hurt him so. She wondered, too, if he would ever be able to forgive her for her
error, if he thought of her fondly still, or - most likely - could not stand to be near her any longer.
"You look well, Lady McGonagall," he paused for a second, eyes moving from her guardian to her
own ever so slowly, "you too, of course, Miss Evans."

She could scarcely breathe and thought that it was a wonder that her face hadn't lost any and all of
its colour, was immensely thankful that she hadn't been holding her tea for she would for sure have
dropped the cup and its saucer.

"Doesn't she just?" Asked his mother, looking at her, a fond smile playing at her lips. "I always told
your mother that you would one day be the envy of the Ton, my dear Miss Evans. It delights me to
see I was right." Then, turning towards her son again: "Did you know Lady McGonagall and Miss
Evans here visited Rome a mere days after you'd left for Paris?"

Again, her cheeks burned and she distracted herself by reaching for her tea after all, carefully
picking it up and holding it as steady as she could, hoping that he would not notice her
embarrassment, remembering how every step she had taken around the Italian city had reminded
her of him, how she had wondered what he had thought as he ascended the stairs at the Colosseum,
if he had felt as insignificant as she had as he observed the many wonders of Ancient Roman
civilization.
"I had heard, yes," he spoke, eyes once again on her guardian. "It is a shame that I missed you. If I
had known, I would have extended my stay -"

"Oh, nonsense," spoke Lady McGonagall, waving her hand about, "you were on a mission to see as
much of the continent as possible and we knew we'd see you once you'd safely returned to London
a couple of months later anyway. I had wanted to write you a letter, of course, but Lily rightfully
pointed out to me that this was your one chance to be free -" his eyes flitted to hers, their gazes
meeting for a mere three seconds, but still so significant that she thought her heart might fail her.
"She was right, of course."

He cleared his throat, the tips of his ears distinctively pink. "Well, I for one would have loved to see
either of you. I could have shown you all the parts of the city that remain a secret to those who do
not live amongst the Romans for an extended period of time."

"Speaking of things you might show them," his mother interrupted him, hand on his wrist. "Why
don't you take Miss Evans to your father's study? You know that Miss Evans shares a passion for
natural sciences with him. Lily, darling," the older woman turned towards her, "you might want to
take a look at my late husband's notes, his scribbles are illegible to most, but I know that you would
enjoy it so if you were to get a chance to see what his mind cooked up."

"Oh, I wouldn't want to impose -" she objected, but Lady Peverell stopped her.

"I will not take no for an answer," the woman spoke with a finality that indicated that she wouldn't
yield to even the fiercest of protestations. "James, darling, please show her to his offices and take as
long as you need, Lily dear. Minerva and myself can gossip like no other -"

"Now, I would not refer to it as gossip so much, Euphemia -"

"Let's not pretend we are better than we are," the former Duchess again interjected, patting her son
on the knee. "Now, James, up you get. Please do give her the grand tour."

The look on the Duke's face was enough to make her wish that she had fainted earlier. At least, she
would not need to suffer the blistering mortification of his more than apparent apprehension at
having to spend a prolonged period of time with her without anyone else present. The worst part
being that she couldn’t even blame him for it.

Being a favourite of the Princess Royal and having seen her sister’s newly married bliss, it comes
as no surprise that Miss Evans might attempt to catch the Duke of Peverell's attention. At two and
twenty and entering her fifth London Season, the young woman has lost some of her initial bloom.
Having historically cared about intellectual matters rather than those of the heart, Miss Evans
might have been forewarned by those who have her best interests at heart, that she is in danger of
heading for spinsterhood.

The former Duke’s office at the Peverell’s London residence was not unlike the one he had owned
at Gryffindor Palace, the one that she and the new Duke - currently in her presence, back straight
and stiff like an effigy, much unlike the floundering limbs and lack of posture of his youth - had
played hide and seek in as children, running around the many jarred shelves that carried some of
the most curious objects she had ever encountered. Now, the young boy that had so often been
scolded for his slouching posture - where she had been admonished for the mud-stained hems of
her dresses - was a stranger to her almost, someone she recognized from a distant past, but whom
she had no right to claim to know.

"It's not as large as his study at Gryffindor Palace," he spoke from the doorway, watching her as she
had stopped in the centre of the room, eyes roaming the many different objects the room held.
"You'll remember that, of course, although our point of perspective has altered drastically now that
we have grown, of course. Everything seems large when you're a child."

She snorted, her hand covering her mouth and nose an instant later in embarrassment, her cheeks
flushed at the impropriety of it. "My apologies, I -"

"No, please don't -" he had stepped forward, hands behind his back, appearing at a loss for words
for a moment before he cleared his throat. "I suppose you are right, anyway. I am sure you were
about to comment on the size of Gryffindor Palace, calling me out for my privilege." Her eyebrows
rose and he ducked his head, chuckling lightly. "You have not altered so much, Miss Evans. I have
known you all my life, if you may remember."

"I remember," she spoke, turning in an attempt to escape his gaze and making her way to his
father's cluttered desk. "It is hard to forget about our summers together." Apparently, it was
difficult, too, to keep her fondness and warmth for him out of her voice. "Do you remember that
one time you pushed me into the pond? Petunia screamed absolute murder, thinking that I would
drown -"

"To my credit," he interjected, "I jumped in and was all set to rescue you, but the pond was only
knee-deep, meaning that you - as always - needed no saving." She looked up at him, standing
where she left him. He quite literally took her breath away, made her heart race, caused her legs to
weaken. She dropped her gaze again, stopping on a notebook which contained the former Duke of
Peverell's familiar scribbles. She picked it up, fingers brushing over the paper. "The room is exactly
as he left it," James spoke, his voice now a little closer, his presence beside her making the hairs at
the back of her neck stand on end. "My mother could not bear to change a thing."

She turned her head ever so slightly, watched him out of the corner of her eye. "You must miss him
terribly."

"I do," he replied, one hand folded around the edge of the desk, knuckles whitened. "Not a day goes
by -" he stopped, voice faltering and she gently put the notebook back down, turned towards him
and placed her gloved hand over his. For a moment she thought she might have overstepped, but
then he turned his hand around, his fingers holding on to her own.
"He is greatly missed," she spoke softly, gently. "I never got to say this to you at the funeral, but I
was exceedingly fond of him. He always indulged my curiosity, even when my own parents
thought it unladylike to be interested in the sciences." He held on to her hand more firmly, her
breath hitching ever so slightly, a flush spreading up her neck. "Without him and his
encouragement, I would not have found my passion, I would not have felt accepted for who I am. I
owe him a great deal."

"He considered you the daughter he never had," after one final press of his hand against hers, he
took a step back, hand returning to its place behind its back. "I'm certain he preferred you over me
most of the time and I cannot say I blame him."

"You know that's not true," she told him, feeling the loss of his touch deeply. "Your father would be
so proud of you for taking your seat at Westminster, for joining our Prime Minister's so-called
Order of the Phoenix -"

"Now, that's not -" he seemed uncomfortable. "If that's what my mother has been telling you, please
do ignore her. I have only just returned after doing positively nothing of merit as I travelled Europe
in the past year. I am of no use to anyone, certainly not the Prime Minister's."

She could tell that he would not appreciate to be disagreed with and told otherwise, so she
introduced a change of topic. "I am sure your travels were very exciting, though." She hesitated for
a second, wondering how much of her feelings for him she might reveal if she were to voice her
thoughts, but taking the chance anyway. "I was disappointed to hear you had left Rome just before
Lady McGonagall and myself arrived. I had hoped to be able to meet up, to hear about your
adventures -"

A rather sudden and inelegant laugh escaped him. "Truly, you would not have been impressed."

"I beg to differ," she contradicted him. "You have always been a marvellous storyteller and I am
sure there are many stories that you could share when the time is right."

He turned to look at her, his smile swift and - although she could not be certain - a tad melancholic,
as if he - like she did - had remembered a time during which the two of them had shared anything
and everything. That is, until she had ruined it all.

It is no secret that Miss Evans is a bluestocking, preferring - much to the new Mrs Dursley's
annoyance - books over people. Although generally regarded for her beauty, many a mama might
shudder at the idea that their son would court a young woman with such opinions and convictions
 of her own. After all, what is more terrifying than a woman whose intellect outshines her
husband's?

"Lady Peverell told me that she is determined to find the Duke a wife this Season," spoke her
guardian as she stared out of the carriage's window. Lily hummed, her fingers curling in on
themselves, her nails biting into the skin of her palms despite the protection of the gloves she was
wearing. "She believes he needs a companion to ground him, a partner who will support him in his
endeavours and is willing to help him navigate his new role as a Duke.”

"I am sure that the many ladies of the Ton will be positively delighted," she replied rather
impassively, avoiding the Dowager Duchess' gaze. "Lady Whistledown especially."

"That tireless gossip," Lady McGonagall clucked her tongue in annoyance, a brief silence filling
the carriage, the only noises that filtered in coming from the outside world. She had almost been
tricked into believing this had been the last of their conversation, that the older woman would drop
it. However, she started up again a few breaths later: “I would have thought that you would be more
interested in Lady Peverell's plans. I know how fond of the Duke you are."

Her face felt - a common state of affairs by now - as if it was aglow. "Lady McGonagall!" Her gaze
had snapped to the Dowager Duchess whose smile was knowing. "Do not speak of such things! It is
improper!" She didn't know quite where to look or how to behave in a way that did not betray the
truth of her guardian's words. "The Duke and I were childhood friends, for sure, but we haven't
spoken for years. Certainly not since -" her mouth snapped shut, catching herself just in time before
the words the proposal slipped from her lips, giving the Dowager Duchess all the more evidence of
her infatuation to use. "He is a kind and generous soul like his father, for sure, but I hardly know
him now."

"Do you believe that Lady Peverell or myself were in any way well-acquainted with the man that
ended up being our husbands? It was our fathers that came to an agreement with their fathers and
once the papers had been signed, that was that!" Lady McGonagall raised her eyebrows. "You
young ones have these grand delusions of love these days, as if this isn't something that might grow
once you come to know and respect each other as equals."

She couldn't look at her guardian any longer, her vision blurry as she looked out of the window, the
London streets whizzing past, her mind abuzz. How could she possibly tell the Dowager Duchess
that she had loved James for as long as she could remember? That she had foolishly - out of a sense
of pride, her brain furthermore addled by the intense grief she was experiencing - declined his offer
to care for her always, to love her for eternity, to be his partner in life? The only thing such a
confession might accomplish is that Lady McGonagall might tell Lady Peverell that there was hope
to be had, which would mean the two of them would force them together, making him feel
obligated to go down on his knee, while the reserve and distance he had shown her in recent years
told her that she had missed her chance, that he had - after she had stomped on his very heart - seen
the light and moved on.

After all, what did she have to offer him? Not a title and certainly not a fortune either. She was no
prized possession, no high-ranking member of the Ton, no well-bred lady who knew her way about
society, who would be able to follow in his mother's footsteps as the Duchess of Peverell.

"I am sure," she said, swallowing her hurt, "that the Duke will be able to make a choice of his own
and that he does not need his mother to guide him."

His choice, she thought, will most certainly not be me. I would merely be lucky enough to exist
within the same realm as him. Forever looking in, but never in the middle.

The Duke of Peverell is a well-educated gentleman, certainly, but his mother might still feel
apprehensive when there are many more attractive options, such as Miss Greengrass or the
Princess Royal, another family friend of the inhabitants of Gryffindor Palace.

Horace Slughorn was an old friend of Lady McGonagall's late husband. He had been married once
upon a time, but his wife had died in childbirth, the child tragically not surviving for more than two
months afterwards. The gentleman had never remarried and - so the Dowager Duchess had once
said at the dinner table - would not soon be persuaded to consider doing so, feeling as if his luck
had run out, his time had come, his fate had been sealed. This had certainly been his attitude
towards the concept of holy matrimony well before Miss Evans had become his best friend's
widow's ward.

"Would you like some more tea?" Asked Lady McGonagall as she, Lily and Master Slughorn sat in
the garden of her London residence, parasol keeping the sun from beating down on their skin. "It is
very kind of you to come all this way. I know the Queen likes to keep you close." The man was the
royal family's physician and Lily had encountered him at the palace once or twice when she visited
her good friend Princess Mary.

"She does, yes," Master Slughorn agreed. "However, she understands that I simply cannot go
without my two favourite ladies of the Ton for too long." Lily busied herself with a little bit of
sugar, which she added to the tea she had just poured herself, feeling the older man's eyes on her,
her discomfort growing by the minute as she knew far too well that his gaze wasn't a merely
friendly one. "May I say that you look positively radiant today, Miss Evans?"

Before she could respond, the Dowager Duchess responded rather tersely: "Yes, she does, doesn't
she? We saw the Duke of Peverell this morning. It does wonders to one's complexion to meet an
old friend again. Wouldn't you agree, dear Horace?"

"Ah," the man spoke, eyes darting to the widow, "yes, I am sure it's -" he cleared his throat. "Is he
well then? I have heard that the Duke was not all too keen to return. Rumour has it that he would
have loved to prolong his travels."

"Well, that is hardly a surprise, is it?" Lady McGonagall's eyebrows raised. "He is a young man
 with quite the responsibility to bear. I would have questioned his sanity if he were more excited
about the prospect of shouldering his late father's burden than he was to extend his travels across
the continent." She sipped her tea. "Wouldn't you say, Miss Evans, that his travels have done him
exceptionally well? Doesn't he look exceedingly handsome?"

Once again experiencing the weight of the Royal Physician's eyes on her - his gaze intent,
lecherous even if she were fully honest - she could only offer up one answer: "Very much so, yes,"
she spoke truthfully, hoping that the older man in their presence would pick up on that fact. "The
Duke of Peverell looks better than ever."

"Well, that's wonderful," Master Slughorn looked as if he had swallowed a lemon for a moment,
but then sat up again, plastering a wide smile on his face. "Now, Miss Evans, I have a riddle for
you! It is a difficult one, but I know how you like them, so if you just pay attention -"

She had lost any and all interest before he had so much as opened his mouth.

It thus remains to be seen if Miss Evans will manage to successfully court a Duke or any other
gentleman this Season. If the Ton's whispers are to be believed, however, it appears that some have
already shown their interest. Master Horace Slughorn was seen leaving the Dowager Duchess'
London residence with a spring in his step. Could it be that he and the esteemed Lady McGonagall
came to an agreement? At five and forty he may be twice the age of Miss Evans, but surely a man of
his intellect and stature is difficult to resist for even the most stubborn of bluestockings?

Yours Truly,
Lady Whistledown

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much for reading! I hope this chapter brought you joy and makes you wish for
more.
 The Blue-Devilled Bloody Bugger
Chapter Summary

Dearest Reader, the ton are abuzz with the latest gossip, and so it is my honour to impart to
you the news that the Duke of Peverell has returned to London at last! A year after setting off
on his tour of Europe, Lady Peverell's son has returned and rumour has it that his mother is
preparing for the most joyous of occasions: a late summer wedding that sees her son wed the
next Duchess of Peverell. It is my sincere hope that you have stored a bottle of wine for this
most delightful of upcoming events for if ever there were a more determined mama, this writer
is Icarus and this society paper has been scorched for flying too close to the sun.

A Jily Regency Romance inspired by Shondaland's "Bridgerton".

Chapter Notes

Merry Christmas, my dears! Since we're not getting any Bridgerton Season 3 today, I thought
I'd grant you Chapter 3.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

 Dearest Reader,

The start of the Season always is a time of giving. Much more so, this author would argue, than a
London Christmas could ever be. New suitors pop up like the Corgis that follow our Majesties
wherever they go. (Surely, they own over a dozen now.) Having said that, the Royal Family delivers
a suitor of their own this Season in the shape of the King and Queen's nephew Prince Amos. The
Ton is atwitter with the news that the young royal has arrived at Buckingham Palace to - so they
say, but do we believe a word of it? - enjoy time with this side of the family.

"Morning," James spoke as he entered the dining room. His mother was already seated, surrounded
by several different London newspapers, Hands on a pamphlet of sorts, which he couldn't quite
make out the title of. Assuming that it was one of her favourite feminist authors, he sat on her right,
smiling up in thanks as Mr Creevey filled his cup with tea, inquiring after his preference for his
eggs. "Sunny side up, please," he replied, reaching for one of the papers his mother wasn't currently
reading, the many different headlines shouting up at him, all begging for his attention. It was his
mother, however, who managed to successfully divert his attention away from them.

"Prince Amos has joined the King and Queen at Buckingham Palace it seems," spoke his mother,
putting the leaflet she had been reading down. "Remember how the two of you used to play in our
back garden whenever he would visit before?" He arched an eyebrow at his mother, whilst also
pulling a face.

"You know very well that Amos and I very rarely were civil enough with one another to do
anything of the sort. Don't you remember that he used to always insist I was the horse and he was
the knight, despite his being nearly three years my senior? I swear that any spinal issues I might
experience in old age, will be down to him." He said unhappily, remembering how his playmate in
childhood - the stuck up Prince - used to torture him, while he reached for some toast in the middle
of the table and started to butter it. "There is no love lost between the two of us. Quite frankly, if I
never have to see him again -"

"Hmm," his mother hummed, interrupting him, "yes, I do know about your personal vendetta
against him -"

"It's not a vendetta," he protested, dropping his toast on his plate and leaning back in his chair. "We
like to avoid one another, for sure, but a vendetta implies some kind of rivalry and we simply do
not exist within the same realm, meaning that we have no reason to quarrel or -"

"It appears that Miss Evans does."

He looked at her sharply, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as his hands - rather involuntarily - curled
in on themselves. "What does that mean?" His mother's eyebrows merely rose, handing him the
pamphlet she had been reading earlier and he took it curiously, scanning the words - Prince Amos
surely has come to London to find himself a suitable wife... Miss Evans may be the envy of the ton...
- his blood starting to boil ever so slightly and with increasing heat as he read until the end, the
paper crinkling between his fingers. "Who is this person anyway?" He asked when he had finished,
sounding - he feared - far too petulant for a man of his age and standing. "I have never heard of this
Lady Whistledown before."

"Oh, she knows everyone and absolutely everything," his mother spoke, lifting her tea and sipping
it rather daintily. "You wouldn't know, because she only started to write these last Season and you
were away for all of it, of course." He put the leaflet back down, or - in all honesty - perhaps he
threw it down in something akin to frustration, the words he had just read - more than one
interested party vying for her hand - echoing through his mind as his mother continued, oblivious -
or choosing to be - to his flaring nostrils: "She rarely gets these things wrong, you know. She
clearly has a keen eye and very discreet sources."

If anything, this caused his temper to worsen further, his mood to sour all the more. "It's fodder to
the flame, is what it is. I'm surprised you would read such a thing in the first place, mother. I would
think you, as I, would consider such overt gossip morally depraved -"

"Morally depraved," his mother snorted in disbelief, sending him a stern look. "Shall we not speak
about what exactly you got up to while you were travelling through Europe then? Shall I just
continue to pretend as if I am not fully aware of the fact that you did not embrace the notion of
monk-like celibacy?" She huffed. "Should I - since we're on topic now - not worry that one day
soon a young woman shows up on our doorstep, claiming that she is to be the mother to my future
grandchild?"

A throat was cleared behind him, Mr Creevey placing his eggs in front of him before excusing
himself and leaving the room. James - in the meantime - was surprised his heart beat on, that it
hadn't gone into cardiac arrest the moment his mother had blurted out these words rather
relentlessly and without a care for his nerves.

"Now," his mother spoke, tucking into her own breakfast now, "I am not interested in the slightest
in how many women you charmed as you toured the continent -" he sunk down in his chair in
mortification, "- what does, however, is your clear admiration of Miss Evans. You are two and
twenty now, have inherited your father's title, it is high time -"

"Please," he begged, feeling utterly miserable and sounding rather small, "can we not speak of -?"

"But we must, James," she told him. "We do not have a choice. The Dowager Duchess Lady
McGonagall mentioned to me yesterday that Master Slughorn seems quite taken, you are not the
first and only gentleman to show an interest -"

"Master Slughorn?" He sat up again, horrified. "But he must be at least twice her age -"

"- and now, apparently, the Princess Royal is hoping to get her cousin to take action as far as her
friend is concerned -" she looked at him with a sense of urgency. "You know that I would like to see
you marry, sweetheart. Not just because it is proper for a man of your standing, but also because I
wish to see you happy." His face burned, his mouth having gone dry as he recalled the moment four
years ago when he had thought himself about to become the happiest man of all the Ton. "So, if you
think Miss Evans might be the one, I will give you my blessing a million times over and I can
assure you that you have Lady McGonagall's -"

"Stop," he spoke, rubbing his fingers into his forehead, "please, mother, I -" he inhaled sharply.
"She will not marry for anything but love," saying the words out loud, repeating the ones that had
fallen off her lips and had been aimed at him - like shards of glass that pierced him all over - four
years ago, was almost too painful to bear. He licked his lips. "I know her well enough to say that
she harbours no such feelings for me, not to mention that it has been four years since we had any
proper contact -"

"Then court her!" His mother sounded exasperated. "Truly, James, did you not think the timing
awfully convenient today? Did you not realize we gave you ample opportunity to reacquaint
yourselves as we sent you to your father's study? Lady McGonagall and myself set this up. I am
sure that we could convince Miss Evans if we invite her over to tea just a couple more times, she
certainly did not seem averse -"

"I don't want her to need to be convinced!" His pride was hurt, his hardened heart bleeding, his face
hot. "Please, mother, I am not a child any longer. I know you mean well, but I need to be realistic,
pragmatic. I cannot afford to long for her love when there are many other perfectly eligible ladies -"

A silence fell over the room, his mother's lips were pursed in disapproval and he thought she would
object to his protestations, but then she let out a heavy sigh and said: "Very well, it is settled then.
You will find yourself a bride this Season and seeing as - regrettably - you do not take me up on my
offer or advice for a well-timed tea time proposal, you shall just have to join me at Hyde Park
today. It has been rather a long time since I got to show off my only son and if we are to be
successful, you must show your face."

His mother got up from her seat, declaring that she was to get ready, while he was left wondering if
he had mayhaps dug his own grave, already overwhelmed at the thought of having to keep up the
pretence of caring in the slightest about any of the other ladies of the Ton, while his heart very
clearly only beat for one of them.

At four and twenty - soon to celebrate another year with, undoubtedly, a grand royal ball - and
after having spent quite some time in the Royal Navy, the exceedingly handsome Prince Amos
surely has come to London to find himself a suitable wife. Ladies of the Ton will thus need to rush
to Madame Malkin's if they wish to dress not to just impress the many gentlemen of the Ton, but a
Prince at that too!

"Prince Amos!" He spoke with disdain, booted feet up on his best friend's coffee table, finding
himself in a very similar position he had been in but two nights before. "Of all people..." he scoffed,
"although I do suppose that Master Slughorn might be the worse option still, but -"

"Say whatever you want about Prince Anus -" James snorted at his friend's loyal butchering of the
royal's name, "- he does have some things to commend him when compared to the old man. Only
barely, though. It is commonly known the Prince prefers anal -"

"Sirius," he warned, face crumpled into a grimace, grateful that it was just the two of them and that
they hadn't yet been joined by their scholarly friend Remus Lupin, who was set to arrive any
moment now.

"What?" His friend questioned him, blinking at him from his armchair, keeping up the pretence of
innocence. "Does he or does he not have a stick up his arse?"

"Well, yes, but -" he ran a hand through his mess of curls, "- Lady Whistledown is right, though.
He is a man of good looks, a real dandy." James didn't add that he also thought the member of the
royal family a blue-devilled bloody bugger. That was something he did not need to verbalize for his
friend Lord Black was very much aware of the sentiment already. With great reluctance he added:
"They would make a handsome pair, wouldn't they?"

"Speaking of handsome pairs," his friend wiggled his eyebrows at him, "you and Miss Greengrass
turned quite a few heads earlier today. I am pretty sure I saw several young ladies run off in a flood
of tears, so disappointed were they to lose out to the Diamond of the Season." When he only shook
his head, Sirius cocked his. "Are you going to court her then? Will this be your attempt at forgetting
about the woman your eleven-year-old self convinced yourself of being your soulmate?"

He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. "Mother wants me to marry."

"I know, yes," his best friend replied. "What I am asking is if you are truly going to sell your soul to
the devil and succumb to the pressure of the Ton to see you paired up with the most precious of
jewels."

"I don't have much of a choice," he sighed heavily. "Not that many others in my position have ever
had such a luxury."

"Your parents did."

"Yeah, well," he sat back up, dropped his hand from his face and sent his friend a look that was
filled with melancholy, "one cannot have it all." He was quiet for a moment. "Not to mention that I
did try and four years on I should perhaps start to accept that in doing so, I failed rather
spectacularly." He inhaled rather sharply, keen to change the topic of conversation. "Now, tell me
about this Lady Whistledown. I am surprised you didn't solve the mystery already."

His friend blinked at him. "Solved what mystery?"

"The one of her identity," he spoke, raising his eyebrows. "You have always loved to solve riddles."

"Not this one," Sirius rolled his eyes, looking supremely bored. "Although I do have a theory, of
course. Lady Whistledown is a bored, most likely haggard-looking and rather miserable wife of a
cheating husband, who has made it her life's mission to gossip about other ladies and gentlemen of
the Ton to forget about her own hardship in life." His friend got up from his seat rather abruptly
then, reaching for a bottle of gin and pouring himself a glass. "Now, let's solve a mystery worth
solving, shall we? Where is Lupin, do you think? I'd like to wager he got himself tied up helping an
old lady cross the road -" At that moment, a windswept Remus Lupin entered, the cheeks of his
otherwise somewhat hollow and exhausted face flushed a deep scarlet as he tried to swipe his hair
off of his forehead. "Well, speak of the devil -"

"My sincere apologies," he expressed, heading for the armchair next to Sirius' and dropping down
rather unceremoniously, his chest heaving as if he had run all the way from where he had been to
Grimmauld Place, "I got held up at the library -" Sirius' nose crinkled, he had always claimed books
gave him a headache, yet still had excelled as they had attended Cambridge together, "- and then I
somehow got caught up in a conversation with Mrs Bagshot whom I met on the street -"

"So it was an old lady!" A grin reappeared on Lord Black's face, Remus' forehead crinkling in
confusion. "Anyway, Lupin, you haven't missed much. The miserable sod across from the two of us
has had a busy day, though. He's made several ladies succumb to tears as he gave Miss Greengrass
his arm to lean on in Hyde Park and has since complained over the return of his nemesis, whom -
apparently - is being set up with Miss Evans -"

"According to this Lady Whistledown," James grumbled, "I am still not convinced she's not
spreading absolute claptrap. Surely, all of what she says is unfounded."
Sirius snorted, turned to Remus and handed him a glass of gin. "He's a bit dicked in the nob about
it, really," he spoke rather dryly. "He thinks Miss Evans to be incomparable, but doesn't have the
balls to do absolutely anything about it -" He paused for a second. "Although, of course, the
balls were metaphorically cut off last time he tried." James guffawed, was ready to protest, but his
friend continued. "Now, it is understandable, of course, seeing as Prince Anal is the more
conventionally handsome option and if Miss Evans is into that -"

"I am not quite sure how this is helpful -" he muttered under his breath, deflating all the more,
wearing his heart fully on his sleeve in the presence of his two friends.

"Well, I am not sure quite how helpful you are being either. If you would just indulge me and make
a complete and utter besotted fool of yourself, I would have something to laugh about. I can just
imagine you peacocking around the palace, trying to upstage and outwit an actual royal -" His
friend's smile was wolfish.

"The latter shouldn't be too complicated," Remus interrupted, having relaxed and leaned back in the
armchair fully, his eyes closed. "We do know that Prince Amos is nothing but a pretty picture to
look at. He is more like a boiled potato. Once the peel has been removed, you are left with a very
bland and boring vegetable that truly does not have a lot to offer unless you spice it up."

"Oh!" Sirius' laugh was loud, a cackle almost. "You're a beast, Lupin!"

The corner of his other friend's lips ticked up at that, pleased clearly to have been the source of
one's amusement. He opened his eyes then, looking at James. "Honestly, I may not know her very
well, but from everything you have told me, it sounds as if Miss Evans would appreciate some
intellectual stimulation. Would the Prince truly be able to offer her any of that?"

Rumour has it that the Princess Royal already has a very good idea of which young woman she
wishes her cousin to notice, namely a certain redheaded bluestocking. It is no secret that Miss
Evans, ward to the Dowager Duchess Lady McGonagall, is a favourite of hers and word on the
street says that the Princess Royal's invitation to a cream tea is more than a simple act of
friendship. Apparently, the King and Queen's daughter has made matchmaking her new hobby.

His friends' words - Remus Lupin's most notably - had put a spring in his step as he walked home.
Relief having settled deep into his bones as he recognized the truth of the words that had been
spoken. Miss Evans was - indeed - a woman who thrived in the presence of intelligent persons and
while much could be said about the Prince's exterior - even he, in all of his annoyance with the
royal, could see that Prince Amos would be deemed terribly handsome by the ladies of the Ton - he
was not known to be the brightest of men, lacked - again, in his modest opinion - any and all depth.
Surely, Miss Evans - Lily, he thought, his heart fluttering - would not be persuaded to be courted by
a man such as that? Not to mention that she would not even entertain the notion of Master
Slughorn's advances, would she?

When he thus returned to his mother's London residence and found her embroidering in the
drawing room - a novelty in and of itself, seeing as his mother had very little patience when it came
to these typically feminine hobbies - he cleared his throat and, having puffed out his chest, asked:
"Do you think we could have tea at the Dowager Duchess' tomorrow?"

His mother's eyebrows rose on her forehead. "Not unannounced, no."

"Well, could you announce it?" He asked, wringing his hands behind his back. "If need be, I will
deliver the note you will write her yourself. I am more than willing to do so."

His mother put her needlework down, tossed it to the other end of the sofa more like. She eyed him
inquisitively. "I am assuming you do not want to have tea with just my friend," she spoke carefully,
"which leaves me feeling rather puzzled, seeing as you quite vehemently begged me to stop talking
about any possibility of courting Miss Evans."

"I did, yes," he admitted, embarrassment causing him to grimace. "Perhaps we could not refer to it
as such as of yet, though? Maybe we could just call it me exploring my options, gauging Miss
Evans' interest and then we could take it from there?"

His mother stood from the sofa, brushing of her skirts before walking over to her writing desk near
the windows and taking out some pen and paper. "I do hope I shall not be disappointed," she spoke,
but the smile playing on her lips relayed perfectly how pleased she was exactly.

Of course, it remains to be seen if the Princess Royal's attempts at orchestrating a match between
her cousin and companion, will be successful. Certainly, however, Miss Evans may be the envy of
the many other ladies of the Ton and - soon - their enemy, too, if the Prince will actually show her
the interest that his cousin hopes he will display.

He held a single pink rose between his fingers, following his mother into the Dowager Duchess
Lady McGonagall's drawing room, palms sweaty as he brushed them against his trousers, watching
as his mother happily greeted her friend with a kiss on the cheek and - he thought - a soft and
conspiring whisper of his intentions. Refusing to feel embarrassed or stiffened by his own
 mortification, his eyes fled the pair and found Miss Evans standing near the table that had
obviously been prepared for them, her bare hand - his breath caught at the sight of her pale skin -
brushing against the cloth there, eyes anywhere but on the people assembled in the room.

Bravely, he stepped towards her, avoiding his mother and the Dowager Duchess, coming to a halt at
a respectable distance from the young woman he had loved for as long as he could remember,
gently presenting her with the flower in his hand. She looked up at him, eyes wide before she
looked back down at the rose, his heart hammering inside his chest, wondering if she was as well-
versed in the language of flowers as she was in absolutely everything else. "Thank you for
welcoming my mother and myself for tea this morning, Miss Evans."

Ever so slowly, her hand raised and her fingers took the rose from his - her little one brushing
against his thumb - before raising it to her nose, smelling it and then turning her eyes up to meet
his, his throat closing up with the force of her gaze, the evidence of her delight in them.

"Thank you, my Lord. You are, of course, most welcome always."

Her voice was soft, her eyes gentle and he released a shaky breath, thinking that - if anything -
there was hope.

Of one thing we can be sure, my dear readers, exciting times are ahead for this writer has been
informed that Miss Evans has more than one interested party vying for her hand, making it seem as
if she were this Season's Diamond rather than Miss Greengrass, whom has certainly had a few
gentleman callers - the Duke of Peverell was seen extending his arm to her on a promenade around
Hyde Park today - but no real prospects as of yet. It makes one wonder if the Queen has, perhaps,
bet on the wrong horse this Season.

Yours Truly,
Lady Whistledown

Chapter End Notes

Claptrap = nonsensical and/or absure ideas.

Thank you for reading! My name is Mary and I am @wearingaberetinparis on Tumblr.

 The Incomparable Princess Royal
Chapter Summary

Dearest Reader, the ton are abuzz with the latest gossip, and so it is my honour to impart to
you the news that the Duke of Peverell has returned to London at last! A year after setting off
on his tour of Europe, Lady Peverell's son has returned and rumour has it that his mother is
preparing for the most joyous of occasions: a late summer wedding that sees her son wed the
next Duchess of Peverell. It is my sincere hope that you have stored a bottle of wine for this
most delightful of upcoming events for if ever there were a more determined mama, this writer
is Icarus and this society paper has been scorched for flying too close to the sun.

A Jily Regency Romance inspired by Shondaland's "Bridgerton".

Chapter Notes

I've been having a rough week, so it was lovely to get lost in this universe for a bit. I hope you
enjoy this chapter!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

 Dearest Reader,

It has been said that no one could possibly compare to our Diamond of the Season, Miss
Greengrass. However, there is one jewel of a rarity that goes beyond the Queen's choice for the
Ton, namely her own daughter: the Princess Royal Mary. Rumour has it that the King and Queen
have very special plans for her this summer and that this is part of the reason why Prince Amos has
come to stay at Buckingham Palace.

“That rose in your hair is quite fetching,” spoke the Princess Royal, sitting straight-backed, picture-
perfect smile on her face. Her dress was intricate, the pearls around her neck clearly very heavy, but
Mary - as always - wore it all with grace. Her enthusiasm, however, was much more human than
the impeccable façade the world was presented with through the many portraits that had been
issued of the princess. Her eyes sparkled with joy and the palms of her hands pressed together as
she crowed with glee: “I cannot wait for you to meet my cousin, I am certain he will be too stunned
to even speak.”

”Mary, I really don’t -" she started, flushing heavily, fingers brushing against the rose that she had
had her lady's maid braid into it that morning. "Honestly, I know you mean well, but it's entirely
unnecessary for you to introduce me to any gentleman, let alone your royal cousin."

"Oh, posh!" Her friend waved her hand as if she were being silly. "I am doing him a favour, really.
Not to mention that this is my chance to ensure that we are related. We'll be together forever!
Now," she spoke, "let me just ring for some tea. Amos said he'd join us at two, which is in just
under ten minutes and means that we have to properly prepare you -"

"The Duke of Peverell gave me this rose."

She blurted it out, certainly hadn't planned on revealing as much to Mary, even if she herself had
thought of nothing but the rose that he had handed her the day before, of the look on his face, the
way his eyes had searched hers - she shook herself, looked at her friend whose eyes had noticeably
widened.

"I know it probably does not mean what I want it to, but -" she bit her lip, her fingers trembled as
she dropped her eyes to where they brushed against the virgin white material of her dress, "- I
suppose I just hope that somehow it might and -"

"It's pink," Mary then said. "How could it not mean anything when his mother is Lady Peverell and
she will have most certainly taught him exactly how to court a lady of his choice?"

Flutters filled her chest as her royal friend confirmed what she had been thinking since the moment
he gave her the pink rose. Does he have romantic feelings for me? Is there hope to be had? The
moment she had looked up from the flower and their eyes had locked, her ability to breathe had
escaped her for a good few seconds before she had managed to express her gratitude. Over the
course of their morning tea, she had snuck glances his way, had felt delighted when she had often
found his eyes on her already.

"It seems almost impossible," she muttered softly, turning all of it over in her mind - his rushed
proposal four years ago in which he had promised to be a friend to her always, that he would care
for her, that it was his duty... to his handing her a flower that symbolized a blossoming romance -
looking at her friend, hoping she might ease her nerves. "Do you think the Dowager Duchess and
his mother have been scheming? Lady McGonagall seems to have made it her mission to see him in
the most favourable of lights -"

"Since when has the Duke ever done anything just to please his mama?" Asked the Princess Royal,
reaching for her hands now. "I don't understand why you're not glad. Isn't this what you had
wanted? What you have been dreaming of?" Her friend gripped her hand more firmly. "Why aren't
you happy? Isn't part of the reason for me summoning Amos that you wanted to get over your
unrequited feelings for him? Now you've found out they are most likely not one-sided after all!"

"We are placing a lot of trust in one single flower, in one single exchange I have had with him," she
stood, walked over to the windows of Buckingham Palace, the ones that looked over St James'
Park. Her heart lifted at the name, yet plummeted a second later as she remembered what her lady's
maid had told her Lady Whistledown had written about. "He joined Miss Greengrass at Hyde
Park," her stomach turned. "Apparently, they linked arms and I know him well enough to know that
he's not dishonest. He wouldn't lead anyone on -"

"Then trust that he wouldn't with the pink rose either!" Mary's voice was closer now and as Lily
turned her head, the Princess Royal was standing right beside him. "Have you considered that his
mother might read what Lady Whistledown has to say? The gossip did write in detail about my
plans to have Amos court you - heaven knows how she found that out - and mentioned Master
Slughorn's interest -" Lily pulled a face at the mention of the last man. "Perhaps the Duke got
jealous and realized he had to act before any of the others did."

Her cheeks were warm as she tried to imagine such a thing. The boy she had known in her
childhood and early teens was certainly open in his emotions, perhaps dramatic at times too. She
didn't know if this was true for the man he had become still, but it was a flattering thought. Yet, this
idea of a jealous duke did not sit well with her either. "Do you think he is true in his intentions? Or
is this just a case of men wanting to have what other members of their sex do too?"

"Lily!" Mary sounded amused in her disbelief. "Why do you talk yourself down so? You are a
perfectly beautiful young woman -"

"I say!" The doors to the room she and the Princess Royal had been in swung open to reveal a
dashing young man. His blonde hair was pulled back in waves, his jaw squared and his eyes a
piercing light blue. The prince wore his navy uniform and strode over to where she stood, taking
her gloved fingers in his own and lowering - his posture perfect - himself just so that his nose and
lips remained at a respectable distance from the back of her hand. "Miss Evans," he spoke, righting
himself, his smile causing dimples to appear charmingly in his cheeks, "your beauty has often been
recounted to me by my dear cousin. Never could I have, however, imagined that everything she told
me was a grave understatement. She has not done you the justice you deserve. All poets should
devise sonnets solely about your bejewelled eyes, your pure and alabaster skin, your fiery,
passionate manes -" She blinked up at the man still gripping her fingers with a fervour that she
found near suffocating. "You must allow me to take you for a turn around the garden. I need to
know all there is to know about a woman as rare as yourself."

Lily's eyes had widened and she turned them - rather panicky - towards the Princess Royal, who bit
her lip to keep from laughing. She looked back at the royal standing in front of her, his face
expectant and - knowing it was poor manners to do anything but - accepted his offer.

"Splendid!" Exclaimed the prince, letting go of her hand only to take his place at her side and lift
her hand so it rested in the crook of his elbow, leading her out of the room and towards the gardens
of Buckingham Palace.
 The Princess Royal's cousin is fast friends with the Danish Prince Reginald. At eight and twenty
and regrettably widowed two years prior, the second-in-line for the throne of Denmark has set sail
for the British Isles and will make an excellent suitor for the King of Britain's only daughter.

Her head swam after her meeting with the gallant Prince Amos, whom had expressed his
admiration at every little thing she said. While she found it difficult to find any real sincerity in his
courtly manners, his fawning had done wonders to her ego and had invigorated her belief that she
might attract the interest of a gentleman after all. Mary would scold her for thinking the opposite in
the first place, but when one had spent the past four Seasons in the shadow of her sister, hearing her
every snide remark about her interest in books, never so much as earning a second glance from any
gentleman but Master Slughorn, one's confidence would be dented at the very least. Especially so
when the one man she had loved for as long as she could remember had only ever proposed to her
out of what could clearly be construed as - and it still seemed to be too good to be true to be
mistaken for anything but just that - pity.

Yet, however flattering his compliments had been, the prince's flirtations had left her feeling rather
empty. One - so she found - could only be the subject of absolute marvel three times before it
became rather exhausting to show your genuine gratitude and one would grow to feel more
awkward by the second. The fourth time Prince Amos had asked her to stop in the middle of the
garden, proclaiming that he must have a portrait created in her honour - "just so, here in this garden,
for you are a wonder, Miss Evans" - she had wanted to beg him to stop, her cheeks flaming out of
embarrassment rather than glowing in his never-ending praise.

The only thing that had made it all bearable was imagining the faces that the Duke of Peverell
would have pulled behind the royal's back- he hated pomp and ceremony as much as he did
pretentious vanity, even if his own self-possessive and confident nature could be mistaken for the
latter - and she had found herself having to bite back snorts of laughter for the duration of her stroll
around the palace's gardens.

It appeared that the royal gentleman in question, however, had not picked up on any of it for he had
proclaimed loudly once he had returned her to the Princess Royal's company: "Oh, Miss Evans,
how I will be counting down the hours until our paths cross again!"

After this encounter with the prince, Lily had hoped - as she made her way back to her guardian's
London residence, opting to walk rather than taking the coach - that this would be her final
encounter of the day, her energy spent on the fake smiles she had aimed at Prince Amos. Yet, as she
got closer to Westminster it appeared that she was in no such luck. Leaving the main entrance of
the parliamentary buildings was Prime Minister Albus Dumbledore, followed by the Duke of
Peverell and another rather surly-looking acquaintance of hers, one that had been as much of a part
of her childhood as the duke had been, although the two of them had - to her knowledge - never
crossed paths. Her heart stuttered, her insides turning to ice.

"Miss Evans!" It was the Prime Minister who spotted her, waving his cane in the air. "Please do
join His Lordship and myself. We pass Lady McGonagall's humble abode. It would be no trouble
whatsoever." She was rooted to the spot, aware of the fact that the duke's eyes had fallen on her, but
she could only look at the ghost of a past she would much rather keep exactly where it was. "Miss
Evans?"

She felt rather dizzy, her ears ringing and just as she thought she might lose any and all
consciousness, she felt a strong hand steady her. "Easy." His voice was deep, warm, the frown
crinkling his forehead one of genuine concern, a question in his eyes.

She regained a sense of self, yet felt a flash of shame as she realized that she had allowed anyone to
see her so out of sorts, especially the Duke of Peverell whom held her so gently now, guiding her to
Lord Dumbledore's carriage. "I am fine," she stepped away from the gentleman, breathing easier
now that - in the midst of all the commotion - Mr Snape had disappeared. "I was just caught
unawares. I am happy to walk -"

The duke's frown deepened. "I think it would be most unwise -"

"- honestly, I feel I would benefit from the fresh air -"

"- I cannot in all good consciousness let you -"

"- please do not let my light-headedness ruin your day -"

"- you could never -"

"Now," interjected the Prime Minister, eyes twinkling in - she suspected - amusement, "if you insist
on the fresh air, Miss Evans, and you insist that you cannot let her go by herself, dear Duke, how
about you escort her home? That way Miss Evans can enjoy the outdoors and you can ensure that
she doesn't experience another dizzy spell." She would have protested and she could tell that the
gentleman standing at her side would like to do the same, but Lord Dumbledore entered his
carriage without allowing the both of them another word in. "Onwards to Hogwarts, my chap," he
told his driver, leaving both herself and the Duke of Peverell on the pavement outside of the Houses
of Parliament.
Perhaps Princess Mary's fervent wish to see her cousin tied up in marital bliss is, therefore, based
on a profound gratitude towards Prince Amos. After all, he is the one that shall introduce Prince
Reginald to the Princess Royal, setting up the match of the Season. While it yet remains to be seen
if sparks will truly fly, surely the Princess' title and riches will attract the attention of the Danish
royal. That is, if her beauty does not do the job and will not be enough to set the Danish prince's
heart aflame.

The silence between them was excruciatingly painful. She was not quite sure how to start any sort
of conversation with him after they were left stranded by the Prime Minister of all people. They
were passed by many other men on their way home, the sun already lowering steadily, the Thames
reflecting its light like the diamonds that adorned the fingers of many a gentlewoman passing in her
carriage. She wished she had accepted Lord Dumbledore's offer to hop in his carriage. If she had,
she would be well and halfway home, nearly relieved of the presence of the duke whom she so
quietly adored.

"Shall we -?"

"Perhaps we should -"

They had spoken at roughly the same time, causing the both of them to close their mouths and turn
their heads away, her cheeks blazing. Suddenly, she was more than aware of the fact, too, that she
wore his flower in her hair and she was positively mortified.

Luckily, she was saved any further embarrassment, because the duke seemed to decide in that
instance that action needed to be taken. Touching her elbow lightly, they fell into step together, he
dropping his hand as soon as she made to follow him. She couldn't help but wonder if he would let
his hand fall so quickly if she were Miss Greengrass, too. A flare of jealousy making her ball her
hands into tiny fists.

He cleared his throat. "The weather is lovely today," he winced as he spoke, his hands behind his
back now, a respectable distance between them. "Rather warm, I suppose, but pleasant all the
same."

"Yes," she agreed, happy for the excuse he had given her, "my light-headedness must have been
caused by the sun. I did spend rather a lot of time outdoors today."

"Oh?" He inquired, evidently relieved that his prompting had given way to conversation between
the two of them. "Did you go for a walk at St James' Park? I have heard the blossoms are rather
impressive at this time of year. I have not yet had the pleasure to take a look myself."

For a moment, she wondered if she should invite him to examine them with her, but she didn't want
to seem too keen. She must already seem rather pathetic to him, wearing the flower he had given
her the day before in her hair like she were a besotted - she was, but she could not allow him to
know that without proper encouragement from his end - young lady of the Ton, blinded by his tall
and handsome self. "I was at the palace, actually," she thus answered him. "The Princess Royal
asked me for tea and then her cousin requested I stroll with him through the gardens."

There was a beat of silence and as she looked at him through the corner of her eye, she noticed how
his jaw clenched, how his nostrils flared. "Prince Amos has arrived then?" He asked, voice just a
little stony.

"Do you know him?" Her curiosity peaked, not to mention that she felt a little invigorated at the
thought that she might be able to share all of the silly compliments she had been given with her old
friend. "I did not know. Then again, this is not much of a surprise, seeing as we only ever spent our
summers together when we were younger."

"Never apart," he nodded before clearing his throat, "but to answer your question: yes, I am
acquainted with the prince. My first year at Cambridge overlapped with his last." A brief pause
followed in which she felt a twinge at the mention of his days at university - she, due to her sex,
never having had the chance - before he asked: "I trust he was cordial?"

The laugh that escaped her was a breathy one, one that conveyed her surprise at his generous turns
of phrases, while also somewhat uncomfortable. "Most cordial, yes," she brushed a loose strand of
hair behind her ear, feeling his eyes on her. "He has..." she hesitated, trying to find the exact words
to support her sentiments, "... a way with words." The purse of his lips as she said this - she thought
or, maybe, she hoped - indicated his displeasure at hearing exactly this, urging her to continue. "I
felt quite overwhelmed. I thought he might order me to stay in the palace's gardens while he
fetched a painter to capture my likeness. It was -" she faltered as he hummed, a stiffness to his
shoulders. She felt quite at a loss, Mary's earlier speculations of jealousy suddenly making more
sense than they had before. "Anyway, I am sure it has a lot to do with the beautiful rose you gave
me," she gestured to her hair, cheeks pinkening. "It was one of the first things the Princess Royal
complimented me on today."

He seemed to perk up at the mention of it, his lips quirking into a gentle smile. "I am glad," he
spoke, "even though my intent had not necessarily been to impress anyone other than you."

Her heart fluttered and - almost involuntarily, completely unplanned - let her gloved hand brush
against his. For a moment this was all it was, but then the back of his hand bumped against her
own, his fingers slotting between her own for no more than three seconds, yet igniting a fire in her
that she did not know existed. Her skin buzzed and tingled, a flare of heat spreading from her
stomach to all other parts of her body. It was a foreign sensation that left her rather breathless, her
heart pounding. She looked up at him and found him looking down at her, their feet having come to
a standstill.

He opened his mouth to speak, his fingers brushing against the fabric of her skirts, her name - her
actual one, the one he had used in their childhood and that she had longed for years to hear fall
from his lips again - an uttered half syllable when a loud and booming voice caused the two of
them to spring apart.

"Miss Evans!" It was Master Slughorn, his smile tight as his eyes flitted from her to the Duke of
Peverell, narrowing slightly as they stayed on the latter. "What a surprise to see you out and about!
I was just on my way to see the Lady McGonagall, ever so hopeful that I might see you there too."
He had turned towards her now, having taken his hat off his slicked back hair, his moustache curled
at the ends.

"Oh," she spoke, eyes flitting nervously towards the duke, who was evidently annoyed at the
presence of the other gentleman, "I was just on my way. The Duke of Peverell was kind enough to
escort me. I walked from Buckingham Palace -"
"You walked?" The older gentleman tutted, coming in between her and the young duke, holding out
his arm for her to hold. "Why, Miss Evans, that just won't do. I will grant you the use of my
carriage at any time. A lady as beautiful such as yourself should keep out of the sun to protect her
skin at all times." When she didn't place her hand on his arm, he reached for it himself and tucked it
into his elbow, setting off for the Dowager Duchess' London residence. Luckily, no more than five
houses away from the spot where she and the Duke of Peverell had halted. She looked over her
shoulder, finding the gentleman whom had escorted her, quite baffled to have been left behind.

"Thank you so much, my Lord," she aimed at him, her eyes wide in her urgency to get the message
across. "I look forward to -"

"Now, Miss Evans, eyes on the road ahead. We do not want you to take a tumble, do we? I do have
such urgent business with your guardian to discuss and an invitation too, which I am sure will
interest you as much as the Dowager Duchess herself -"

The middle-aged gentleman babbled on, she chancing one more look over her shoulder to see the
duke drift off, his shoulders slumped, her own heart sinking.

Speaking of ignited passions, it appears that the Duke of Peverell is set on making his mama happy
and is thus aiming to grant her the satisfaction she is seeking. The gentleman was, of course,
recently seen promenading in Hyde Park with Miss Greengrass, but was also spotted leaving the
house of the Dowager Duchess Lady McGonagall with a spring in his step. This author does
wonder if the Duke is aware of the Princess Royal's plans for Miss Evans, or whether this is
perchance the thing that appeals to the Duke the most. If a lady is, after all, deemed suitable for a
prince, shouldn't she be considered deserving of the title of Duchess of Peverell as well?

She took the pink rose from her hair, placing it gently on her bedside table, shaking out her long,
auburn tresses as she sat down on her bed, candle lit beside her. She stared at the flower, the way its
petals curled - one of them somewhat loose, close to falling - the way the pink was so soft that she
was reminded of the baby piglets that used to run around her family's Cokeworth House. It had
been far too long since she had last visited the place, the grief too sharp still, the fear that the
memories of happy hours spent there, would suffocate her.

She let out a heavy sigh, lowering herself on the bed, sinking into her pillows before she reached
for the book on human anatomy she had been studying. She opened it to a random page, her cheeks
colouring as her eyes landed on the images of the male genitals in various states of arousal. She
quickly turned it, but she could not escape the soft, whispered thought that entered her mind, one
that had her imagining what a certain duke would look like without his clothes.
 Suddenly hot all over, she closed the book, pushed it to the side and then slid down her pillow,
grabbing it and pulling it over her face, letting out a loud, frustrated noise that was thankfully
muffled by the soft, white and plush cushion.

The Season has barely started and already, my dearest readers, I can tell that it will be one for the
books. Something tells me that we shall need to brace ourselves for Lady Sprout's annual Flower
Festival as it is said that Master Slughorn - having been overheard loudly announcing that
marriage is (finally) on his mind - has already asked the Dowager Duchess Lady McGonagall and
Miss Evans to visit the floral exhibition with him. Surely, the Duke of Peverell and - if their meeting
at Buckingham Palace proved to be as successful as the Princess Royal had intended it to be-
Prince Amos will not dare let this defeat them.

Let the hunt for the squirrel - or should I say flower? - begin!

Yours Truly,
Lady Whistledown

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much for reading this story! My name is Mary and I am @wearingaberetinparis
on Tumblr. Feel free to get in touch or leave a comment. I love seeing how you guys
react/respond to certain parts.
 The Bond Street Beau Royal
Chapter Summary

Dearest Reader, the ton are abuzz with the latest gossip, and so it is my honour to impart to
you the news that the Duke of Peverell has returned to London at last! A year after setting off
on his tour of Europe, Lady Peverell's son has returned and rumour has it that his mother is
preparing for the most joyous of occasions: a late summer wedding that sees her son wed the
next Duchess of Peverell. It is my sincere hope that you have stored a bottle of wine for this
most delightful of upcoming events for if ever there were a more determined mama, this writer
is Icarus and this society paper has been scorched for flying too close to the sun.

A Jily Regency Romance inspired by Shondaland's "Bridgerton".

Chapter Notes

First update of the new year! Happy 2024, everyone!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

 Dearest Reader,

As you are all well aware, the Season is this author's favourite time of year for it is a time during
which matches are made and gossip abounds. While many might blush as I write this, we can all
agree that Spring and Summer are the perfect seasons for mating and it is thus no wonder that the
Season makes many a gentleman's and lady's blood boil.

"James..." her voice was little more than a tremor, her lips brushing against the underside of his
jaw, her hands - small, ungloved - roaming his chest as he hovered over her, his hands on her
thighs, urging them to wrap around him, his entire body on high alert, every single part of him
tense with desire -
He woke with a start, cheeks flushed, body overheated, his arousal begging for his attention.

Placing his forearm over his eyes, he let out a low and guttural groan, one of his legs coming up,
the throbbing between them far too distracting to go untouched.

“I will go to hell," he muttered to himself as he sat up just a little, leaning against the headboard of
his bed, sheets falling to his waist. He hesitated for a second, wondering which circle of the
bottomless pit of fire he'd reach if he were to act on his lecherous feelings of lust. Yet, it was not to
be avoided and he thus wrapped his fingers around his stiff member, applying the pressure that he
craved like a man in the desert, who had gone without water for days on end, the scorching,
unforgiving sun beating down relentlessly on his bare skin.

Keeping his eyes closed, imagining her flawless, ivory skin; her perfect, rosy lips; her half-hooded,
emerald eyes; and her auburn hair cascading down her back in loose waves he'd like to bury his
hands in, her name slipped off his lips in a greedy, wanton utterance.

"Lily..."

It didn't take long for him to come undone.

It is thus no wonder, truly, that we have already seen the first matches pair up. Lord Malfoy and
Miss Narcissa Black - making a fine match, this author would say based on their shared tempers -
are set to marry in three weeks' time after the gentleman got down on one knee at the Black
Heritage Ball last night, leaving all the attendants - eighty percent of them Black family relations,
excluding the shunned ones - in absolute awe.

"His Lordship the Duke of Peverell, accompanied by his mother, Lady Peverell, and Lord Black,"
the voice announcing their presence at Lady Sprout's annual Flower Festival boomed through the
gardens of Hufflepuff House, the crowd parting like the red sea. He could hear the soft mutterings
of the men and women of the Ton, some giggles erupting from the younger ladies, who shielded
their skin from the sun by the umbrellas they held. He, too, could feel the inquisitive gazes of the
mamas, ones he tried to ignore with all his might.

He was straight-backed, held his mother's hand in his own, stopping at a table filled with
refreshments of which he gave her one, her smile a grateful one. "Now," she told him softly, "you
must be social, James. Remember what I told you -"

"I vividly recall the speech you gave me as we rode the carriage here, mother," he replied, taking a
glass of champagne for himself and then turning around to face the many members of the Ton,
whom all pretended not to have been gawping his way, eyes flitting back to the people they were
standing in a circle with, conversation picking up once more. "I am not to engage in any sort of
tomfoolery with Sirius -"

"I still resent the implication that I, of all people, might have a bad influence on James here," spoke
Lord Black, his eyes glinting, his smile wolfish, his tone one of droll amusement. "The insinuation
that I am some sort of Merry Andrew is most offensive, Lady Peverell." His mother merely cocked
an eyebrow at his friend, whose smirk only widened. "Alas, I am afraid that your son will be too
busy hunting the squirrel, the squirrel being a certain redhead who drives him positively made with
desire, for your - hmmph -"

"James!" His mother had taken out her fan - for a moment he thought she might hit him with it -
eyes narrowed as she rapidly waved it to cool herself down, her cheeks violently flushed as she
looked at the pair of them. "You get off of him at once! This is exactly what I meant when I said I
wanted none of your usual antics, shenanigans or clownish behaviours to be the thing people read
about in the next issue of Lady Whistledown's society papers!"

Holding his best friend in a headlock, hand over his mouth - so as to keep him from spouting more
embarrassing truths that were supposed to be confidential - he reluctantly loosened his grip, only
for Sirius to lick the palm of his hand, a triumphant grin on his face as he righted himself and James
shook his hand in disgust as if this would rid him of his friend's saliva.

"Unbelievable," his mother muttered, rolling her eyes as she handed James a handkerchief to halt
his helpless waving of his hand. "You know I encourage your free spirits, boys, but I am starting to
feel as if I can't take you anywhere." His mother sighed. "Honestly, James, remember what we are
here for, what our end goal is. If you wish to court Miss Evans, you must cast yourself in a positive
light. She has the attentions of both Master Slughorn and Prince Amos if Lady Whistledown is to
be believed -"

"A truly credible source that woman is," he grumbled, returning the handkerchief to his mother,
eyes on the crowd to see if he could spot the gentlewoman whom had been his sole motivation to
show up at the festival whatsoever, disappointed when he did not catch the flash of auburn he had
been hoping to find. "She seems, to me, to be a woman whom likes to make a laughing stock of
others, for whom lying has become a sport -"

"If she is a woman," his best friend replied from beside him, taking a bite of a piece of fudge that
he had somehow gotten hold of an entire plate of, shielding it with his body when James tried to
reach for some fudge of his own.

"Don't be ridiculous," Lady Peverell complained, lightly hitting Sirius' chest before pinching some
fudge off of him. "Now, mingle, boys. Make yourselves useful and me proud. I will try to catch up
with the Dowager Duchess and will relay our plan -"

"Do not -!" James protested, but his mother had already wandered off, leaving him red-cheeked. He
blew out a puff of frustrated air, turning to Sirius with a look of incredulity. "You promised not to
tell," he hissed. "You might as well have spelled out to my mother that I have had to seek release
for my most improper thoughts of Miss Evans."

"Healthy ones, I'd say, if you plan on courting and eventually marrying her," Sirius shrugged. "It's
not as if your mother is clueless when it comes to these things. I can assure you that your parents
will have coupled at least once for you to exist." He pulled a face, which the other gentleman
ignored. "Truly, we as a society act as if our desires are unnatural, while we would cease to exist as
a species without them."

His brother's words rang true, of course, yet he was still deeply ashamed after having woken from
his sleep three nights in a row to vivid dreams about the young woman he knew intimately in his
childhood. It wasn't necessarily new - he had first discovered these feelings when he was fourteen
and had suddenly noticed that Lily was a girl - yet now that he had more experience, now that
he knew what it felt like to be intimate with a woman, now that he could vividly imagine what it
might be like to be with her... He swallowed hard, cleared his throat, ignored his brother's knowing
and amused glance, which was - hindsight being what it was - the wrong decision to make, for at
that moment his eyes locked with Miss Evans, who had - seemingly - appeared out of nowhere, her
eyes locking on his, he gravitating towards her, feet carrying him ever closer when loud trumpets
halted his progress and the arrival of the Royal Family was announced.

"Miss Evans!" Prince Amos grabbed both her hands, causing James' nostrils to flare and - hearing
the pompous royal's next words - his heart to sink. "You look positively radiant. You must allow me
to stay by your side all afternoon."

His mood soured even further when he noted the look on Master Slughorn's face, realizing it
mirrored the one on his own.

While it is a fact that most marriages of the Ton are made out of practicality, every once in a while -
and to this writer's joy - common sense is abandoned for unwavering passion and feelings of the
romantic kind. Those matches, my dear readers, are the ones that set this author's heart aflame.

The prince's proclamation that he was not to leave Miss Evans' side did - most unfortunately so -
not prove to be an empty one. The Duke of Peverell had been forced to converse with many other
ladies and gentlemen of the Ton, constantly keeping the royal and the woman who held his heart in
his peripheral vision, his heart throbbing every time the prince laughed loudly at something Miss
Evans had said or when the royal declared her to be utterly incomparable.

It wasn't that James disagreed, of course. The problem, in all honesty, was that he wholeheartedly
agreed and lamented in the realization that all the sentiments the prince uttered and he would want
to repeat, would seem insincere once he did get the chance to speak to Miss Evans in private. Not
to mention, that Prince Amos' delivery - in his not-so-modest opinion - left something to be desired.
Miss Evans deserved to be worshipped, for sure, but not showcased like she was a prize to be won.
If he would get the chance, if he were allowed to hold her hand in his just so...
He ignored the cold realization that - of course - he once had. That he had once kneeled in front of
her, holding on to her hand, voice quivering with emotion as he asked her the question that had
come to him as if it was the most natural course for them to take. It had made sense to him, to ask
her. He had loved her for years, had been her friend for even longer, had cared for her more than he
ever could have fathomed caring for anyone... she had rejected him then, had seemed most unhappy
with him, had begged him to get up, told him that she would only ever consider marrying for love,
that she wouldn't settle for any less.

She had broken his heart, had trampled his hope, had squashed his dreams.

He found it difficult to breathe now, excusing himself from his conversation with Mr Diggle and
Lord McKinnon, making his way into the maze, weaving through the bushes until he reached the
heart of it and - finally - the other end, which gave way to shrubs of hydrangeas and lilacs and
rosebushes, leading to a mass of trees, a perfect place to hide from the unwavering eyes of the Ton,
to nurse the relentless ache of his battered and bruised heart. Four years - one of them spent touring
through Europe - it seemed, were not enough to heal what had been mortally wounded.

He paced the length of the garden, hands on his back, considering his next steps, wondering if it
would even be worth it. He was a duke, yes, but he was no prince and didn't she deserve the very
best? Did he not want her to be blissfully happy? She was best friends with the prince's cousin,
would want for nothing if she were to become a princess and - clearly - Prince Amos was
enchanted, enamoured.

"I will catch you, Miss Evans!"

He stopped in his tracks, turning towards the maze's exit, cursing his luck for, of course, the bloody
Bond Street beau royal had to appear just as he had been thinking of him. Frustrated, he ran a hand
through his hair, already looking for a possible escape, the rosebushes and the trees - he feared - his
only option. He was just about to turn and make way for them when it wasn't the prince, but Miss
Evans who departed the maze, skirt in her hands, the material of it hiked up enough to reveal her
ankles. Her eyes widened as she clocked him - similar to his own, he imagined - and she slowed,
her chest heaving, cheeks flushed.

"Miss Evans -" he spluttered, rather surprised, even more so when her fingers wrapped around his
wrist and she started to pull him towards the place he had deemed his only refuge, "- are you quite
all right?" He let himself be dragged backwards, nearly to the green shrubbery when she let go and
made for the bushes, pushing through and disappearing from view.

"Can you see me?" Her disembodied voice questioned.

He blinked, looked over his shoulder. "I beg your pardon?"

"Can you see me?" She repeated, sounding rather impatient. "Please, James, I -" she faltered,
realizing her error in calling him by his first name. His heart, however, had leapt. "I just need to
escape. I can't bear it any longer. He is truly rather insufferable." Her words made his heart swell,
stroked the ego that had never been left wanting.

"You're hiding from the prince?" He asked, unable to hide his triumphant relief.
"You laugh," she spoke from her hiding spot, "but you try having to -" she was interrupted by yet
another one of the prince's playful, yet painful requests for Miss Evans to reveal herself to him.
"Anyway, just answer my question: can you see me, yes or no?"

"No," he laughed, "although I cannot believe you'd abandon me." He moved towards the trees,
moving through the rosebushes where he had seen her disappear too. A rose's thorn pricked his
hand, but he paid it no mind, joining her where she stood, eyes wide as she stared up at him. "I
thought we made a pinky promise a long time ago never to leave the other behind when trouble was
ahead."

"I thought this applied to us avoiding our mothers scolding either one of us," she replied, her voice
having softened now that he was standing right in front of her.

"You do not think that the Dowager Duchess might berate you for slipping away from the prince,
nowhere to be found?" He quirked his brow at her, a smile pulling at his lips.

She opened her mouth to retort, but it was then that the prince's voice sounded again: "Miss
Evans?" Her eyes widened, relaying her panic and anxiety and this must have been cause for her to
pull him towards her, fingers gripping his sleeves, her back now pressed against the tree she was
standing in front of, one of her hands coming up to cover the surprised hmmph spilling from his
chest, a sound that would have revealed their location, his body now flush with hers.

All parts of him stiffened against her, his own eyes now wide in horror as his cock twitched against
her skirts.

"Miss Evans?" The prince's voice had come closer, clearly at the edge of the shrubs now. His heart
beat loudly in his own ears, her breaths coming out in quick succession, her chest brushing against
his with every single one of them. He didn't dare look down, knowing that he would be ruined if he
did, that he might ruin her if he moved and - in doing so - exposed the two of them. Yet, she was so
soft, everything about her so perfect, that he feared the two of them - or he certainly - were in grave
danger whether they were discovered or not.

The prince muttered a little under his breath, his footsteps receding and then - after a good two
minutes - she relaxed against him, her hand dropping from its place at his mouth, the stress that had
marred her features a mere seconds before now alleviated as she sagged against the tree behind her,
closing her eyes for a brief moment. Then - as he lifted some of his weight off of her, cheeks
flaming at the realization that his desire for her was more than obvious, wondering how he might
conceal such a thing - she started to laugh, hands covering her face as giggles and tiny snorts
escaped her. He would have joined her if he weren't desperately trying to cover up his more than
evident physical response to their proximity, to her in general.

"I cannot believe I just did that," she said once her laughter had subsided, dropping her hands from
her face, her eyes sparking in amusement. This look on her - the uncontained joy - did nothing to
relieve him. If anything, his predicament got worse. "Can you imagine how confused he must be?
Oh, I feel positively evil -" she stopped as he grimaced. "What?" She asked, sobering, her eyes
sharp as she looked at him, searched his face before her gaze lowered, studied all other parts of
him. "Are you quite all right? I - oh."

His mortification as her eyes landed on his groin area was too great to recount. He was fairly
certain he had never felt more embarrassed.
"I do apologize -"

"No, please don't -"

"- I didn't mean to -"

"- I know it's a natural response -"

"- I can't control -"

"- it's in my anatomy book." Her cheeks, he noticed, were pink too and she pushed a lock of her
hair that had fallen from her intricate updo, out of her face. "So, please do not feel as if you need to
apologize for something that you simply cannot regulate. I know it is nothing personal." She
pushed away from the tree, hands behind her back.

It is personal, he replied in his mind, my body is responding to you. But he already felt too ashamed
to admit to such a thing, coughing into his hand as he took a step backwards, making room for her
to pass, hands now covering his crotch, for surely she would want to get away from him as quickly
as possible.

She didn't move, however, stayed rooted to the spot, a glint in her eye that he recognized all too
well from when they were younger, a curiosity that had always lit her up from the inside as soon as
she had stepped foot in his father's study, browsing all the different jars and reading his notes,
watching on as he completed an experiment. It was one of the things he liked about her most, her
thirst to know and understand what she did not before.

"How does it -" she cocked her head, nodded to where his hands covered his precarious situation.
"How does it feel?"

"I - well, I -" he spluttered, not knowing what to say, his face burning all the brighter as he forced
himself to remember that she hadn't asked to feel him herself. "What do you mean?"

"I have read that the penis firms up, that it swells due to the fact bloody flows to its body, hence its
erect state." She sounded matter-of-fact, much like his mother had when she had first explained the
concept of sexual desire to him.

"Right," he was hoarse, wetted his lips with the tip of his tongue, his head swimming. "I suppose
that's the biology of it."

"Is it uncomfortable?" She asked, eyes surveying him. "It's only that you seem a little tense." She
moved towards him now and he - fearful of how her increased proximity might affect him further -
stepped back. "I hope it's not painful? Is there anything you can do to make it go back down, to
release the pressure?"

His nostrils flared and he closed his eyes. "I can, yes," he replied, gritting his teeth just slightly.
When he opened his eyes, he noted that she looked at him expectantly, as if she were waiting for
him to tell her how he could. He let out an incredulous and low chuckle. "I suppose it's not very
different from what you would do if you were to find yourself in a similar state."
Her eyebrows rose, a look of surprise coming over her before she laughed and said: "I might need
to lend you my book on human anatomy. Women - it's quite shocking, I know - do not have a
penis."

"Believe me," he laughed too, the situation far too ridiculous not to find some humour in it now the
worst of his embarrassment had faded ever so slightly, "I am well aware. I just meant that men use
their hands as women do when they feel aroused. So, where you would touch yourself, I would do a
similar thing. Even though we are built different, the effect would be much the same." He hadn't
realized he had said something that might be off-putting or confusing until he noted the look on her
face, how she evidently tried to mask her bewilderment, the slight widening of her eyes revealing
her inner turmoil. "You do know what I speak of?" He thus asked gently, carefully. Suddenly afraid
that he may have said too much.

She huffed, her face a brighter red than it had been before, her eyes dropping from his as she
snipped: "Of course, I do." She gathered her skirts in her hand, pulling it free from one of the thorns
it had gotten tangled up in. "I happen to touch myself very often, so I know exactly what you
mean." Something - perhaps the higher pitch to her words - told him she might not be entirely
truthful in that moment, even if the idea of her in her bed, fingers slipping down her stomach to that
sacred place was far too enticing a distraction to notice such a thing in the first place. "Anyway, I
would like to thank you for your time. It has been enlightening -"

"Lily," he almost whispered, his tone of voice similar to the one he used as he dreamt of her while
lying alone in his bed, his fantasies of her fresh in his mind still. This time, however, she was there
to hear it and when her name fell off his lips, she looked up, her expression not unlike a deer's
finding a gun aimed right at its heart. "I do apologize for any impertinence. I thought -"

"Thank you, my Lord," she was quick to interrupt him, his explanation - not that he knew exactly
how to give one, which words it might entail - falling on deaf ears. "You were most gallant to save
me from the prince. I am forever in your debt."

It was then that she left, leaving him to realize he had just made a grave mistake and cursing
himself for it.

A secret rendezvous between the floral displays at Lady Sprout's Flower Festival, a tête-à-tête
between the tulips, a pair of lovers hiding between the hydrangeas or slotted between the saffron,
exchanging words of affection, tender caresses, looks of love... it is every mamas worst fear, yet
every lover's wish and every Ton member's great delight. For what is a Season without fast
marriages or unrelenting gossip about whom was seen crawling out of the bushes with whom?
"Where have you been?" Asked Sirius, handing him a flask which James knew he had filled with
whisky at home. "Miss Greengrass has been looking quite forlorn without you." James turned
slightly, his back to the posh crowd, taking a swig of the liquid, which left a trail of fire in its wake,
the sensation exactly what he needed if he had any chance of forgetting the error of his ways.
"Funnily enough, Miss Evans went missing too. Would you happen to know anything about that? It
is a terrific coincidence, is it not?" Returning the flask to his best friend, he failed to answer - didn't
want to, more like it - instead making his way over to where Miss Greengrass stood, perking up
instantly as she noticed him.

"There you are, my Lord! I was worried you might have left," the young woman spoke, her cheeks
turning a delighted pink. "You did promise to dance with me, do you remember? You wrote down
your name on my dance card for the Quadrille."

"How could I forget?" He asked, packing on the charm, the smile accompanying his white lie
forced yet wide.

Miss Greengrass seemed pleased to hear it - either not noticing or choosing to ignore his falsehood
- grabbing his arm and - for lack of a better description - hanging off it. "Good," she purred, "now,
shall we take a turn around the garden? I have been so terribly bored and I am afraid I have become
quite dependent, you see. Without you, there is no source of entertainment. Everyone else is quite
simply so stuffy and old... You must tell me more about your adventures in Europe. I know! Tell me
about Paris!"

She guided him and he followed, falling into step beside her, his eyes scanning the crowd to see if
he could locate another young woman, one he feared he might have scared off for good. He found
her standing near the fountain, next to the Dowager Duchess and his own mother. Master Slughorn
was there, too, engaged in deep conversation with the latter two women, Miss Evans seemingly
quite distracted.

He was tempted to steer Miss Greengrass in their direction, to gauge to what extent he had ruined
any possibility of a courtship - or a friendship even, that seemed at risk now too - with the
redheaded beauty. Yet, something told him that some distance might be proper, that it was probably
wise given the predicament they had found themselves in a mere half hour earlier. He swallowed
hard, nodding to whatever Miss Greengrass was talking about - the newly-engaged Lord Malfoy
and Miss Narcissa Black, it appeared, seeing as he had failed to regale her with more stories of the
French capital - and forced his eyes not to stray to the enticing young woman standing beside his
mother.

When - inevitably - they did, however, he caught her gaze, her cheeks pinkening as she swiftly
turned away, but not before her eyes momentarily rested where Miss Greengrass' arm linked with
his, a flash of something he recognized flitting across her face. In turn, his stomach lurched, his
heart ached, his head hurt as he wallowed and grimaced at the path of destruction he had left
behind.
 This writer is most truly a romantic at heart, even if she hides it well between all the scandals that
she spills. The question is, which pair will have us all rooting for them? Which pair shall have us
all squeal in delight when their match is announced? A love match, after all, is what we all long
for, even if we only get to see it blossom from afar.

Yours Truly,
Lady Whistledown

Chapter End Notes

A Bond Street Beau is a well dressed man who liked to shop in and around Bond Street, but in
particularly liked to go on the stroll on Bond Street, whereas a Merry Andrew is a buffoon, a
fool, or someone who clowns.

Thank you for reading! My name is Mary and I am @wearingaberetinparis on Tumblr.

 The Clueless Top of the Trees
Chapter Summary

Dearest Reader, the ton are abuzz with the latest gossip, and so it is my honour to impart to
you the news that the Duke of Peverell has returned to London at last! A year after setting off
on his tour of Europe, Lady Peverell's son has returned and rumour has it that his mother is
preparing for the most joyous of occasions: a late summer wedding that sees her son wed the
next Duchess of Peverell. It is my sincere hope that you have stored a bottle of wine for this
most delightful of upcoming events for if ever there were a more determined mama, this writer
is Icarus and this society paper has been scorched for flying too close to the sun.

A Jily Regency Romance inspired by Shondaland's "Bridgerton".

Chapter Notes

This story is my escape at the moment, meaning that I am far too keen to keep writing it. I
hope you don't mind too much.

Take into account the rating for this chapter as it continues in a similar vein to Chapter 5.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

 Dearest Reader,

Lady Sprout's annual Flower Festival was - as this author had suspected - most certainly eventful.
All of the Ton was in attendance, meaning that there was ample opportunity for scandal to sprout.
Yet, this writer has to admit that the most interesting turn of events was Miss Evans' apparent jilting
of Prince Amos.

She felt incredibly flustered as she entered her bedroom that night, peeling her gloves off her hands
and throwing them down in frustration. Men, she thought, seating herself at the mirror, fingers
reaching for the pins that held her updo in place. Her face was the very picture of embarrassment
and she almost wanted to laugh, thinking that this might be a good moment indeed to - as Prince
Amos had proposed time and time again on the two separate occasions she had spent in his
company - have her portrait painted. It could serve an educational purpose, show the viewer what
an utterly mortified young woman of the Ton looked like.

You do know what I speak of? He had asked, acting as if she were as fragile as the flowers that had
surrounded them. How he must be laughing at her now, for it was obvious he had not believed her
when she had tilted her chin and - pride injured - had informed him that she touched herself very
often, thank you very much. What did that even mean? How would she touch herself? Why would
she touch herself?

There was so much she did not know and this caused her temper to flare, her confidence to shatter.
The inequity of it all, the unjustifiable bias of men in the world she lived in was utterly unbearable.
His clear expertise - believe me, I am well aware, he had said when she had questioned his
familiarity with the female body - a stark and painful contrast to her own ignorance.

Tears burned behind her eyes, ones she refused to let fall. For what was equally distressing a
realization to come to as the one that she was uneducated where she fought so hard to know as
much as she could, was understanding that he might know more than she did, because he had - she
couldn't speak it, couldn't think it, the thought alone making her flush, causing her heart to ache -
been with a member of her sex.

Had he loved her? Did he love her still? Did she love him in turn? Was the love that she herself felt
for him forever doomed to exist within a vacuum, to never find a home within his heart?

A lone tear rolled down her cheek and she wiped it away rather furiously, annoyed with herself for
she had known that she had had no absolute reason to hope, even if he had given her a rose and had
walked her home, only to be interrupted by Master Slughorn, whom seemed to be - at this time,
after she had quite possibly insulted Prince Amos with her disappearing act and made herself the
object of ridicule to the duke - her only suitor of note. A terrifying truth in and of itself, one that
chilled her to the bone.

How had - in a matter of days - her prospects become so dire? Was she now doomed to marry a
gentleman well into his forties, while she had no idea how to do something that the Duke of
Peverell had made sound so straightforward? I just meant that men use their hands as women do
when they feel aroused. So, where you would touch yourself, I would do a similar thing.

It was time, she told herself as she looked at the young woman in the mirror, lifting her chin in
proud determination, that she take matters into her own hands. She would prove to the duke that
she was not as naive as he seemed to believe she was - I do apologize for any impertinence - that
she could do as he did and touch herself, that it didn't matter that he would promenade with Miss
Greengrass minutes after they had hidden in the rosebushes of Lady Sprout's garden together.

In the end, all she had ever needed to thrive was a challenge and she would prove to him that she
would always rise to one, telling him next time she'd see him - truthfully, this time - that she, in
fact, touched herself a lot and did not need him to enlighten her in any way whatsoever for she was
an expert in her own right, a self-sufficient woman who did not need a man to save her, not even
when a self-important prince drove her positively spare.
 Having disappeared into the maze together - following uncountable compliments for Miss Evans
which the prince delivered with unwavering passion - many a member of the Ton half suspected the
pair to emerge newly-engaged, stealing Lord Malfoy's and Miss Narcissa Black's limelight. Yet,
nothing could be farther from the truth as Prince Amos exited the maze alone and looking rather
bemused, asking the Princess Royal - so this author was informed - if she had perchance seen Miss
Evans.

It appeared that - all good intentions aside - one did not simply touch oneself and solve one's
problems. After several frustrating attempts and flushed cheeks due to the fact that she managed to
do nothing but build pressure between her legs that did not at all feel relieving - it was nothing but
bothersome, in her opinion - Lily determined that she quite simply needed more information on
what it meant to truly touch oneself. The conclusion she had come to, even if it had dented her
pride, was that whatever she had been doing, she had been going about it wrong and if there was
one thing she could not stand, it was the thought that she was failing at something that others - the
duke most certainly it seemed - had mastered.

She had leafed through her book on human anatomy several times, but found it most lacking and
unhelpful. It seemed that the book had prioritized the male anatomy, the female parts only
discussed briefly and in terms which were so vague that she felt as if she was none the wiser after
reading it. She had even scoured the Dowager Duchess' library and had considered asking her
guardian in person, yet had found it difficult to broach such a topic over breakfast, morning tea,
lunch, afternoon tea or dinner. Especially, seeing as most of these meals were these days invaded by
none other than Master Slughorn, even if the man seemed to get on Lady McGonagall's nerves as
much as he got on hers.

After days of an impasse, she - therefore - realized that there was only one thing left to do. If there
were one place she could go to find the information she needed, it would be the previous Duke of
Peverell's study, even if going there would be remarkably painful. Yet, she was also aware that this
was her one and only option to prove the duke wrong and to find the answers that - by now - she
craved with a passion that surpassed any and all thirst for knowledge she had ever had before.

Thus, she found herself visiting Lady Peverell a good week after Lady Sprout's annual Flower
Festival, the woman positively delighted to receive her, even if she was also quick to tell her that
her son was - regrettably - not there: "He is at Westminster, I am afraid. He will be so sorry to have
missed you." She did not dare tell the former duchess that she had come at this time exactly,
knowing that the Duke of Peverell would not be present.

It was remarkably easy to gain access to Lady Peverell's late husband's study. The older woman
was more than happy to guide her to the room, telling her to take her time. "You know how fond
my husband was of you, my dear," she told her as she made for his desk, hand travelling over it as
she did, a gesture so loving that it very nearly broke her heart to witness it, the intimacy of it
evidence of the deep love Lady Peverell still had for him. Lily remembered standing behind the
desk with James a matter of weeks prior, how they had held hands, how time had seemingly
stopped. "He was so happy to know that someone shared his interests. James is a darling boy, but
he never had Fleamont's thirst for the sciences, he is more like me in that regard." Lady Peverell
paused, cocking her head ever so slightly as she watched Lily. "It is my dearest wish James might
marry a woman who might breathe some life into this room."

She had blushed, had awkwardly avoided the implication that the former duchess would like for
her to marry her son when she herself had lost any and all hope in this regard. Instead, she had
walked over to a particular funny-looking jar, lifting and examining it, nearly dropping it when the
duchess announced: "Ah! Those are a pig's bollocks, I believe. Rather large, are they not?"

Lady Peverell had left soon after, leaving her to browse the shelves of the man she had so admired
in life, one she hadn't seen nearly enough since her own parents had died and his son had proposed
out of a sense of obligation to their childhood friendship. Several books passed through her hands,
which proved not to be nearly as helpful as she had hoped. Others, she found quite interesting -
finding herself quite absorbed in passages about the spreading of disease - but did not answer any
of the questions she had.

She was halfway through her perusal of the former duke's shelves when a voice startled her, the
book she had been holding dropping from her hands, her eyes snapping to the Duke of Peverell's.

This young lady did eventually emerge from the maze - looking rather perturbed and flushed -
making her way over to her guardian and spending the rest of the evening at her side, fully
ignoring Prince Amos' advances for the rest of the night. One wonders whatever might have
happened as the pair wandered the maze's many hedges to leave the both of them looking so
forlorn.

"Can I be of any assistance?"

She blinked up at him, watched as he neared her, bending to pick up the book she had dropped and
- as he rose - holding it out for her to take. Carefully - ensuring that her fingers would not brush
against his - she took it from his grasp, taking a step backwards as she opened it, pretending to find
the contents of it truly compelling.

"I do not think so, no," she spoke, slightly disappointed when she found that this book also was not
of use to her. She turned to the shelves and placed the tome back where she had found it, fingers
brushing against the spine of the next. "I know exactly what I am looking for."

"I do not doubt it," the duke agreed, his voice nearer than she wished nor cared for it to be, "but I
might be able to lend a helping hand." His exact phrasing and the memory of her own failing hand
and fingers, caused her to flush scarlet. "What are you hoping to find? There is some structure to
my father's shelves, even if it is hard to understand exactly how he did attempt to order any of these
-"

"It's no matter of structure," she told him, turning to look at him now, "it's the contents that appear
to be severely lacking by no fault of your father's." He leaned against the shelves, his hair a curly
mess that looked as if he had run his hand through it multiple times. He eyed her curiously, even
though she could sense that there was some apprehension on his end, some sense of him keeping a
respectable distance between them. She supposed he wanted to avoid the physical discomfort of
their last meeting and she sighed heavily, her cheeks flaming now. "I fear that the thing I am
looking for quite simply does not exist." She slid another volume on the human physique from the
shelves, opening it up despite the fact that she expected to be disappointed yet again.

"Perhaps it would help if you could tell me what you're -" he trailed off and when she turned her
head to look at him, she noticed that his eyes had widened, his cheeks pinker than they had been
before. He cleared his throat, nodding rather curtly. "Right, I see, I -"

"You are allowed to laugh at me," she told him, once again embarrassed in his presence. "I'd rather
you do it now than when I have left or - heaven forbid - when you are with Lord Black, seeing as
you tell him absolutely everything these days." A brief silence followed, the only sound coming
from the pages that she turned to see if this particular book could be used. "Honestly," she
muttered, "you'd think that half of the earth's population does not comprise of women. There is
absolutely nothing of use in any of these, nothing a member of the female sex might be able to
apply in practice."

"Lily -" he sighed and when she looked at him out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that he
looked rather abashed as he ran a hand through his hair, "- I fear this is all my fault. I should not
have said anything, nor should I have assumed you knew what I spoke of -"

"Because I am a woman?" She closed the book with a loud snap, putting it back on the shelf before
she turned to him, her arms crossed in front of her chest. "It seems that women have been
underestimated for eternity. So much so that no book speaks of how a woman might successfully
touch herself -" the Duke of Peverell let out a strangled noise, looking incredibly uncomfortable.
"But surely if a man can, a woman should be able to do it too!" She ended on a rather passionate
note, her chest heaving, her skin heated.

The duke, in the meantime, had turned his eyes away from hers, swallowing hard as he looked at
the opposite end of the room, his hands balled into fists, she noted. "Perhaps," he started, "some
things cannot be studied in books, some things you can only learn from experience."

"Well, evidently!" She threw up her hands. "I have been trying for days and I don't seem to be
getting anywhere, though! Clearly, I'm going about it the wrong way -"

"You have been -" his eyes returned to hers, his gaze sharp, his eyes seemingly darker than she had
ever seen them before, "- you have been -?"
"Touching myself, yes," she replied, her resentment of her own predicament so great that she could
not even find it within herself to care anymore that she was spilling a truly dark and improper
secret to the Duke of Peverell, "but it's been highly uncomfortable at best. I only seem to grow
incredibly tense, feel hot all over... There is no sense of release, like you implied."

"Right," he wetted his lips, cleared his throat. "Maybe -" he hesitated glancing at her out of the
corner of his eye, "- maybe you should speak to the Dowager Duchess or perhaps my mother. They
would probably be able to provide some insight, seeing as they are women too -"

"I cannot possibly ask either of them!" She pulled a face at him, lamented. "How do you imagine
that conversation would go? There is a reason I do not know about any of this and it is because no
one ever cares to discuss this with women. It's considered improper." She laughed, sounding rather
out of breath in her furious frustration. "I can only imagine the horror on Lady McGonagall's face if
I were to bring this up -"

"My mother would be happy to answer your questions, though, I am sure -"

"And how would I explain my sudden interest? Should I reveal what happened in Lady Sprout's
gardens?" He paled considerably, looking as if he were about to be sick. "Imagine what might
happen as a result. I'm fairly certain we would either end up walking down the aisle or I would be
sent to a nunnery to repent for my sins. I can tell you that the latter option certainly does not appeal
to me in the slightest." She huffed, her cheeks hot. "So, unless you were to help me -"

"Help you?" He almost yelped, looking over his shoulder only to find that the door to his father's
study was closed. He leaned towards her and lowered his voice all the same. "You cannot be
suggesting -"

"Seeing as you are clearly an expert," she cocked a challenging eyebrow at him. "The least you can
do is listen and give me some advice."

His mouth opened and closed. "Advice, right, I -" he moved away from her, righting himself and
straightening his back. He looked far more like the duke she had reacquainted herself with than he
did like the young boy whom had been her closest friend now. "Advice I should be able to provide
if that is what you are seeking." The tips of his ears were still reddened, but other than that he
seemed to have regained some of the grace he had so clearly obtained over the past four years.
"Perhaps you should tell me what you have been doing, so I might be able to suggest solutions."

Suddenly it dawned on her what exactly she had asked him to do and she faltered, the earlier heat
she had felt doused, the anger she had experienced - how dare he give her a rose, feel aroused in her
presence and then dance the Quadrille with Miss Greengrass a mere hours later? - subsided now
that he seemed every inch the elegant gentleman, raised to run the country as well as his own
estate. Her mouth had gone dry and in an attempt to view this from a more neutral and anatomical
viewpoint, she moved towards his father's desk, back turned towards him.

"Well, I have done as you said, I have used my hands to touch myself..." she hesitated, searched for
a better word, but found herself once again lacking, "... below." She looked at him over her
shoulder, noting how impassive his face was now, how he seemed to be wearing a mask of sorts.
"It's been rather strange, I have to admit. I confess that I had - have - no idea what I am doing. It
has felt rather unnatural to be using my hands on myself."
He nodded, taking it all in it seemed, his hands placed behind his back, his posture rather stiff.
"Does it feel pleasant?"

"I don't -" something in her stomach twisted, "- is it supposed to?" He ducked his head then,
however, he didn't do so fast enough to hide the evident amusement on his face. Humiliated, she
made for the door, but James blocked her path, his hands on both her elbows now. "Let me go -"

"Please," his voice was soft, "I wasn't laughing at you. I merely -" his fingers tightened slightly
where he touched her, his pupils having dilated slightly. "Yes, Lily, it is supposed to make you feel
rather exhilarated, out of breath from the pleasure it evokes."

"Oh," she breathed out, unable to keep her eyes off of him now, sparks shooting up from where he
touched her, heat swirling below her bellybutton, her breath quickening as she told him: "I suppose
I have truly been doing it wrong then."

"Not wrong," he spoke, his voice little more than a whisper, "you just have not found out what you
like yet." The pair of them stared at one another, the heat of the room - when had she started to feel
this warm? - stifling, the air all of a sudden feeling as if it had left the room. She felt rather dizzy,
one of her hands - to steady herself, or so she told herself - coming up to wrap around his upper
arm, feeling the strength of him. It was then that he spoke once more: "Do you want me to -" he
stopped, eyes going wide as if he had shocked himself, but she didn't let him get away, her grip on
him tightening, her mind finishing the question he had started to formulate for him.

"Yes," she breathed out. "Yes, please, I -"

The world started to spin. She didn't know who moved first, but skirts were gathered in hands,
pushed up as she walked backwards, he guiding her as he cursed under his breath, eyes intent on
hers as she kept hers steady on his, her back hitting the former duke's bookshelves as one of the
new duke's hands wrapped around her upper thigh, his thumb brushing against the sensitive inside
of it and causing gooseflesh to erupt all over her skin.

"Are you sure?" He asked, sounding hoarse. "You can tell me to stop if -"

"Teach me," she told him and then - after his eyes had roamed her face, as if he had wanted to
check with her one final time if she truly consented - his free hand gently took her own hand in his,
guiding it under her hiked up skirts, his fingers folding hers, as if he were moulding her hand,
angling her fingers just so.

"Let me know when it is too much," he said and she nodded, eyes on his as the anticipation was
almost too much to bear, the tension she had become familiar with in these last few days already
having built and she wondered how it could ever be relieved, doubted for a moment that - even
with his guidance - it ever could, but then their combined hands reached their destination and she
felt as if a fire spread from within, her eyes widening in surprise as she gasped out a soft and
involuntary oh.
Other members of the Ton appeared to be more lucky in their courtships. The Duke of Peverell was
seen taking our Diamond of the Season, Miss Greengrass, for a turn around Lady Sprout's garden
before he was her dance partner for the Quadrille. This author, however, wonders if the duke's
heart is truly in it for he did seem rather miserable, glancing Miss Evans' way, even with this
Season's Incomparable at his side.

Skin flushed a delightful pink and biting back a smile, she entered the Dowager Duchess' London
residence. Her body still tingled all over and she thought it a wonder she had made it to the house at
all. The Duke of Peverell had insisted she took his carriage, but she had shaken her head, told him
that some fresh air would do her good - an echo of what she had told him when she had met him at
Westminster, although the circumstances were radically different - that it might help her cool down
after the heat she had just experienced. He had seemed rather bashful then, his thumb brushing
against her cheekbones where she was sure pink roses had bloomed, his forehead coming down to
rest against her own.

She had wanted to kiss him then, but she had feared it would be considered too forward, merely
resting her own hand over his rapidly beating heart instead and whispering a soft thank you to
which he replied with a deep my absolute pleasure.

She had never felt more, had never known her body was capable of responding to touch as it had
when James had guided her fingers, had taught her how to stroke, press, swirl and dip. She'd been
embarrassed at first as she had produced noises she had been unfamiliar with, clamping her mouth
shut until the duke's hand that had not been leading her own, brushed against her cheek, his lips
pressed against her ear, telling her - ordering her almost - to let go.

And she had, going so far as that she had listened to him as he released her hand, told her to take
over, his own hand resting against her thigh, watching her as she did as she was told.

It was difficult to shake the feeling of pure euphoria now. She was afraid her face might split in two
with the force of her smile if she let it, wanted to dance even though there was no music to steer
her. She felt free, elated, blazing and oh so infatuated, feeling foolish for the latter, seeing as what
had just transpired between her and the Duke of Peverell had been nothing more than him helping
her, the duke giving in to her desperate plea for his advice, a favour from one former friend to the
other.

She took off her cloak, handed it to one of Lady McGonagall's footmen and was about to ascend
the stairs, fleeing to her room where she could lie on her bed and relive her earlier experience when
the Dowager Duchess herself appeared in the hallway, looking rather stricken, yet relieved to find
her. "Lily, my dear," she spoke, making her way towards her, "thank goodness you are here." She
looked over her shoulder for a moment, lowering her voice to something barely audible. "Now,
listen to me: whatever you do, please know that this is your choice, that this is your life." Lily
frowned, opening her mouth to ask what had brought this on, but her guardian shook her head,
gesturing for her to follow, her voice increasing in volume as she called out: "Master Slughorn, you
are in luck! My ward has just returned."

She faltered in her step, eyes widening, but the Dowager Duchess had disappeared into the drawing
room and there was little for her to do but to follow. She closed her eyes for a moment, inhaled
deeply and then went after her guardian, whom had sat down on the sofa opposite Master
Slughorn's, patting the spot on the sofa for Lily, a clear indication that she wished for her to take a
seat beside her.

"Miss Evans!" Boomed Master Slughorn's voice, his smile wide, his moustache lifting as he did,
the tips curled meticulously. "I was afraid I'd miss you. Lady McGonagall told me you had gone for
a walk, it must have been quite the stroll. Luckily, I know how fond you are of walking, my dear, or
I might have sent a carriage to pick you up."

"Yes," she replied, rather breathlessly all of a sudden. There was something in the air, something in
the way that her guardian as well as the gentleman sitting in the chair opposite hers looked at her.

"Was it a good walk?" Lady McGonagall asked her, grabbing her hand in her own and squeezing it,
a rare sign of the woman's affection for her.

"It was," she agreed, blushing now. "I visited Lady Peverell, I wanted to take a look at her
husband's study -"

"Oh, Miss Evans," Master Slughorn interjected rather suddenly, as if he could no longer contain
herself, "I have an offer to make that you can simply not refuse, one that will give you unlimited
access to one of the finest houses and libraries in all of London, meaning that you will no longer
need to ask others for favours." He sat on the edge of his seat. "I know how fond you are of
reading, little one, your thirst for words is certainly charming." Realization hit her as to what was
about to transpire and she turned her head to look at her guardian - pleading wordlessly for her help
- but Master Slughorn was not deterred. "You see, Miss Evans, I have just returned from your
brother-in-law's estate in Little Whinging, quaint little town that," he chuckled, getting up from his
seat, reaching in his pocket.

She stood up as well, her eyes wide. "Master Slughorn, I beg you do not -"

Her words fell on deaf ears. "Mr Dursley has kindly granted me permission to ask for your hand in
marriage. Your sister in particular said she would be delighted to welcome me to the family." He
dropped to one knee, grabbing her hand, blind to the panic marring her features. "Miss Evans, you
must know how I adore you, how much I admire you. I know I am a fair bit older than you are, my
dear, but I can provide you protection and cover, a solid fortune that will never leave you wanting -
"

"Master Slughorn, please," she tried again, attempting to pull her hand from his grip.

"I understand your impatience," he spoke self-importantly, his hold on her hand intensifying, not at
all understanding that she was close to tears for reasons that had little to do with happiness, "but
there are things left unsaid still, my love. Your beauty is beyond compare and I shall forever cherish
 you, for you are a virtuous woman, a woman of good repute - ask anyone and they will only sing
your praises," he spoke reverently and with full candour. "I will never take your little hobbies away
from you, will let you read as much as you like, will buy you all the books you require -" her
breathing became more shallow by the second, her ears ringing. "Therefore, Miss Evans, it is my
great honour to present to you the Slughorn family ring, which will tie you to me forever -" the ring
he showed her looked heavy, intricate, a gleaming silver with an emerald at its centre, offset by
smaller diamonds, "- only one question remaining for me to ask -" he inhaled deeply, before - with
true feeling - he concluded his speech: "Miss Evans, will you marry me?"

Her head pounded and her heart slammed unpleasantly against her ribs as she told him with
resolve: "Master Slughorn, I do apologize, but I will not."

The only person who seemed heartily content at the end of the evening was Master Slughorn. Not
having left Miss Evans' side and dancing with the young lady twice, he seems to feel secure in
acquiring a very fortunate match with a very young and much-desired lady of the Ton. If any other
gentleman wishes to make claim, he would be advised to act sooner rather than later...

Yours Truly,
Lady Whistledown

Chapter End Notes

When describing someone or something as the Top of the Trees, one holds them or it in high
esteem.

My name is Mary! Thank you so much for reading my story. If you wish to chat, leave a
comment or find me on Tumblr as @wearingaberetinparis.
 The Selfish Social Bachelor
Chapter Summary

Dearest Reader, the ton are abuzz with the latest gossip, and so it is my honour to impart to
you the news that the Duke of Peverell has returned to London at last! A year after setting off
on his tour of Europe, Lady Peverell's son has returned and rumour has it that his mother is
preparing for the most joyous of occasions: a late summer wedding that sees her son wed the
next Duchess of Peverell. It is my sincere hope that you have stored a bottle of wine for this
most delightful of upcoming events for if ever there were a more determined mama, this writer
is Icarus and this society paper has been scorched for flying too close to the sun.

A Jily Regency Romance inspired by Shondaland's "Bridgerton".

Chapter Notes

Thank you for all your comments and keen enthusiasm on the previous chapter. I hope this one
will prove to be as enjoyable as the last, although it may be difficult to top.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

 Dearest Reader,

Where spinsterhood is every young lady of the Ton's nightmare, unmarried men are not perceived
favourably by society either. While bachelorhood may seem natural when a young man is in the
wealth-gathering phase of his life, many a member of society will consider unmarried men of a
certain age to be rather selfish. It is a status which is hardly desirable and as such it comes as no
surprise that Master Slughorn proposed to Miss Evans in the presence of her guardian, having
been granted permission by her only living relatives, her brother-in-law and sister, Mr and Mrs
Dursley.

He had needed some time to collect himself after his encounter with Miss Evans in his father's old
study. Not in the least place, because he would hardly have been presentable. He'd run his hands
through his hair multiple times before resigning himself, knowing that his own arousal could only
be addressed in one way, the thrill of his own touch only heightened as he remembered the feel of
her hand in his, the ghost of her hand present now too, taking the lead and guiding him to release.

Thus as he emerged - undoubtedly still a mess - it was no surprise that his mother raised her
eyebrows at him, eyes sharp and searching as they travelled down his frame and she asked: "I trust
you have been able to assist?"

He froze, his mouth having gone dry, his euphoric state of mind not so much having disappeared,
but certainly having made room for the horror that chilled his blood - where it had been boiling in
Miss Evans’s presence before - considerably. He spluttered unintelligibly.

"The book," his mother said ever so slowly, her face impassive even if her eyes flashed with
curiosity and he could not blame her for it, for his response was surely unorthodox and far too
transparent for his liking. "Did you manage to help her find what she was looking for?"

His mother’s clarification, of course, made much more sense, allowed him to enter safer territory
and he cleared his throat, sat down in the armchair opposite his mother's sofa, adopting a - so he
hoped - debonair air that had escaped him momentarily as he had thought his mother had
referenced guidance of another kind, one that he was most guilty of. "I am confident that Miss
Evans was left feeling satisfied as she left," he spoke ever so casually. "She found the answer she
had been hoping to find."

His mother hummed. "Interesting how she left without a book. She merely needed a quick browse,
did she?" He choked on air, coughing loudly, his mother's eyebrow quirked knowingly. "I am glad
you managed to sate her inquiring mind. She is such a lovely young woman, after all, deserving of
all the contentment one can offer."

"Right, yes," he replied after a moment's pause, his voice sounding alien to himself even, "she is -"
he trailed off, not knowing how to finish that sentence. Not necessarily because he didn't want his
mother to hear the extent of his love and admiration for her, but because he supposed that she
should be the one to hear it from him first. He had nearly spilled it earlier, as their foreheads had
touched, his fingers slowly trailing down from her thigh to her knee, fingers curling around the
latter, holding her close to him, her calf brushing against his as he hovered over her.

His mother, apparently, needed no help discerning his meaning despite his lack of words, the close-
mouthed smile that played on her lips now infinitely pleased, her eyes twinkling mischievously.
"Well," she started, "I have to say I am quite pleased. We might want to invite Miss Evans more
often, shall we? Perhaps for a dinner party which we shall invite the Dowager Duchess for too. You
should probably also fill up Miss Evans' dance card to avoid any other suitors staking unfounded
claim -"

"Mother," he groans, face properly flushed now, "you are making assumptions based on my feelings
for her."

"I am not assuming a thing," his mother appeared affronted. "I have been around long enough to
recognize when two people like to spend time together. I have known that the two of you did ever
since you were seven years old -"

"As friends -" he interjected.

"- and did you not say that you were confident Miss Evans was left feeling satisfied just now? She
seemed that and more so to me as she left the house looking positively aglow. Do not underestimate
your mother's instincts. I know that she is as fond of you as you are of her." The way in which she
spoke suggested that this was final and something in his chest fluttered. He remembered the way
she had looked at him just now, the wonder in her eyes, the way she had placed her hand over his
heart, the weight of it there feeling as if it belonged, as if a missing puzzle piece had just slotted
into place.

There was, of course, the failed proposal four years ago, but they were older now. He had gone to
university, travelled all of Europe. He had lost his father, gained a title.

It was fair to say that he was no longer the boy he was at eighteen, when he had felt so wise, so
grown up, so ready to marry the one person who made his heart race, his childhood friend, his
partner in adolescent crime. But had he truly been? He was barely an adult now, forced into the role
due to his father's passing. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise that she had rejected him then, that
she had told him she would only marry for love, for - surely now - after what had just happened in
his father's study she might be capable of growing to love him. If he played his cards right, if he
courted her, if he played the part of the gallant gentleman to the outside world, who was more than
willing to explore and teach her in private... there may be reason to be optimistic.

This writer has been informed, dear readers, that however hopeful the older gentleman might have
been, he was brutally rejected by the young lady whom - so this author has been told - may have
had another suitor in mind at the time. Whether ill-timed or due to genuine lack of feeling on Miss
Evans' side, Master Slughorn was seen leaving the Dowager Duchess Lady McGonagall's London
residence in quite the state, having been unwillingly released from Miss Evans’ unknowing
clutches.

He entered the Leaky Cauldron, Lord Black's favourite gentleman's club, around nine that evening,
slightly later than they had agreed, his friends already having gathered at a table. His cheeks were
flushed as he made his way over and dropped himself in the seat they had saved him, leaning
forward and reaching for the cards that lay untouched in the middle of the table.

"My apologies," he spoke, all air having escaped him as he had nearly run - needing to spend his
restless energy - to get to the Leaky Cauldron on time, "my mother decided that tonight was the
perfect time to have my outfit for the Dumbledores' Hogwarts Ball fitted. It was quite impossible to
get away -" he trailed off, noting the looks on his friend's faces, all different assortments of glee.
"What is going on?” He suddenly felt as if his friends were capable of reading his mind, of seeing
the images that kept distracting him from the present.

"I should get to tell him!" Announced Peter, the sandy-haired, mousy man they had befriended
while at Cambridge as he had struggled through the same courses James had excelled in. "I was the
one to find out about it, after all. I was there -"

"Posh," exclaimed Sirius, pulling a face, "it should be me, clearly. I have endured most of his
complaints, had to read his poems in which he lamented and protested the unfairness of unrequited
love -"

James frowned. “I never wrote -”

"We all have had to listen to his complaints of how Miss Evans would never love him," interrupted
Remus. "I vote for Peter, seeing as his account is a firsthand one."

"Traitor," muttered Sirius under his breath, while James' heart was galloping, the rush of blood
thundering in his ears as loud as a herd of horses. The mention of Miss Evans had caused heat to
shoot up his spine as he - if even for a moment - feared that they might be about to relay a rumour
about her that had everything to do with him. A second later, however, he calmed down, realizing
that if this were the case, Sirius would have slapped him on the back, loudly congratulating him as
he ordered the four of them another round of whisky.

"What is this you are speaking of?" He questioned, furrowing his brow, only realizing a second
after that his words echoed the question he had asked Lily in Lady Sprout’s gardens. His mind once
again swimming with thoughts of their last two encounters.

"It's Miss Evans!" Peter was quick to answer his question. "I was walking past the Dowager
Duchess' home earlier today and - you have to admit the timing was impeccable, James, Lady
Whistledown would have wet herself if she were there -” Sirius rolled his eyes, Peter noticing that
he had drifted. “Anyway, just as I got to the house, Master Slughorn came storming out, he looked
a damn fright -"

"Some say he was mortally wounded, really, blood oozing from the gaping hole that had once
contained his heart -"

"Let Peter do the honours, Sirius," Remus chuckled, eyes flitting to James’. "I am fairly certain
there was no blood whatsoever. Any mention of it should be understood metaphorically. You know,
Sirius. He fancies himself an artist.”

James looked from his one friend to the other - Sirius looking bored out of his mind now that he
was not the centre of everyone’s attention - his own mind buzzing and failing to grasp the source of
their excitement, only feeling a sense of anxiety as to the well-being of the woman he had gotten to
know in a very different and intimate light earlier that day.

“Right," Peter continued eagerly, "as I said he looked a damn fright and as he left, Miss Evans
followed him - raced after him I'd say - called his name, but Sluggie turned and said -"

"Be damned, you minx! You treacherous woman, you bloody chit!" Sirius had gotten up from his
seat, waving his hand about as if he held up a cane, about to strike James on the head. "How dare
you take my heart only to trample upon it, to refuse my proposal of marriage?" James' eyes
widened, his heart beating in his throat now, understanding dawning. "I am a very handsome man
nearing my fifties. I am as virile as a horse -"

"All right," Remus pulled their friend back down, very much aware of the audience they were
drawing, the eyes of the many other gentlemen of the Ton who frequented the club to smoke their
cigars, to drink their weight in alcohol, or, to gamble whilst a woman who was most decidedly not
their wife sat on their knee. "Clearly, that's not what he said.”

"Creative liberty," his best friend muttered, clapping James on the shoulder now. "Do you realize
what this means? She rejected Master Slughorn's proposal, all but told Prince Amos to bugger off -"
Lord Black's smile widened as he wiggled his eyebrows, "- she is yours for the taking. Buy her
some flowers come morning, dust of some of the Peverell family's most precious jewels... you
could be married by noon tomorrow!"

His breath had caught in his throat roughly halfway through Sirius' motivational speech, looking at
his two other friends now. "Is it true?" He asked, disbelief settling in his very bones. "He asked her
to marry him and he then proceeded to insult her for all the Ton to overhear?"

Peter nodded, evidently very pleased to be the one to have witnessed it all. "Sirius did get the gist
of it, really. It was rather horrible, Miss Evans seemed quite upset -" He was out of his seat before
he had even registered getting up, Peter's eyes widening, Sirius' amused, Remus' knowing. "Where
are you going -?"

He didn't take the time to answer, heard Lord Black's voice loudly proclaim where do you think?
His feet carrying him out of the club faster than even he had thought them capable of, holding up a
carriage right outside of it, announcing his destination with a fierce determination: "Elphinstone
House, the Dowager Duchess Lady McGonagall's residence."

Undoubtedly, the gentleman had hoped for a much happier outcome, nabbing the woman whom - in
all honesty - has been more obviously admired than even our very own Diamond of the Season,
Miss Greengrass. Having rejected Master Slughorn now and having jilted Prince Amos at Lady
Sprout's Flower Festival, there is one contender left for Miss Evans' heart, namely the Duke of
Peverell, and he - this writer dares suggest - might have the best chance at capturing her heart,
seeing as she was seen leaving the duke's house a mere hour before Master Slughorn left her
guardian's, positively seething and deeply mortified.

Standing in the Dowager Duchess' drawing room, Lady McGonagall facing him in her nightclothes,
curlers in her hair, he wished he had been less impulsive in his decision to get to Miss Evans as fast
as he could. The woman standing in front of him surveyed him curiously, her eye as sharp as ever,
making him feel as if he were the one to show up in nothing but his nightshirt, having gone without
his breeches.

"Miss Evans will be down shortly," she spoke at length, making to sit on the sofa. "We had quite
the eventful evening, which I am sure is the purpose of your visit, and decided that an early night
might do the both of us well."

He nodded, wringing his hands behind his back. "Right," he spoke rather nervously, wondering if
he should have left the moment Lady McGonagall's butler had informed him that both women had
already retired for bed. "I do apologize for disturbing your peace. I merely wanted to know if the
both of you were well."

"You are most kind," offered the older lady, a small smile playing at her lips. "Your inquiry is much
appreciated and I am sure that Miss Evans will agree - ah! There she is!"

The Dowager Duchess needn't have pointed this out, however, his eye immediately drawn to the
young woman, who blushed as she pulled her dressing gown tighter around her slim frame, feet
padding softly against the hardwood floor. Her hair was loose from its earlier updo, cascading past
her shoulders. He hadn't seen her like it - hair untied, falling in waves around her face - since they
were fourteen and running around in the gardens of Gryffindor Palace, climbing trees, her hair
getting caught in some of the branches to her great frustration, he - chuckling under his breath -
having to unweave some of the strands from the twigs they had tangled up in. She had looked so
alive then, sun shining on her face, touching her freckled skin, the green of her eyes illuminated...
she looked ethereal now, as if floating towards him from a distant dream.

"Miss Evans," he bowed ever so slightly, keeping his eyes on her face, searching it for any possible
sign of distress, "I just came to see if you were well. I heard -" he faltered, uncertain as to how to
continue, how he could possibly proceed knowing what he did. You rejected him, he thought as he
looked at her, like you did me four years ago. But did you reject him because of me? Because of
what happened in my father's study?

She looked down, seemingly not wanting to meet his eyes out of - he suspected - embarrassment.
"It is very kind of you to come," she spoke softly, pushing some of her hair behind her ear. "We are
perfectly fine. I assume you meant to say that you heard about Master Slughorn's proposal?" Her
eyes flitted up to his again, arms still wrapped around her waist as if she were protecting herself.
"Or, rather, you will have heard about the aftermath."

He wanted to reach for her, take her hands in his. He wanted to be as close to her as he could, run
his hands through her hair, let his knuckles brush against the flimsy material of the nightgown
peeking out from under her dressing gown. He wanted to be alone with her, like they had been in
his father's study only a matter of hours ago...

Lady McGonagall cleared her throat then, he straightening himself as he realized he had been
staring at the Dowager Duchess' ward for a - quite possibly - uncomfortably lengthy period of time
for any audience to bear. Before he could stumble over an apology, however, acknowledge the
older lady's presence as much as he did the younger one, Lady McGonagall spoke up: "I will ask
Mr Weasley for some warm milk for the both of you. I hope you will excuse me?" Her eyes flitted
between both him and Miss Evans. "I am afraid that I am quite tired, I no longer have the advantage
of youth on my side these days."
He sincerely doubted the truth behind this statement, yet he did not complain, all too aware of the
fact that the older woman was gifting him what he craved most of all. He caught her gaze, hoping
to convey his gratitude. She met his with a perceptive sharpness not unlike his mother's before she
passed Miss Evans, her hand patting her forearm lightly before she left the drawing room, James
and Lily remaining.

His eyes drank in the sight of her. She looked all the softer in the dimmed lights of night. He
thought of how close they had been that afternoon, how his hand had guided hers between her legs,
how a flush had spread up from her chest to her neck to her cheeks. He thought, too, of the way her
lips had parted, of the sounds that had escaped her, of how the depth of his desire for her - which he
had already believed to be too strong to bear - had surprised him like a punch to his gut, a pistol to
his temple, a dagger to his throat. Teach me, she'd said. Oh, she'd gasped.

His ruminations were altogether too dangerous to be had. Certainly, in her presence.

"I have been -"

"I don't want to -"

They had spoken at the same time, he - remembering some of his parents' upbringing even if he
was positively bursting to the brim - gesturing for her to continue now. She let out a shaky breath,
looked at him through her eyelashes. "I don't particularly want to relive today's events. That is -"
she walked over to the sofa, moved to sit down, her dressing gown opening ever so slightly to
reveal more of her nightgown, causing him to swallow hard, "- I want to forget about the parts that
Master Slughorn was present for. Some other things, though -" Shyly, she trailed off, bit her lip. He
couldn't help himself, propelled forward, moved to sit beside her.

"Miss Evans, I -"

"Lily."

He ducked his head, exhaling on a disbelieving chuckle, not quite ready to presume his luck. "Lily,
I have been so -" he looked up at her again, his breath catching. From this close he could see that
her hair was a little mushed, as if she, too, had ran her hands through it a number of times like he
did with his, that she was holding her breath in anticipation, that her pupils had dilated ever so
slightly.

"Yes?" She asked, her hands in her lap and he could not resist, taking the one that he had slipped
between her own legs earlier that day in his, lifting it to his forehead and letting it rest against the
back of her fingers.

"My heart is so full," he managed to get out. "Thank heavens you rejected him. I don't think I could
have lived -"

"How could I have done anything but?" She had scooted closer to him now, their knees almost
touching. He dropped her hand, needing to look her in the eye and meeting them in their vibrancy,
the life that they brimmed with. "James, I -" he couldn't help himself, he leaned forward, hand
resting as gently as he could manage at the back of her neck, his lips touching hers.

Time came to a standstill, the only thing that existed was him and her and the connection they
shared.

The kiss broke all too soon, one of her hands resting again in the place over his heart. His eyes met
hers as his own fingers moved from the back of her neck to brush against her cheek - hot to the
touch - before moving to push some of her hair out of her face. She let out a soft laugh.

"You are as dramatic as you ever were," she told him. "Surely, you could have lived -"

"You severely underestimate the strength of my feelings for you then," he interrupted. "Honestly,
Lily, you have been driving me spare. What we did this afternoon -" She dropped her eyes.
"No, please, Lily, don't be shy, it was the best moment of my life." The laugh that escaped him was
breathy as he lifted her chin with the tip of his finger, needing to look at her as he said what he
should have earlier that day: "I have been in love with you since before I knew what love was -" her
eyes widened, shocked surprise taking over her features, "- I know the intensity of my feelings for
you may be too much, that you do not feel the same just yet, but... I am hopeful. Love can grow and
we have a foundation for it, which is more than can be said about most courtships." She gaped at
him, dropped her hand from his chest, turned ever so slightly away from him. "Lily, please," his
voice was little more than a whisper now, panic slowly rising, "give me a chance to -"

"You believe I do not love you?"

He faltered for a moment, had stilled as her words washed over him. How could I have thought
otherwise? He wondered, thinking back to the moment four years ago when he had kneeled in front
of her. "Master Slughorn's is not the first proposal you rejected -" she left the sofa, bolted - almost -
in the opposite direction, back turned on him, "- and please hear me when I say I understand. I have
had four years to consider how wrong I was -"

"Wrong?" She twirled around again, her hair a curtain of fire that complimented the fierceness of
her gaze perfectly. "Are you saying that your proposal at eighteen was a mistake?"

"Well, no, of course not -" he stammered, frowning now, "- I thought that was what you needed to
hear -"

"What I needed to hear?" She laughed, but it was not out of joy. He wondered how he could have
allowed the situation to derail as it had and so quickly too. "Is this your intention then? You aim to
only ever say to me what you think I want to hear?" She threw up her hands in frustration, a gesture
that mirrored the one of that afternoon when she had lamented that she had failed to touch herself
successfully. "You claim to be in love with me, but yet -"

"It is not a claim," he rose to his feet, took a couple of steps in her direction, she took a step back,
though, and he huffed in annoyance. "You do not get to tell me how I feel! Not when I have lived
with the pain of your rejection -"

"Oh, here we go!"

"- the pain of your rejection for the past four years -"

"All men are the same!"

"- do you have any idea what it was like to know that all that I felt, all that I knew, all that I wanted
-"

"What about me?" Her voice was pitched high. "What about me, James? What about how I felt?
What I knew? What I wanted?" He stilled, the flash of hurt in her eyes causing his stomach to
lurch. "Just as I do not get to tell you how I feel, you do not get to do the same to me either. How
dare you say I did not and do not love you based on me rejecting your hand in marriage when I was
eighteen and my parents had just died, my sister on the brink of death too and there you were,
proposing to me out of a sense of duty...!" Her chest heaved, her eyes brimmed with tears.

"Duty?" He asked, forehead crinkling, feeling as if he'd been pushed into a lake in the middle of
January. "You think I asked you to marry me out of duty?"

"What else was I supposed to think?" She questioned, wrapping her arms around her waist. "You
spoke of lifelong companionship, friendship -" He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Of course that's what I thought. You were ever so kind to want to ensure I had a future, but I could
not let you ruin yours as a result."

His head ached. "You thought -" he started, dropping his hand from his face. "That is really what
you thought? What you have thought all these years? Truly?"

She deflated, had lost some of her earlier fight. "I always knew you to be exceptionally loyal,
James. You even spoke of duty as you asked me -"

The laugh that escaped him was bitter. "Believe me," he spoke, "my desire to marry you was not at
all out of a sense of obligation. I do apologize if that is how it came across, but I made up my mind
when I was fifteen that I would one day court you, made it my goal to marry you -" he stepped
forward. "Lily, I have only ever thought that you were the most beautiful woman I had ever laid
eyes on." He wanted to reach for her, hold her, but she - clearly recognizing his tells - held up a
hand to stop him.

"I am more than meets the eye, more than pleases it. Women have so much to offer, shouldn't be
put down or ignored for wanting to know and read, claiming it's just a little hobby -"

"I never said -" he spoke, appalled, but she interrupted.

"Of course you didn't! You are decent, you wouldn't just indulge me." She walked in the direction
of the window looking out of it. "But do not speak for me and do not decide that only you were in
pain these past four years, because I was too. If all you are looking for in a wife is just a pretty
picture, just someone to listen and never speak to you in turn -" she stopped, her back stiffening.
"Not that you are necessarily looking for one or that I consider myself to be a contender in the
slightest. I am not so vain as that -"

"Lily," he spoke, closing the distance between them now, having recovered from the initial shock of
her flared temper, of the misunderstanding that had existed between them for four damned years,
hand moving to rest on her waist as he pressed his chest against his back - a risky move given the
anger she had just exuded - his lips brushing against the back of her head as he muttered: "you are
the only contender. If you'd let me, I'd ask you to marry me in a heartbeat. I would love to get to
know all nooks and crannies that make up the whole of you, to see beyond what pleases my eye
more than anything."
She leaned back against him for a moment, the both of them - it seemed - reflecting in the silence
that followed their confessions, the vulnerabilities they had shared with one another. Then she
turned in his arms, her chin tilted in determination. "I do love you," she told him. "Whatever you
might believe, I loved you then too." She did not need to explain which part of their past she was
referring to. "But I -" she grimaced, "- I do not want to be naive going into this, I need to know, I
need to..." she flushed, eyes dropping again, "... I had no idea what you meant when you spoke of
touching myself. How can I accept any proposal when I do not understand what I might be entering
as a result?"

"I do not know everything either," he spoke, his hand resting against her lower back. "We can learn
together."

She looked back up at him, quirked an eyebrow. "I am not so innocent as to believe our experiences
are the same when it comes to these matters. You have already proven that you know a lot more
than I do." She sighed, her brow relaxing again, almost sagging against him now. "I just want to be
on equal footing. I want you to see me -"

"I do," he tightened his grip on her, "and I can promise you that I have loved everything you have
shown me ever since we first met as children."

"Yes, well," she blushed, wrapped her arms around his neck now and he dipped his face, letting her
place a peck against his lips before she continued, "I think we might benefit from taking some time.
We have only just reacquainted, you have barely learned what it means to be a duke, who you are
now that you have taken your father's place... Not to mention that we have apparently
misunderstood each other's feelings and intentions for the past four years."

Time, he thought. He was impatient by nature, found waiting to be the dullest thing and figured he
had done enough of it already, but if that was what she wanted, if this was what she required and
what he needed to do to get what he desired, their hearts, bodies and souls entangling, becoming
one... "Time," he said, nodding.

"Time," she said again, as if sealing the deal.

They stood there - wrapped up in the other, gazing into each other's eyes - and he thought that his
love for her was timeless, that he would wait for her as long as he had to, as long as it would take.
He was about to tell her as much when a clatter sounded, a smashing of glass on the hardwood
floor and as they turned their heads, they found a ginger man - his face a bright scarlet - and milk
spilled all over the floor. "My sincere apologies, my Lord, Miss Evans," the man - Mr Weasley, he
remembered Lady McGonagall saying - muttered, positively mortified. Lily could not suppress her
laughter and thus nor could he, kissing her and tasting the sound of it when the man disappeared to
get something to clean up the mess they had made.
 It is now, thus, up to the Duke of Peverell to decide whether he intends to court Miss Evans
exclusively, dropping the Season's Diamond, or if he might like to spread his chances, seeing as
Miss Evans appears to be in quite the picky mood this Season. Rumour has it, though, that he was
seen racing to the Dowager Duchess' home late last night. The purpose of it? This author can only
guess.

The next morning, he ordered four hundred red roses - one hundred for every year since he had first
proposed - to be delivered to Miss Evans, his mother rolling her eyes at him as he announced it at
breakfast, muttering something about being as sentimental as his father had been. He couldn't help
but notice, however, that she wrote to Lady McGonagall soon after, her cursive spelling out the
words mission accomplished in addition to her regular invite to afternoon tea.

This writer believes the first wedding of the Season is only a matter of time and wagers it will be
the duke's.

Yours Truly,
Lady Whistledown

Chapter End Notes

Do not worry, this is far from the end. I am expanding this fic quite a bit and have many more
things left to write.

My name is Mary and I am @wearingaberetinparis on Tumblr! Feel free to come and chat. I
am so excited to meet you always.
 The Rejoicing Aces of Spades
Chapter Summary

Dearest Reader, the ton are abuzz with the latest gossip, and so it is my honour to impart to
you the news that the Duke of Peverell has returned to London at last! A year after setting off
on his tour of Europe, Lady Peverell's son has returned and rumour has it that his mother is
preparing for the most joyous of occasions: a late summer wedding that sees her son wed the
next Duchess of Peverell. It is my sincere hope that you have stored a bottle of wine for this
most delightful of upcoming events for if ever there were a more determined mama, this writer
is Icarus and this society paper has been scorched for flying too close to the sun.

A Jily Regency Romance inspired by Shondaland's "Bridgerton".

Chapter Notes

Your comments and enthusiasm are so appreciated. Thank you, forever and always! I am in
your debt, because it makes it so much easier to keep writing when people tell you that they
want more! Honestly, you are the real MVPs of (the Jily) fandom, encouraging us fic writers
to keep producing their self-indulgent works.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

 Dearest Reader,

A general announcement for all gentlemen of the Ton: it appears that all florists in town are out of
red roses, seeing as the Duke of Peverell - in an act of pure, insuppressible devotion - reportedly
ordered four hundred of them to be delivered at Elphinstone House this very morning. Cursed by
one at night, adored by another come morning. What most of the ladies of the Ton reading this
wouldn't give to be in Miss Evans' shoes.

"We have run out of vases, ma'am," spoke Mr Weasley, eyes on the Dowager Duchess only. Lily
had run into him earlier, apologizing for the scene he had walked in on the night before, but the
man had nearly spluttered, face a bright scarlet as he told her he should be the one to apologize to
interrupt a moment of a private nature. She had not even had time to contradict him for he had
nearly run off. "Perhaps we might want to use pots and pans to ensure they do not wilt?"

"Well," spoke Lady McGonagall, surveying her drawing room, every surface of it covered in red
roses, "you do not have to question the duke's intentions any longer, I suppose. I hope you have
given up your rather tiring spiel of unrequited love." Her guardian turned towards her, eyebrow
raised.

She flushed, lowered the rose that she had brought up to her nose to smell it. "Well, I -" she exhaled
shakily, righting herself now, remembering his voice in her ear as he had parted the night
before: I'm yours, Miss Evans. I do not require the time you seek, but I will grant it. Just do not
expect me to hold back on my love for you. "I admit this is rather extravagant," she told the older
woman now. "It feels dishonest to dismiss that his feelings may be of the affectionate sort."

"May be," the Dowager Duchess snorted, shaking her head and leaning on her cane as she turned
towards her first footman again. "Yes, dear Mr Weasley, please do use the pots and pans. Anything
that may be able to keep these flowers alive for longer than a day or a mere hours even." The man
left with a bow, Lady McGonagall stopping to examine a particular vase that had been placed near
the grand piano. "Who would have thought this is where we would find ourselves in the morning.
Quite the contrast to early last night." She turned her head to Lily, facing her with a close-lipped
smile. "Then again, I suppose you managed to attract the attention of two - nay, three - very
different sorts of men."

"Yes," she spoke, placing the red rose she had been holding in a vase near the sofa. "I do hope,
Lady McGonagall, that you do not mind -"

"That I do not mind?" The woman let out something close to a laugh. "My darling girl, I do hope
that you noticed that I have been the duke's champion ever since he first returned from his
European travels. Did I not point out his eligibility to you at several occasions?" The Dowager
Duchess had raised her eyebrows in expectation, Lily blushing even further. "That's what I
thought," her guardian muttered. "Now, get ready for afternoon tea at Lady Peverell's. She sent us
an invitation and seeing as she will most likely end up being your mother-in-law, it is imminent you
impress her. I might ask Madam Malkin to visit us tomorrow morning. We will need to order a few
additional dresses -"

"Oh, Lady McGonagall, please I am fine -"

The other woman tutted. "Lily, sweetheart, for a future duchess, fine simply won't do." The
Dowager Duchess walked up to her, gently placing her hand against her cheek. "Luckily, you are
anything but mediocre. You will be absolutely spectacular, I am sure, for you have something that
most women of the Ton do not possess." The question that rose must have been evident for Lady
McGonagall was quick to answer it: "A thirst to learn, Lily," she winked as Lily's breath caught in
her throat, her eyes widening as she wondered if it may be possible that her guardian had
eavesdropped on her conversation with James the night before. "Not to mention that the duke
seems very keen to teach. A most fortunate circumstance, if you ask me."
This author had speculated whether the Duke of Peverell would step up and it appears that he did,
accordingly to the great delight of not one, but two of the Ton's most powerful Aces of Spades: his
mother and the Dowager Duchess Lady McGonagall. It thus must come at no surprise that Miss
Evans and her guardian were seen getting in a carriage to visit the Peverells and are - so this
writer knows - invited to stay beyond afternoon tea, allowing Miss Evans and her ardent suitor to
get to know each other further.

"James," she spoke in a hushed tone, slightly out of breath for he had pulled her out of her chair to
follow him to the garden, never shortening his stride. "Please just -" he looked over his shoulder,
grinning wide and her heart skipped a beat. "I'm not as tall as you are, you know," she started. "It'd
be nice of you to be more considerate -"

"Have I not been?" He asked, their feet crunching as they reached the gravel. He turned to look at
her, smile lopsided to reveal the dimple in his cheek, walking backwards now as he took her other
hand in his as well. "How rude of me. I suppose I was only thinking about getting you all to myself,
not having to share you with my mother and the Dowager Duchess any longer."

"You were with them for no more than five minutes before you excused the both of us," she shook
her head, rolled her eyes, fighting the smile that threatened to take over her entire face. "You only
just returned from Westminster and you sat there so impatiently, your leg jumping -"

"They will understand my eagerness to speak to you then, seeing as I was agitated with the desire
to."

It was impossible to fake exasperation, too pleased as she was to hear him profess that his yearning
to be with her was as great as hers was to be with him, still reeling from everything that was
uncovered the night before: I have been in love with you since before I knew what love was - my
desire to marry you was not at all out of a sense of obligation.

"Is that what we will be doing then?" She asked him as he pulled her onto the grass, seeking cover
from the trees in the back of the garden. "Are we going to talk?" She moved to lean against one of
the trees that had undoubtedly seen many generations before them, gently placing her back against
a tree, his hands bracketing her face as he stood in front of her, the distance he kept most indecent
in its looming. "It seems to me that you have another thing in mind altogether."

"Me?" His eyes twinkled. "Why, Miss Evans, I will have you know I have the purest of intentions. I
do not know what made you believe otherwise, wasn't it you whom asked me to teach you how to
touch yourself -" He shuffled closer as her cheeks heated, his knees slotting between her legs in so
far her skirts allowed it. "Of course, I wish to speak with you," he ducked his head, tip of his nose
brushing against hers, "just... amongst other things, that is."

Their lips touched a fraction of a second later, she still tasting his words on them, her hands coming
up to hold the back of his neck, securing him against her. She could feel his smile form against her
mouth and she pulled back ever so slightly to scold him for his arrogance, his unrelenting self-
confidence, but he only took this as further encouragement. His lips pressing harder against her
own, his kiss bruising and she let out an involuntary moan, that tension which she had become
familiar with now building in her lower belly.

"Lesson one," he spoke as he broke their kiss, his lips trailing down her jaw now, "never hold
back." His teeth grazed her earlobe. "Not with me."

She shivered, one of her hands having slipped to his firm shoulder, gripping it tight, eyes half-
closed. "I thought this was lesson two," she breathed out as he placed a torturous kiss where her ear
and neck met. "You were quite thorough yesterday already."

"I skipped several steps yesterday," he confessed. "That should most likely have been somewhere
between lesson ten and fifteen. This - the art of kissing - truly is - hmmph -" She quieted him with
her mouth, he eagerly meeting hers once he had recovered from the surprise, his hand tightening
around her waist.

"You said not to hold back -" she told him after a couple of minutes in which they had gotten lost in
each other's kiss.

"You are a remarkably quick study."

She shrugged coyly, her chest heaving after the past few minutes' exertion. "I have an excellent
teacher," she smiled, he smirking, ducking his face again to peck her lips, she pulling her teeth at
his bottom lip as he tried to get away, drawing him in for yet another open-mouthed kiss.

"Bloody hell," he spoke with a reverence after, his eyes wide in admiration. "What do you need
time for? It's useless, it prolongs what we both already know we want."

"Which is?"

"Marriage," he answered easily.

She eyed him fondly, her gloved hand stroking his cheek now. "You make it all sound so simple,"
he opened his mouth to - she imagined - tell her that it was, but she shook her head, silenced him
with a finger to his lips. "You do realize that your mother and my guardian are most likely spying
us from the windows? That they know exactly what we get up to when you pull me away as you
do?"

The Duke of Peverell shrugged, kissing the gloved palm of her hand, not a care in the world for the
vulgarity of their need for the other. "Off," he spoke, sounding hoarse and ignoring her. His lips had
moved downwards to kiss the bare skin of her wrist, his teeth scraping lightly at the sensitive skin
there, tugging at the material of her gloves an instant later. She flushed, looked over her shoulder to
check if they were well and truly alone, to ensure that the two women she had just mentioned hadn't
appeared out of seemingly nowhere, weren't giggling at the sight of them behind the bushes only a
short distance away.
"James," she scolded him in hushed tones, "you know it's not proper. What if anyone sees? We are
already the talk of the Ton after your extravagant gift of hundreds of roses only hours after I
rejected Master Slughorn -"

"Four hundred of them," he corrected her, ignoring the part about the other man whom had been
vying for her affection and undivided attention. He lifted his head to look her in the eye again
before moving to place a soft kiss against her cheek, followed by a peck to her lips. "I hardly think
a flash of your bare hand will be enough to set tongues wagging." He grinned then, the hand that
had been placed at her waist, trailing down, his fingers curling into the material of her skirts, lifting
it in the process. "I think we can do better than that. Surely, if we're going to cause a scandal, my
love, we will do it properly." The breeze brushed past her ankle, causing goosebumps to erupt
across her skin, she biting her lip as James' hand disappeared where here own had been the other
day, his fingers brushing against her upper thigh. "I have not been able to stop thinking about you
as you were in my father's study yesterday," he whispered, nose brushing against her cheekbone.
"The things you did to me -"

"I would argue that it was the other way around," she managed to get out, eyes drooping as his
fingers started a teasing pattern up her thigh. Her fingers brushing against the curls that sprung in
all directions at his ear, wanting to feel them. Huffing slightly, knowing that she had as good as told
him no earlier, she slipped the gloves off her hands, looking at him to see his smirk grow and she
rolled her eyes. "Hold on to these for me," she told him, shoving them to his chest. He caught them,
tips of his fingers brushing against her own.

"My pleasure," he muttered, his other hand lifting her leg so that her bare thigh was pressed up
against his breeches. "So, what was your plan with those hands of yours? Did you want to skip a
couple of lessons again?" His lips brushed hers again. "Tell me, Lily, did you put them to good use
last night too?" The heat that surged through her body had nothing to do with the late afternoon sun
that filtered in through the tree's leaves.

Not answering him, her hands instead went up to his curls, her fingers getting lost in their wild and
untamed thickness, surprising her with their softness. He groaned, closed his eyes at her touch. "I
think I am more interested in touching you than I am in myself at the moment," she spoke in a low
whisper. "I am sure there are other things I could do with my hands, but for lack of any knowledge
-" she ran her fingers through his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp.

"It really doesn't take much," he chuckled deeply, his eyes opening, his pupils having dilated.
"There won't be much for me to teach you as all of me gets far too aroused at even the idea of you,
let alone how I might feel when all of my hopes and dreams come to fruition."

"You are far too generous in your compliments," she said, her hands sliding down from his hair - it
looked a fright, an awful mess, but she decided she loved it - to his neck and then his chest. "I
believe that most teachers would take a different approach, would point out their pupils' wrongs to
get to the desired effect."

"Maybe that's why my ego has inflated to such proportions," he grinned. "My teachers only ever
told me how great I was -" she raised her eyebrows, his grin growing toothier, "- all right, that is
indeed not necessarily true. I was whipped plenty of times for being an absolute rascal, seeing as I
never took anything too seriously -"
"I remember that," she spoke fondly. "I remember, too, that one time your bum got so bruised that
you couldn't sit down. Your mother was furious and dismissed him, did she not?"

He nodded, one his hands coming up to brush his knuckles against her cheek. "That was a long
time ago, but yes," he told her. "Your memory is admirable."

"Or maybe you are just a memorable person," she turned her head, placed a kiss against the hand
that has caressed her. "The summers we spent at Gryffindor Palace were always the highlight of my
year. Mostly because of you - even though your parents were ever so kind and welcoming too -
every minute of our visit was exhilarating to me."

He smiled at her, exuding a warmth that made her feel at home, that made her return to the comfort
of her childhood. "I lived for those summers with you as well. Being an only child in such a large
house... I used to sit and watch through the window on the day you would arrive, to see if I could
spot the carriage." His hand dropped her leg, wrapped around her waist instead. "I just realized I
have never visited Cokeworth House. This is something that must be remedied -"

"No!" The word escaped her and she felt a sense of mortification overcome her senses. "Please, let's
not - it is much smaller than Gryffindor Palace and the climate up north is so dreary. You would
find it exceedingly dull."

"I assure you I would not," he replied, holding her gently. "I want to know everything about you,
remember? All of your nooks and crannies." He pressed a kiss to her forehead, she feeling slightly
anxious as she attempted to reconcile the idea of Cokeworth House and what it had come to
represent with the wonderful man that had wrapped her up in his arms. "Besides, I am made of
stern stuff. A spot of rain will hardly stop me."

She knew a lost battle when she encountered one and she decided to change topic, not wanting to
think of the home that had once belonged to her family, that technically still did even if she had not
stepped foot inside it for nearly three years. The memory of the last time she had been there was
too painful still, her heart aching as she recollected those final moments inside it, the fear she had
felt, the shame and guilt that had nearly wrecked her, the desperation at knowing that she might as
well resign herself to a life of poverty. If it hadn't been for the Dowager Duchess... She cleared her
throat, keen to distract him from his well-intentioned request to visit her family home, from digging
too deep into her family's past, finding out about the mistakes she had made, the people she had
foolishly trusted. Her pride too great still to face her own stupidity. "We should probably head
inside. Your mother and Lady McGonagall might worry."

He groaned, dropping his forehead against hers again. "Can we not stay out for five more minutes?
I need to finish my reading before dinner or else Lord Alastor Moody will have my head come
morning as I arrive at Westminster without so much as an inkling -"

"Then we certainly should leave the gardens," she eyed him sternly, even if she did not particularly
want him to leave her side, feeling all the better when he was near. "The sooner you start, the
sooner you get it done, meaning that you will be able to join me again sooner too."

"Fine," he mumbled, dramatically taking a couple of steps backwards, hands on his heart as if he
had to hold it so as not to drop. "Let me savour you like this, though," she laughed, blushed too as
he looked at her, an intensity to his gaze that was almost overwhelming in its heat. Her teeth sank
lightly into her bottom lip, his nostrils flaring. He shook himself, his shaggy black hair falling into
his eyes as he did. "You are right, of course," he told her. "I shall do my work and will be quick
about it as long as you promise me I will be properly rewarded for my obedience."

"Meaning what exactly?"

His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes, clearly very pleased with himself. "I will let you know
when I feel like cashing in that favour, my love."

Growing up side-by-side, the Duke of Peverell and his lady love are well-acquainted already and
their love might as well have been written in the stars. Hindsight being what it is, someone truly
ought to have warned both Master Slughorn and Prince Amos.

Having stopped her just outside the door to his mother's drawing room to take yet another kiss from
her, the Duke of Peverell deposited her in the presence of the two widows whom had been joined
by Lord Black - a man she knew mostly in passing and through hearsay - who looked far too smug
for her liking as he walked up to her, taking her hand and bowing down in front of her. "You look
ravished, Miss Evans," spoke Lord Black, holding her gloved hand in his, righting himself after his
bow.

"I think you mean ravishing," she corrected him, one of her eyebrows quirked as she looked at the
duke's handsome best friend, watching his smirk grow, his eyes glint.

"I always say exactly what I mean, don't I, Lady Peverell?" He looked at James' mother, whose lips
twitched at the corners, Lily feeling her cheeks heat as she wondered if James had perhaps been
blinded by his desire for her when she had asked him to check if she looked presentable earlier.
"Language, Miss Evans, is my forte, so to speak." He held out his arm for her to take, eyebrows
raised. "In that light, I would like to put my talents to good use. Will you allow me to take you on a
turn around the room?"

She placed her hand - wearing her gloves again - in the crook of his elbow, both Lady Peverell and
Lady McGonagall returning to the conversation they were having before she had returned. Lord
Black guided her a few paces away from them, only to start speaking to her under his breath. "You
do, by the way, look to be in good spirits, Miss Evans, if I dare say so. Quite well-dressed for a
mere afternoon tea, too, I'd say. Save for the leaf stuck in your hair, I suppose." Her hand went up
in shock, Lord Black looking far too pleased as he reached with his free arm, fingers finding the
culprit of her near disgrace. In the presence of the wrong people, it would have been enough to ruin
her. The young gentleman, however, dropped it as if it were of no consequence. "A word of advice,
Miss Evans, never trust my dear friend's eyesight. It is truly quite poor even without your ability to
blind him."

She let out a soft laugh, her cheeks still aglow in the embarrassment of the evidence of her and
James' garden tryst. "Truly, I should know better indeed. Any other parts of me that seem askew?"

"Nothing apart from the fact that you seem as besotted as the duke himself," Lord Black rolled his
eyes here, but the corners of his lips were tilted. "I am ever so grateful you are allowing him to
court, Miss Evans. His desperation was getting quite unbearable." He ducked his head, whispering
conspiringly: "Remind me to show you the many letters he sent me from the Continent. All of them
inquire after your health. Had I heard of Miss Evans lately? Has she been well? Has she been
betrothed?"

"It is a wonder that you did not seek me out sooner then," she replied in equally hushed tones.
"How did you know what to write him in turn without having ever been introduced to me
properly?"

The smile that played on his lips was evidence of his flamboyant nature and she decided she quite
liked him for it. Yet, despite dazzle, there was still something of a bit of a mystery about him. He
seemed like the type of gentleman whom - in his gambling - kept his cards close to his chest. Much
unlike the duke. "Believe me, Miss Evans," he spoke, a teasing tone to his voice, "I have my ways
of knowing things."

"How ominous," she spoke, mock-scandalised, placing a hand to her chest to cover her heart in jest
and mimicked offense, copying the many mamas that crawled the Ton. "Do I have to watch my
words around you then, Lord Black? Seeing as you have such a way with them?"

"Ah, Miss Evans, you need not fear me," he patted the hand that rested on his arm. "Consider me a
platonic admirer from afar. Even without my friend's lamentations on his ever-aching soul trying to
find his way to the woman he loved, you have always seemed to me like a sensible member of the
Ton." He turned his head to look at her, a ferocity to his gaze that she could not quite place yet.
"There are few of those, Miss Evans, as I am sure you are more than aware."

She could only agree with him, her own eyes searching him with interest now, concluding: "A
rarity indeed."

They gazed at one another a moment longer, as if the both of them were trying to get a sense of the
person beside them, both of their looks scrutinising. Satisfied at last - even though she could have
done with some more research, not quite having come up with a hypothesis about the gentleman
beside her just yet - Lord Black interrupted her inspection: "Now, Miss Evans, please do delight me
by mentioning your many womanly talents. Do you play the pianoforte? Does your brush hit the
canvas with an elegance unknown to men? These are questions that must be answered or my
curiosity might just kill me. Even if I am no cat, nor have I ever taken a liking to them."
 Speaking of the latter, the royal was seen escorting Miss Greengrass to the opera last night. The
young woman looked positively delighted and who wouldn't be if they were in her shoes? After all,
she managed to attract the attention of the only other suitor of note, who even outranks the Duke of
Peverell. Not that this author necessarily believes that rank is a true and valid measure of worth.

Dinner at the Peverells' had been an elegant - if not, at times, slightly chaotic - affair, Lord Black
and the Duke of Peverell sitting on either side of her and regaling her with stories of their time at
Cambridge together. Her stomach ached slightly not from the amount of food she had consumed,
but more due to the fact that she had not laughed as much as she did in a very long time. James,
too, had taken her hand in his - trying to by secretive, even though she had caught his mother and
Lady McGonagall exchanging knowing glances - several times over the duration of dinner and had
drawn her away from the others at the end of it, stealing one more toe-curling kiss, promising to
take her on a stroll around St James' Park over his lunch break the next day. "If I may have one, that
is. Some of the debates go on for hours." He had pulled a face, but she knew how much he liked to
talk and she had no doubt that he excelled in discussions, too. Especially, seeing as he was so
successful in his bantering.

Having arrived in her bedroom now, she found herself seated in the window, looking out over the
street, her book on anatomy on her knees. She found it difficult to find the patience to read it,
however, her head swimming with thoughts of James, the press of his lips against his, the joy and
life that he exuded. He was quite the addictive personality, she found. Missing him now already
despite the fact that they had been in each other's presence more this day than they had been in
years.

Eventually, she stood, walking over to her vanity, so as to ready herself for bed. Her book of
anatomy long forgotten, her thoughts solely on the Duke of Peverell's hands in her hair the night
before, wondering how long it might take until they could be together like that again, thinking of
what he might look like when he were to join her in his nightclothes, where his fingers might
touch...

She had no sense of the man hidden in the shadows below, retreating as she disappeared from view.
 What a difference a day makes, does it not? This writer can only hold her breath as she awaits what
tomorrow might bring. Surely, not everything can remain to be coming up roses? This is the Ton we
are speaking of, my lords and ladies. Nowhere does scandal flourish quite like it.

Yours Truly,
Lady Whistledown

Chapter End Notes

An Ace of Spades is a Regency term used for widows. Our Aces of Spades are - of course -
Lady Euphemia Peverell and the Dowager Duchess Lady Minerva McGonagall. I thought they
deserved a chapter title for all their scheming, do you agree?

My name is Mary and I am @wearingaberetinparis on Tumblr! Thank you very much for
reading my stories and letting me know you enjoy them. I truly appreciate it.
 The Friday-Faced Gobble-Cock
Chapter Summary

Bluestocking is a term for an educated, intellectual woman, originally a member of the 18th-
century Blue Stockings Society from England led by the hostess and critic Elizabeth Montagu.
The Bluestockings attempted to replace social evenings spent playing cards with something
more intellectual. Afterwards, the term bluestocking came to be applied to women with
learned or literary interests. Furhtermore, the Pink of the Ton is a term which is generally
applied only to males and refers to a man at the height of fashion. A dandy.

Combining these two, I have created the title "Pinkest Bluestocking of the Ton", meaning that
Lily is the ton's most popular learned young woman, which will most certainly be true for Lily
in this Jily Bridgerton AU. She will have her pick of suitors, even if she will only ever truly be
interested in one.

Chapter Notes

I continue to love reading your comments. Thank you so much for your support for this fic!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

 Dearest Reader,

The first proper ball of the Season is upon us, the Dumbledores hosting many a member of the Ton
at Hogwarts House, the Royal Family expected to be in attendance too. A flurry of carriages has
pulled up outside Madam Malkin's in the past few weeks with many a mama fussing over the
perfect fit of their offspring's costumes for the evening. Miss Greengrass - Diamond of the Season -
has reportedly ordered herself a dress in royal blue, making it no great mystery as to whom she is
hoping to impress.

"You are not cross?" She searched her friend's face, looking for any possible signs of
disappointment or aversion.
"Cross?" The Princess Royal held her hands, squeezed them. "How could I ever be cross with you
when you are so blissfully happy?" Mary seemed genuinely pleased as she said this. "You must
know, Lily, that it was only ever my express design to ensure your happiness. Remember that you
insisted the Duke of Peverell had no feelings beyond friendly fondness for you and how miserable
you felt as you considered rejecting his proposal a great error." Her friend's smile widened. "Now it
seems that you will get what your heart has so long desired after all, even if it means that I will
have to welcome Miss Greengrass to the family and will need to act as if I can actually stand her."
She pulled a face at the end of that phrase.

"My sincere apologies on the latter," she spoke, relieved. "I did feel terribly bad about leaving your
cousin to wander the maze by himself, but I -" she flushed, could hardly tell her what had distracted
her as she had run out of the maze, trying to escape him, only to find the Duke of Peverell there,
her heart skipping a beat. "I suppose his compliments overwhelmed me."

"He does overdo it sometimes, yes," the princess laughed, rolling her eyes. "Luckily, Miss
Greengrass seems to thrive on his attention. Sometimes I wonder if she will beg him for more." A
laugh escaped her. "Anyway, let's move on and talk about what truly matters: you and the duke!
Tell me everything there is to know."

She dropped her eyes, shy as she hardly ever found herself in James' company, when she forgot
about what was proper or expected of young ladies of the Ton, merely focused on how he made her
feel and how she wanted to experience more of it. She had never been greedier for anyone's
attention than she was for his, her heart swelling in size ever single time she laid eyes on him. She
didn't think - when her heart ached and she lamented the loss of him - that she could ever love him
more than she did at that time. Now, she thought she might be in danger of growing to love him
more every single day.

"Miss Evans," spoke her friend in a tone of voice that seemed to imply that she was most
enraptured, "what have you done to go so quiet on me?" She scooted closer, her voice dropping.
"Tell me, have you... kissed?" Her face was aglow. "My, you have! Tell me, what was it like? Did a
choir of angels start to sing as soon as your lips touched for the first time?"

She brought her hands up to her face, covering her coloured cheeks. "Mary, I cannot possibly -"

"Well, you clearly did, so you might as well share the news with me. Remember that Prince
Reginald will be arriving soon to sweep me off my feet if my parents have any say in it. Seeing as
he has been married before, I need all the information I can possibly get."

She inhaled shakily, wringing her hands, her smile demure. "I suppose what I can say is that it is
very pleasant."

"Lily!" Her friend playfully hit her arm. "That is a given, of course. You need to give me just a little
bit more. How am I to know what to do?"

Lily bit her lip before letting out a deep sigh. "I suppose that when he kisses me, I feel as if I am set
on fire, every part of me feels alive, like I didn't live fully before he held me in his arms and his lips
touched mine." She felt embarrassed confessing as much, but the way that her friend's face softened
as she said this emboldened her a little. "Honestly, Mary, I never knew that I could feel like this,
that this was what it would be like. There are so many things that we do not know, that we aren't
told."
"Like what?" Asked the princess, eyes filled with an eager curiosity.

Luckily, before Lily was forced to answer that question - stuttering her way through her answer -
Prince Amos arrived, halting in his stride as soon as he laid eyes on Lily, his back stiffening, his
jaw clenching. "Ah, Miss Evans," he spoke, sounding strained, "I did not know you were here."

"We will be readying ourselves for the Dumbledore Ball together," Mary said, happy to speak for
her, it seemed, something she was truly most grateful for.

"I see," the prince had not moved in their direction, tilting his chin proudly. "I have promised the
first dance to Miss Greengrass," his eyes flitted to Lily's, perhaps trying to detect some sort of
jealousy. "She is a most terrific young woman, very talented too. Have you ever had the pleasure of
hearing her play the pianoforte, Miss Evans? It is truly exceptional."

"I have not," she responded.

"Hmm," he huffed through his nose, "well, you are truly missing out. Perhaps you will have the
pleasure of hearing her play tonight. I might join her for a song. I have been told I am quite the
singer," Lily nodded politely and the prince pompously asked: "Does the Duke of Peverell sing?"

"Not that I know of," she admitted, feeling the corners of her lips twitch.

"I reckon he might be a good one, do you not think?" Mary asked her innocently. "He does have a
pleasant voice when he speaks, do you not agree, Lily?" Prince Amos glowered at his cousin's
words that Lily readily agreed to, thinking that she liked it best when his voice deepened with his
desire for her. Never hold back, not with me. She had to suppress a shiver.

The prince hummed again, mumbling that he had to get into his own costume, Mary bursting out
into loud, unforgiving laughter as soon as her cousin had disappeared. "Oh, Lily, he is deeply
miserable! So clearly very, very jealous!"

She shushed the princess. "Please, I feel bad enough as it is -" Mary shook her head, however.

"Do not," she said happily. "Now, tell me more about your duke and how he makes you feel. It
delights me to see you so deeply in love," she opened her mouth to protest - what, she did not
know, because her friend's words rang true, embarrassingly so. "Oh, Lily, you do not know how
pleased I am for you! I think I might swoon at the sight of the two of you on the dancefloor."

Her own heart surged, remembering James' words as he had told her that he wished to dance with
only her. "No more than three times, though," she had told him as he had kissed her neck, her eyes
dropping closed, her hands holding on to his firm shoulders. "They will think us fast if we do." He
had chuckled against the bare skin of her neck, causing goosebumps to erupt all over her skin, her
body pressing closer to his.

"Are we not?" He had asked, his hand ever so slowly travelling up her waist, resting just under her
breasts. She had pushed him off of her, he laughing ever so loudly before his hands cradled her face
and he kissed her on the lips once more. "I know, I know," he had muttered, "I am giving you time,
my love."
She supposed they would need to contain themselves at the ball that evening, that she would need
to stamp lightly on his foot when his hands lowered a little too much as they waltzed around the
room, that she would need to admonish him for being too forward, hanging around her as much as
he did. They would need to keep up appearances a little longer, even if it was increasingly difficult.
It was just... she did not know what held her back. Or... she did, but she did not want to face it. Her
humiliation still too great to bear, even if the Dowager Duchess had saved her and Petunia, had
generously given her the future that she had thought had disappeared.

The idea that James might find out, though... it made her feel sick to her stomach.

The question, however, is whether Prince Amos and the young woman he has resigned himself to
courting after Miss Evans' jilting, will be the Beau and Belle of the Ball or whether this title will go
to a certain duke and his lady love. The pair have - this writer has it on good authority - been
almost inseparable, spending nearly every day together since the Duke of Peverell had four
hundreds red roses delivered at Elphinstone House.

The Dumbledores were a family of three siblings: Albus, Aberforth and Ariana. None of them had
ever married, but their balls were the highlight of the Season, the very start of it, too. The room was
heavily decorated, garlands running between the chandeliers, all parts of the room sparkling in its
brightness, nearly as dazzling as the white of the dresses worn by the many ladies, the feathers in
their hairs extravagant, one larger and higher up than the other.

Lily stood near the edge of it, the Dowager Duchess standing beside her as she waited for James to
arrive, her view more of the entrance more often than not obstructed by the headdress of the ladies,
she herself wearing a white, satin ribbon in her hair, which was woven through her auburn updo.
She spotted Miss Greengrass in the middle of the room. The young woman wore the largest feather
in the room, waving her fan about rather nervously, Lily thought. Clearly - as was she - awaiting
the presence of her suitor.

"Dowager Duchess, Miss Evans," Lord Black appeared in front of them, accompanied by another
sandy-haired gentleman. He was tall, sandy-haired, his shoulders slightly hunched over, as if he
bore the weight of the world on his shoulders, "may I introduce you to Mr Lupin?"

She curtsied, the Dowager Duchess inclining her head in greeting. "How do you do?" She asked,
smiling kindly at the man standing in front of her. The corners of Mr Lupin's lips were curled
upwards as he observed her with keen interest, a sharpness to his gaze that - she thought - revealed
a quick mind.
"Mr Lupin is a friend of myself and the duke's," Lord Black spoke, eyes locked on hers. "It is
imminent, Miss Evans, if you intend to court him that you must get to know the two of us as well as
you possibly can. We thus insist to dance with you tonight. Unfortunately, Mr Pettigrew - our other
friend - is otherwise engaged -"

"You only need dance with us if you so wish, Miss Evans," the man named Mr Lupin interrupted
Lord Black, his voice soft yet commanding attention. "Knowing the Duke of Peverell, perhaps you
have been fully booked."

She laughed softly, reaching for the dance card which dangled off her arm, offering it to the
gentlemen in question. Lord Black took it eagerly, exclaiming joyfully: "The Polka is left
unclaimed! Oh, Miss Evans, you will feel as if you have never danced before and will never want
to dance the same dance with another man!" She laughed, shaking her head as the man scribbled
his name, noting how Lady McGonagall's lips quirked in amusement too.

Mr Lupin signed up to dance be her partner for the Quadrille before she retrieved her dance card,
noting the name of the Duke of Peverell for three other dances - one of them being the first waltz of
the night - her stomach fluttering at the sight of his familiar scrawl.

"Would you like a refreshment, Miss Evans?" Asked Mr Lupin, holding out his arm for her to take.
Keen to get to know one more of James' friends, she followed him, leaving Lord Black in the
Dowager Duchess' company.

"How do you know the duke?" She asked him when they reached the drinks in the corner of the
room, Mr Lupin reaching for a glass of punch which he handed to her with a smile.

"Cambridge," he answered. "I was a student there. I read theology."

Her spine tingled, her curiosity peaked. "How exciting that you got to attend university," she told
him. "I wish I had been able to. I have a real appreciation for the sciences -"

"Yes," Mr Lupin smiled, inclining his head, "the duke has often spoken of it. He says that you are
have the most inquisitive mind that he knows, beating even mine." His eyes twinkled. "I am afraid
that I feel like I know you already, Miss Evans, from all that I have heard about you in the past
years." Her cheeks, coloured, more than pleased to have this titbit of information revealed to her.

"I do hope I will not disappoint now that you have met me officially," she took a sip of her punch,
looking at him over the rim of it. "The duke does tend to be rather dramatic and I am certain he
may have exaggerated about a thing or two -"

"So far," Mr Lupin interjected warmly, "I find his descriptions to be rather accurate."

She and Mr Lupin returned to Lord Black and the Dowager Duchess, chatting amicably - and in
Lord Black's case animatedly - until the presence of the Duke of Peverell was announced, his
friends finding him near instantly, she hovering in his periphery once Lady Peverell had joined the
Dowager Duchess. His eyes caught hers, his smile widening as he clearly intended to make his way
over to her, but a man stopped him, grabbing his arm and engaging him in a conversation. She
waited ever so impatiently, her skin tingling in anticipation of his arrival when the hairs on the back
of her neck stood on end, a sensation of being watched prickling at the back of her head. She turned
it, her heart beating painfully against her ribs, almost as if she knew which sight would await her.
When her eyes locked on Severus Snape's, all air escaped her.

For sure, this will be the Ton's first time seeing the loved up pair dance, allowing for the mamas
and their noble daughters to decide whether the duke is worth pursuing still or is best to be left
alone as well as behind due to his being caught up in his courting of Miss Evans. (This author
suggests that any and all of them stop wasting their time, allowing themselves to move on and
consider the prospects still available.)

Her lungs hurt, her chest ached. Cold air meeting her skin as she made her way into the garden in
an attempt to escape the oppressive nature of his gaze. She should have known better, she should
have known he would follow her, he had never known when to keep his distance before, so why
should he now?

"Lily, please -"

"Don't!" She whirled on him, eyes narrowed. "Do not call me that. I am Miss Evans to you -"

The darkness obstructed his face for the most part, but she didn't need to see him to recognize that
he was already frustrated. "For how long will that remain so? You are so openly vying for the title
of the Duchess of Peverell that it is almost pathetic. Honestly, you are making a fool of yourself,
throwing yourself at him as if you are a Bird of Paradise -"

"What is it to you?" Furious with the man standing in front of her. "Have you not done enough?
Did your one attempt to ruin me once and for all not satisfy you?"

"It was never my intention -"

"Not your intention?" She let out a laugh of exasperation. "I am sure you did not intend to gamble
my and my sister's dowry away, Mr Snape, but what matters is that you did. That you took the
money without us knowing, without our express consent, knowing that it was the only thing we had
left -"

"I was trying to help!" The man hissed, taking a step towards her, his fingers reaching for her own,
but she took three steps back for his one step forward. "Miss Evans -" he had apparently learned
from his earlier mistake of calling her by her first name, "- you must know that all I ever did, all I
will ever do, is to ensure your happiness? I wished to double your dowry, to present you with the
money, to care for you. I never thought we would find ourselves on the rocks, that we would end up
being in debt -"

"You," she spoke, "not we, not for years." She made to walk around him, to return to the ballroom,
but he grasped her arm, his grip vice-like.

"Your father employed mine for years, then he died, leaving mine destitute, pushing him towards
the drink -" she tried to pull herself free, but to no avail, "- we grew up together. You might have
enjoyed your summers gallivanting with the Duke of Peverell -" he spat out the name, "- but it is I
who has always been there, I who has always waited, I who was there for you in the darkest of
times, who ensured that Cokeworth House was kept running when you and your sister could not -"

"It was you indeed," she snipped. "It was you who took our money, our parents' money which they
had set aside for Petunia and myself. You took it and you squandered it, leaving us penniless," she
managed to break away from his grip now, tears burning behind her eyes as she heard the first tunes
of the waltz, the one that she was set to dance with James. She wondered if he were looking for her,
if he were concerned, bile rising up her throat at the thought of him coming outside and finding her
in the presence of another gentleman. "I beg you to leave me alone, I am trying to move on, to
make something of myself -"

"Has he made you an offer?" She could hear him following her.

"Of marriage?" She asked, turning on him once more, even if she knew she probably shouldn't
have. "Not yet, but he will -"

Anger flashed across his face as he snarled: "I knew it." He neared her further, his eyes dark and
unforgiving as he said: "You do not know what men like him are like, what they want -"

"I think I know what he wants better than you do," she challenged him, cocking an eyebrow.

"Do you?" He had the audacity to laugh at her. "He started in the petticoat line, sweet-talking
women such as yourself and Miss Greengrass, he has no sense of propriety..." he sneered. "You
forget that I work with him now. I have heard him speak, seen him strut about as if he owns all of
Westminster, have heard him speak about his adventures in Europe were he went to - undoubtedly -
tie his garter up in public -" he leaned forward, tip of his nose dangerously close to touching hers,
she recoiled. "You know nothing, Miss Evans," he spoke, scoffing at her, treading - he knew,
he knew how much this would hurt her - in dangerous waters. "He may be charming now, but he
will tire of you. He will fill you up with his seed, demand an heir and once you have given him one,
he will lose any and all respect and interest, seek his pleasure elsewhere -"

"You clearly do not know him at all," she told him icily. "James loves me -"

The smile that played on his lips was cruel. "I knew you to be naive, Lily, but your cluelessness is
actually laughable." She shoved him, he - surprised as he was - losing his balance, tripping over his
own feet and landing on his backside. "You wench -!"

"I hate you," she hissed at him. "Speak to me again and you will come to regret it." Not truly
knowing what she had said, she turned back around, headed inside and left him out in the cold.
 Disregarding Prince Amos and the Duke of Peverell, there will be many other gentleman in
attendance whom are most certainly worth batting one's eyelashes at. The honourable Mr
Longbottom or the elusive Mr Black, for example - although this writer reckons the latter is to be
avoided unless one is brave enough to tame a rake - are strong contenders now that the Duke of
Peverell has been taken off - we might as well face it - the metaphorical market. (Note that Master
Slughorn was not included on this list. Seeing as the man cannot stand to be rejected, all ladies and
mamas should steer most clear.)

"Li - Miss Evans," his gloved hands found hers, brow furrowed as he took in the state of her. She
was certain she was flushed from the cold as well as her anger. "I was looking for you everywhere.
You owe me a waltz, the first one has already ended." She looked past his shoulder, noticing that
the pairs on the dancefloor were now dancing the Allemande.

"I did not feel well," she told him, a half-truth. "I needed to get some air and I hadn't realized -" He
was clearly concerned, holding out his arm for her to take and when she had, leading her out of the
main ballroom and into the hallway off the side. He stopped, turned around to face her, one of his
hands coming up to brush against her cheek.

"All colour has left you," he spoke softly, leaning forward to press a kiss against her forehead, "you
look as if you are on the point of fainting."

"Exactly what one wants to hear when they spent the entire afternoon getting ready -"

"You know that I think you are beautiful always," his thumb brushed against her cheekbone, a
crease between his brows. "I am merely concerned. You looked like the very picture of health when
I saw you earlier, then I turned to speak to Alastor Moody for a moment and when I turned back
you had gone."

"I did not mean to miss our first dance," she apologized, regretful. She had wanted nothing more
than to dance with him, had so looked forward to it in the past few days and now - as he seemed
wont to do - Severus Snape had ruined it.

"I do not care about that," he told her, then adding in barely more than a whisper, one of his hands
now coming to rest against her stomach: "Is it your courses?"

"James," she covered his mouth with her hand, her cheeks warming up again, "that is not
something you can ask a woman in public. Imagine what might have happened if anyone had
walked past?" He raised his eyebrows, the question he was asking her apparent and she huffed. "I
do know it would hardly be the most compromising position we could have been caught in, but
there are strict protocols for us to follow when we are in public -" she took her hand off his mouth.
"We are already in great danger of damaging my reputation -"

"I know, I know," he replied, leaning back just slightly, his eyes searching hers. "I am merely
concerned -"

"About anything but my reputation, it seems," she spoke amusedly. He seemed to want to interrupt,
but she stopped him, her hands on his shoulders. "I am well again," she told him. "I was just feeling
a little faint, a little out of sorts -" I knew you to be naive, Lily, but your cluelessness is actually
laughable.

"Are you certain?" He asked. "We could go back in and find the Dowager Duchess. I could call for
my carriage and escort the both of you home. I do not care for the ball -"

"Please," she begged him, "let us pretend that we didn't miss our first waltz. The last thing I would
wish for the both of us is for this night to end before it has even begun. I wish to forget this ever
happened, want to begin the night anew -"

He hummed, his hand holding onto hers, their fingers entangling. "Are you certain that all is well
again?" He pulled her a little closer. "You do know that you can always speak to me?" Her heart
beat frantically now, panic rising as she wondered at what he might have seen. His eyes searched
her face, a silence fell. His fingers squeezed hers. "Whatever it might be," he told her, his gaze on
hers, "I will always be on your side." She froze, terrified. He sighed. "Lily -"

"It was nothing," she told him. "Whatever you think you might have seen -"

"Did he -?"

"James, please -"

"You would tell me if I need to defend your honour -?"

"Defend my honour -?"

"It is a valid concern!"

She felt frustrated. "You would draw your pistol and duel him? Over absolutely nothing?"

"Clearly," he spoke, agitated now too, "whatever happened out there was something." His nostrils
flared. "What were you thinking? Going out there without a chaperone?"

"Without a -" she stepped away from him, exasperated, "- you do realize that any and all damage
done to my honour - if that is what it must be called, but surely it must for I am a woman - has been
inflicted by you?" He dropped his head back, looking up at the ceiling. "I am not obliged to tell you
everything, but I can assure you that there is no need for you to fear that what you feel already
belongs to you -"

He was very obviously annoyed now. "What does that - I do not believe you belong -"

"I will once we marry," she interrupted him. "I will cease to exist, everything that I am will belong
 to you." He will tire of you. He will fill you up with his seed, demand an heir and once you have
given him one, he will lose any and all respect and interest, seek his pleasure elsewhere - she closed
her eyes, wanting to silence her thoughts, the words he had uttered and she knew to be untrue, that
is... she believed them to be untrue, needed them to be.

"I merely wish to protect you," he tried to reason. "I did not mean anything by it. I just wish to
know why you would lie to me, why you would feel the need to tell me you were unwell when you
-" She turned away from him, wishing to return to the dancefloor. "Lily -"

"I wish to dance," she told him. "All I want to do tonight is dance."

She left him standing there, heard him call for her again, her cheeks flushed as she re-entered the
ballroom, wishing to forget about this evening, haunted by a past that she could not leave behind,
too embarrassed, too ashamed, too saddened still to have been betrayed by someone she had once
believed to be her friend, wondering if those she considered to be one now could ever be fully
trusted.

Now, this author needs to sign off, dearest readers, for a ball awaits and surely you want to hear all
about what has transpired come morning, living vicariously through the penned word. Rest assured
that there will be news to relay, for if the Ton will deliver - and does it not always? - so will I.

Yours Truly,
Lady Whistledown

Chapter End Notes

- When one is friday-faced, they are sad and a gobble-cock is someone who is less important
than a duke.
- A Bird of Paradise is Regency slang for a woman of easy virtue.
- When one starts in the petticoat line, it means that they associate with women of easy virtue.
- To tie one's garter up in public refers to shocking behaviour.
- Courses = menstrual period.

My name is Mary and I am @wearingaberetinparis on Tumblr. Thank you for reading what
my mind comes up with!
 The Cock-Sure Pinkest of the Pinks
Chapter Summary

Dearest Reader, the ton are abuzz with the latest gossip, and so it is my honour to impart to
you the news that the Duke of Peverell has returned to London at last! A year after setting off
on his tour of Europe, Lady Peverell's son has returned and rumour has it that his mother is
preparing for the most joyous of occasions: a late summer wedding that sees her son wed the
next Duchess of Peverell. It is my sincere hope that you have stored a bottle of wine for this
most delightful of upcoming events for if ever there were a more determined mama, this writer
is Icarus and this society paper has been scorched for flying too close to the sun.

A Jily Regency Romance inspired by Shondaland's "Bridgerton".

Chapter Notes

Your enthusiasm for this story truly warms my heart! After a week of work, I am so excited to
be back to writing this. I hope you'll enjoy this update.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

 Dearest Reader,

As this author predicted, the Dumbledores' Hogwarts House ball was a most successful evening for
many a lady and gentleman of the Ton. Mamas schemed behind their fans and rejoiced as their
offspring danced not just once but perhaps even twice with the same partner. Yet, all joy aside, it
appears that a certain duke was rather otherwise preoccupied. This writer witnessed a most
interesting altercation between the Duke of Peverell and Mr Snape, the Prime Minister's scribe.
Was it a simple difference of opinion - the pair do both frequent Westminster, after all - or did Miss
Evans' intervention point at something of a different and all the more interesting nature?

"Lily!" She disappeared from view and he cursed under his breath, running a hand through the hair
he had attempted to tame for the purposes of the Dumbledore's Ball - or, at the very least, in an
attempt to pacify his mother. When he dropped his hand, he pulled at his cravat, the neck-tie
restrictive now that his frustration had peaked.

I am not obliged to tell you everything! Her words had been sharp, a pistol aimed at his heart,
which she had claimed he would draw - although she had most certainly not been wrong here - at
Mr Snape if her honour need be defended. I can assure you that there is no need for you to fear that
what you feel already belongs to you - Was he wrong to think so? Was he wrong to believe that the
moments they had shared, the kisses that had left him burning, aching for the whole of her, meant
that there was an understanding between them? Had her request for time not been a not so well-
hidden and coded wish to be his as he was hers?

He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. He could not stay here. He would need to follow
her and see - if it was the only thing she would allow - that she was safe, that Mr Snape - whatever
he had been doing, however the two of them might know one another well enough to meet outside
as they had, to anger Lily so... he willed his mind not to jump to wild and unfounded conclusions -
would not bother her no more. He would just need to buck up, play the part of the Duke of Peverell
and refrain from - however difficult this might be - landing Mr Snape a facer, resorting to throwing
him daggers with his eyes merely.

There was no mirror to check his complexion, meaning that one hand through his hair would need
to do and he went out, the music swelling with every step he took towards the ballroom, entering it,
eyes locking on the colourful array of ball gowns, the sound of merry laughter, the half-sprung eyes
of gentlemen and ladies of the Ton alike meeting his as he wormed his way through the crowd in an
attempt to get to his friend Mr Lupin, whom hovered at the edge of the dancefloor.

The gentleman raised his eyebrows at the sight of him, his voice lowered as he asked: "Are you
quite all right, James?" He shrugged, gritting his teeth as he scanned the room for a glimpse of
auburn. He caught sight of her on the other end, speaking to the Princess Royal, cheeks flushed and
eyes a little wild, he thought. "You seem out of sorts," his friend continued, a gentle nudge of his
shoulder against his own. "Is it the dance? I am sure Miss Evans meant nothing by it. She seems
awfully fond of you -"

"I am utterly splendid, my dear chap," he interjected somewhat bitterly, her anger - you do realize
that any and all damage done to my honour has been inflicted by you? - still fresh in his mind.
"Whatever might make you think otherwise?"

"Well -"

He did not wait for his friends to reply, stiffening as his eyes settled on the gentleman that had been
the cause of his damnation that evening. He pursed his lips, straightened his shoulders, set off to
find the man lurking in the corners, ignoring - in an echo of his own desperation to stop Miss Evans
a mere ten minutes earlier - his friend's insistent hissing of his name as Remus - clearly recognizing
that he was up to no good - followed hot on his heels.

"Where do you think -?" He heard his friend say, eyes staying on Prime Minister Dumbledore's
hook-nosed scribe, deaf to all but the furious pounding of his heart in his ears. "James, my god,
what has gotten into you?"

He could not think straight, saw red, a fire having ignited within him that was most unlike the
passion that Lily’s presence lit. He got ever closer, noted how Mr Snape’s gaze was - as his own
would have been under different circumstances - drinking in the sight of Miss Evans, causing him
to snap and grab the man’s cravat, pushing him against the wall, a muscle in his jaw ticking as his
hazels met the black of his adversary’s.

"What did you do to her?" He spoke between gritted teeth, the man's eyes wide with panic. "What
did you say?"

"How predictable," said the man, sounding just a little hoarse from the force with which he was
held in place. "Of course, it would be something I did, something I said," the man sneered.

"You will have me believe that she started it?"

"James -" Remus spoke again, hand on his shoulder, pulling him backwards, so that his grip on Mr
Snape's cravat loosened, the gentleman grasping at his neck in an unnecessary - or so James
thought - show of dramatics, "- this is not the time or place," his friend continued. "Surely, you do
not want to embarrass -"

"This is not the time or place to harass and offend a young woman either," he spoke, narrowing his
eyes at the Prime Minister's scribe, "however, this seems to be exactly what -"

"Offend?" The other man stepped forward, furious. "Surely, I could not have offended her. I merely
reminded her of her place, of her past, of what we meant to each other, what she means to me still
and -" James took an involuntary step backward, his mind reeling over the man's words. What they
had meant to each other? His breath caught in his throat, he felt sick to his stomach, seeing her
earlier response to his temper and concern - her flushed cheeks, her frustration, her insistence that
he would not protect her - in a different light altogether. Surely, this did not mean -? "Whatever she
might have told you -"

He stepped back further, his ears ringing.

It was nothing.

It was nothing.

It was nothing.

"Miss Evans and I are more than well-acquainted," Mr Snape spoke, straightening his costume.
"Now, if you mind -" the gentleman tried to step around him, but he would not allow it.

Part of him - his heart hammering, begging to be let out, so it could wallow in its damaged state -
believed himself to have been fooled, to have been deceived, while another part of him... who was
this man? How dared he accuse Lily - however indirectly - of what he seemed to be implying
existed between them. She had pushed him away from herself, he had seen it happen, had hidden in
the shadows as he had been about to march outside and demand the man let her go as she so clearly
requested, knowing that she would appreciate solving her problems herself.

"You lie," he spoke, stepping towards him again, towering over him. The room was loud and
boisterous, the mood rather jolly as the music had picked up its pace. It served well to conceal the
argument between the two gentleman at the very edge of the room. "You will regret ever coming
near her. Do not seek her company again, or -"
"James," a gentle and familiar touch, the tinkle of her voice, caused him to turn his head. She
seemed rather upset with him, even if he took some comfort in the fact that while she looked at
him, the other one was ignored. "Please do not, not here, not tonight." Her eyes pleaded with him,
begged him to listen, her cheeks flushed in shame. "Everyone will see, they will ask questions, we
will be on everyone's tongue -" Her gloved hand found his, squeezed it. "None of this is worth it,
please do not embarrass me as it will tarnish my reputation."

"It is always about you, is it not, Lily?" Snarled Mr Snape. "I suppose the only surprise of the
Season so far is the fact that you turned down a prince for a duke. You are just like your sister, are
you not? You only care for your good name and standing in society. Heaven forbid you might -"

He lunged, but Remus' arms wrapped around his waist, dragging him backwards. "Do not -" his
whisper was urgent. "Nothing good will come of it."

He could think of a couple of things which might bring him a sense of satisfaction, but listened all
the same, relaxing in his friend's hold, whom - in turn - loosened his grip, allowing James to
straighten himself. Lily seemed rather listless all of a sudden, her shoulders having drooped and he
wanted nothing more than to shield her from this man, from the vitriol he spewed, from the pain he
had - he could see so clearly - caused her. Yet, this was not the time.

Time, he thought bitterly. It truly tested his patience these days.

The music in the room swelled, indicating the end of yet another dance and he turned to Miss
Evans, holding out his hand for her to take. She did not hesitate - however much of her colour
might have left her, however shaken she might have appeared and however clearly she might have
avoided his eye - and followed him to the dancefloor.

Yet, despite Miss Evans' intervention - by the looks of it the lady prevented a duel - she and the
Dowager Duchess were quick to return home, calling for their carriage after the young woman
danced with the Duke of Peverell only once, a rather miserable one which we find ourselves
troubled over. Surely, the intensity of their feelings for one another could not have died down so
soon?

He bowed as she curtsied, his right hand on her upper back as his left one grasped hers, the both of
them getting into step as the musicians started to play, his feet all too familiar with the steps that he
had been forced to study until he had perfected them, his tutor - a certain Mr Lockhart, whom he
had greatly disliked - hitting him with his cane if he slouched or did not move his feet in the pattern
he ought to have mastered after he was first explained the theory behind them. Or, so his tutor had
expected him to.

Dancing - as a result - had never brought him much joy and it was ironic that - even now, with the
woman he had dreamed of for as long as he could remember, after days of looking forward to it - he
was reluctant to waltz. She seemed to find it a chore, too. That, or she was wary of dancing with
him, which pained him and further increased his hopes for the song to end as quickly as it had
started.

These thoughts had seemed near impossible in the days leading up to the ball in which the prospect
of dancing with her had delighted him, had made his heart soar, had made him feel proud to finally
showcase his affection for her for all of the Ton to observe.

Yet, here they were, he thought as he led her into a slow underarm turn, the argument they had just
had, still staining the air between them.

"You should not have gone up to him," she told him, the corners of her lips downturned. "He is not
a friend -"

"Then what is he?" He asked. "Foe?"

A disbelieving huff of air escaped her. "The fact that you need even ask after how he just spoke to
me -"

"I would like to hear it from you directly, Lily," he muttered under his breath, his feet guiding the
pair of them as if they were weightless, a feat that should be impossible for the heaviness of his
heart. "Perhaps if you would just tell me what he has done -" he inhaled sharply. "He spoke of your
past, that the two of you meant something to one another, that -"

"Well, he is a gentleman, is he not? Should you not believe his word over mine? I am but a woman,
what do I know of honour other than that it must not be ruined?"

His anger flared. "Why do you speak so? I have always thought you were brilliant. You know how
much I admire your mind." He pulled her a little closer against him than was appropriate, tips of his
fingers pressing down ever so gently against the satin of her dress, her breath hitched. "Lily," he
started ever so softly, "what did he say to upset you? What has he done? There is nothing you could
say that could possibly change the fact that my heart beats only for yours."

Her bottom lip trembled and for a moment he thought she might confess, but she merely shook her
head. "I do not want you to think of me differently, even if you promise me your feelings for me
will not alter, I do not want you to know that I -" she blinked back tears and he wished he could
stop their twirling, that he could halt in the middle of the dancefloor and hold her face between his
hands, his thumbs catching the drops that threatened to spill. "Not tonight, James, please just -" the
music died down, an applause breaking out, she stepping out of his arms. "I will tell you if I must,
if you insist, but I cannot do so tonight."

"Lily -" he stepped forward, wanting to take her hand in his, to place a lingering kiss there, but she
distanced herself further.

"Please excuse me to your friends. I have asked the Dowager Duchess to take me home."
 After Miss Evans' departure, it was Miss Greengrass - Diamond of the Season - and the Princess
Royal who enthralled many a gentleman. Prince Amos, of course, claimed two dances with the
former and one with his cousin, while the Duke of Peverell and his mother were seen leaving not
too soon after the Dowager Duchess and her ward did, leaving the ball looking rather deprived of
some of its expected splendour.

"Where were you last night?" He asked Sirius as he paced the floor of the lord's drawing room.
"You all but disappeared on me."

"As you did earlier," his brother spoke, notebook in hand as he dipped his pen into ink and then
returned to his scribbles. "I thought you would be grateful that I covered for you and Miss Evans as
you guided her away from the ballroom. Imagine if anyone had stumbled on the both of you, I have
a feeling we might have been in a church, arranging a hasty marriage if that had been the case."

He huffed, tugged at his curls. "I fear the opposite," he complained. "She asked for time and I
granted it, but I now wonder if I am a fool for not getting down on one knee when I had the chance
-"

"To be fair, you did go on one knee for her before," Sirius shrugged, rereading some of what he had
written.

"Do not remind me," he agonized, moving to sit opposite Lord Black. "What are you writing
anyway? I have never known you to be this focused."

With a sigh, Sirius put his pen down, closing his notebook and balancing it on his legs. "I have
decided that I would like to be a poet," he said solemnly. "I think it a suitable profession, would you
not agree? You know I hate to exert myself. As a poet, I merely need to put my pen to paper and let
the words flow. I have decided that you are to be my muse."

"Your muse?" He asked sceptically, raising his eyebrow, a disbelieving chuckle escaping him.

"Why, yes," Sirius nodded, "you are so sentimental and so freely share your feelings with me. You
must see that you a prime bit of blood to a poet such as myself."

"Hilarious is what you are," he rubbed his hand over his face, groaned. "How did I manage to make
such a mull of things? Only a couple of days before I was blissfully happy, secured in the
knowledge that she loved me as I do her. Now, I -" he sat up again, looked at his friend, filled with
despair, "- do you think she loved him once too?" Do you think she loves him still?
"Who?" Questioned Sirius, only to add, wrinkling his nose: "Surely, you cannot be talking about
Mr Snape?"

"Whom else would I be talking about?" He lamented. "He spoke about their past, about what they
had meant to one another, about what she means to him still -"

"Which could mean absolutely anything," Lord Black interjected. "James, it is abundantly clear that
whatever happened between the two of them once upon a time, is very much over now and that
Miss Evans has no interest in him whatsoever. To claim or believe otherwise is laughable."

These words should relieve him and to a certain extent they did, but then he remembered how their
argument, how they had parted. "What could be so awful that she did not want to tell me?" He
stood again, walked over to Sirius' window which looked out over Hyde Park. "Do you think she
doubts me when I say that I adore her? Should I do more to show her that I want for nothing but
her? That she is all I think about every single day -"

"- and night," Sirius added dryly, causing James to flush even if his best friend spoke the truth and
he could not sleep for his desire for her, remembering the feel of her lips against his, the sounds that
she made as his fingers trailed up her thigh... "Mark my words, you will cause her to sprain her
ankle if you are not careful."

"Sprain her -" he turned, noticed the grin on Lord Black's face and then sent him a look that
indicated his lack of amusement. "I will only bed her when we are married," he spoke somewhat
loftily, his aspiration sincere, even if it would ask a considerable amount of his self-constraint. Only
the other day had her fingers brushed - not so accidentally by the looks of the smirk playing at her
lips as he had groaned, even if she had blinked up at him innocently afterwards - against his erect
cock and he had thought he might die from the way she managed to steal his breath.

Sirius snorted. "Obviously, you are setting yourself up to fail rather dramatically. Have no fear! I
offer to act as a chaperone, I will not part from your side in support of your goal, of you and I -
hey!" James had grabbed one of the sofa's cushions and thrown it at his friend's face. "Most
ungrateful you are, Duke of Peverell!"

"You are a rascal, Lord Black," he spoke with a shake of his head.

"And you are nothing but a rake," his friend argued with a smile, "setting Miss Evans up for certain
ruination before marriage." He tutted. "It is a good thing that your mother and the Dowager
Duchess are so ready to pretend they have no idea what goes on when the two of you disappear
together. That, or they are desperate for you to procreate, which - in the case of Lady Peverell -
would not come as a surprise. I reckon she would rejoice if you and Miss Evans were to have a
little accident, so to speak."

His friend's words were dangerous, made him envision what Lily might look like in his bed, how
her hair would spill over the pillows as he hovered over her. Then, he thought about her silhouette,
nightdress falling over her swollen belly, which held their child, protected it from harm, let it grow.
He swallowed hard, had to remind himself that before any such thing were to happen, he would
need to make sure that their argument was resolved, that she would feel safe enough to reveal her
secrets to him, the source of her shame.
"In the shadows of his silent heart," Sirius then started, James looking at him with raised eyebrows,
"a man was entwined in love's sweet art. His gaze, a canvas of unspoken words, the symphony of
his love unheard. With every beat and tender sigh, he watched her beneath the moonlit sky. A
hopeless navigator in love's vast sea, his heart a captive of sweet decree. So, let the winds carry his
siren song, a tale of love that's pure and strong. For in the tapestry of his tender despair, she may
find the love he struggles to declare."

James blinked at him for a moment, taken aback before he narrowed his eyes ever so slightly. "You
did not just think that up," he spoke, suspicious even if part of him was in awe too for he had not
expected the gentleman's earlier declaration - of him wanting to be a poet - to have been sincere.
"Please tell me you did not, that you are quoting another man's work."

"Did you not recognize the depths of your own despair in my words? They are a reflection of your
deepest self, a mirror to your soul -"

"You jest," he spoke, walking up to him and reaching for the notebook in his lap. His friend's
reflexes, however, were fast and moved to sit on top of the book of his scribbles. "There is no way -
"

"Let yourself be amazed, my dear friend, and use my talents for what they are."

One particular highlight, however, was the unexpected arrival of the Danish Prince Reginald, a
fast friend of Prince Amos' whom had travelled to visit his friend and - so this author suspects had
been the request of the king and queen - to get to know the Princess Royal a little better. Given the
smile on the latter's face as she danced with Prince Reginald, this writer dares to place a bet that
one half of the new pair is fairly smitten. Love at first sight, it appears, does not merely exist in
fairytales. Or, perhaps, one's royal status contributes to the possibility of it.

"In the quiet moments, when the world stands still," he mumbled to himself, rehearsing the poem
Sirius had written him as he paced outside Elphinstone House, "I promise you, my love, I always
will. Through moonlit nights and the bright sun's rays, my love for you is an everlasting blaze." He
grimaced, knowing that his delivery left something to be desired, but hopeful that once he might
look her in the eye, the words might flow better.

He climbed the steps to Lady McGonagall's home, knocking on the front door, Mr Weasley - the
man stumbled over his words, most likely remembering the compromising position he had found
the Duke of Peverell and Miss Evans in just over two weeks ago - allowing him inside and into the
Dowager Duchess' drawing room, announcing him with a slight tremor in his voice.
Lady McGonagall stood, followed by Lily who would not meet his eye as she put down the book
she had been reading. Her cheeks were pink, her hands brushing against her skirts in an attempt - so
he imagined - to give herself something to do, to have a reason for the fact that she would not look
him in the eye.

"My Lord," spoke the Dowager Duchess, "we were not expecting you. What a pleasant surprise, is
it not, my dear Miss Evans?" There was something in the older woman's voice that indicated to him
that the two of them had discussed him earlier that day, the reddening of Lily's cheeks confirming
this only further. "You must be in want of some tea. Shall I see to it that we prepare a cream tea in
the gardens?" She did not wait for either of them to reply, already briskly making her way towards
the hallway, calling out for Mr Weasley, leaving the two of them behind.

He stood awkwardly near the fireplace, hat in his hands, knuckles whitened as he licked his lips.

"In the quiet -"

"James, I -"

They had spoken simultaneously and halted at the same time too, embarrassed as they looked down
at their feet, anywhere but at the other. His mind buzzed, wondered how he could possibly start but
with the verse that he had memorized, while also coming to the conclusion that he was an idiot for
thinking that the words might charm her into forgiveness of the crimes he had involuntarily
committed.

"Sirius helped me write a poem," he spoke, filling the silence that had followed each other's
awkward interruption. "I would like to recite it to you, if I may."

"A poem?" The surprise on her face was evident.

"Yes, I -" he swallowed hard, cold sweat beading on his forehead. "You see, I wish to let you know
how much I adore you, how I cherish you, how I -"

"James," she interrupted him, taking a couple of steps towards him now, stopping just before the
tips of his shoes brushed against the hem of her dress, "there is nothing you could say that would
convince me that you love me more than you have told me already. There is no need for you to tell
me the extent of it, I -" she turned away from him, obviously embarrassed. "I have been such a fool.
I had not expected to see you again, I thought I might have succeeded in ostracizing you and I
would not have blamed you for it if I had."

"Lily," he reached for her, wrapped his arms around her waist, was unable to help himself, "you
could never - how could I possibly stay away?"

"You would be wise to," she spoke ever so softly, leaning against his chest, letting his chin rest on
top of her head. "I took out my anger and frustration on you, while you did absolutely nothing to
deserve it. I was ashamed, absolutely mortified and I still am -" He only squeezed her waist, her
breath shaky. "I do not know what you will think of me when you find out the truth about it all."

He braced himself for the very worst - she must have loved Mr Snape once, it was the only
explanation - closed his eyes as he told her, sounding hoarse: "There is nothing that could possibly
 make me think less of you. I solemnly swear to you that -" he stopped, turned her in his arms,
grabbed her hands in his. "Let me read you the poem, I will be able to express myself more clearly,
more romantically -"

"James," she interrupted him, her eyes brimming with tears, "I am penniless. Without Lady
McGonagall's support and her willingness to be my and my sister's benefactress, I would have
absolutely nothing to my name."

He looked down on her and heaved a sigh.

This writer, however, is not yet ready to accept that the Princess Royal's and Prince Reginald's love
is the only one that is meant to be this Season. If she may thus lend the Duke of Peverell and Miss
Evans a helping hand, she just might. Every once in a while, after all, all one needs is just a little
push or a couple of well-placed strokes of one's pen.

Yours Truly,
Lady Whistledown

Chapter End Notes

- The Pinkest of the Pinks is a the most fashionable man of the Ton.
- Cock-sure is the Regency term for being proud and confident.
- To make a mull of something is to make a mess of things.
- To sprain your ankle is a euphemism for getting pregnant.

Thank you so much for reading! My name is Mary, I love Jily (and Taylor Swift) with all my
heart and I am @wearingaberetinparis on Tumblr.
 The Penniless Ape-Leader No More
Chapter Summary

Dearest Reader, the ton are abuzz with the latest gossip, and so it is my honour to impart to
you the news that the Duke of Peverell has returned to London at last! A year after setting off
on his tour of Europe, Lady Peverell's son has returned and rumour has it that his mother is
preparing for the most joyous of occasions: a late summer wedding that sees her son wed the
next Duchess of Peverell. It is my sincere hope that you have stored a bottle of wine for this
most delightful of upcoming events for if ever there were a more determined mama, this writer
is Icarus and this society paper has been scorched for flying too close to the sun.

A Jily Regency Romance inspired by Shondaland's "Bridgerton".

Chapter Notes

You guys are honestly so motivating in your praise and your enthusiasm for this story. It
makes it a joy to write about thise version of Regency Jily. I am sorry for the wait. I hope it
will be worth it.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

 Dearest Reader,

The Ton is always slow to wake in the aftermath of grand festivities. Seeing as the ball at the
Dumbledores' could certainly be classified as just that, it will not come as a surprise that many of
London's favourite parks were woefully empty in the past few mornings. Where normally mamas
and their offspring would promenade on days as fine as the ones we have been having - hoping to
secure themselves a suitor - this writer dares wager that many a member of the Ton tasked their
staff to find a cure for pounding headaches in the mornings following the merrymaking instead.

She was on the verge of tears, ever so nervous as she watched and heard him expel a shaky breath
with - she would later come to find - appeased laughter which was bubbling just below the surface.
"Is that all?" He asked, his fingers brushing against her cheek ever so gently, a small smile playing
at the corners of his lips. She opened her mouth to protest, but he did not allow her to. Nor did he
allow her to feel in any manner indignant about his lack of even the slightest bit of apprehension
regarding her circumstances. "Please hear me when I say that I cannot fathom finding myself in
your shoes -" he bent a little, stepped just a tad closer, his hands coming to rest on her waist, "- but
Lily, I cannot begin to tell you how relieved I am -"

"Relieved?" Her eyes widened, a disbelieving laugh escaping her. "You cannot mean -" she
stumbled over her own thoughts, her own words, at a loss as to how he could respond so calmly.
"James, do you not understand what this means?" His expression merely softened. "It means that
without Lady McGonagall, I would have no dowry to bring into the marriage. I certainly have no
property either, meaning that if I were to become a widow, I would have no income." His eyes did
not stray from hers as she bit down the bitterness that she found so hard to swallow. "Or if I were to
have children, I would have nothing to give." She had expected him to be horrified, to recoil, to
appear concerned at the very least, but the gentleman before him was the definition of calm and
collected.

"Lily," he spoke softly when she had presented all arguments to him as to why exactly he should be
- at the very least - uneasy, pulling him towards her instead, "you do realize that I have more than
enough money for the both of us? That I would not accept a dowry from the Dowager Duchess or
yourself even if you were to offer me one?"

"You speak as if we are engaged to be married."

"Are we not?"

She looked at him, incredulous almost. “Not officially,” she sighed, dropping her forehead to his
shoulder, incapable of looking him in the eye any longer. “James, you must see what this means. I
have nothing, I am a nobody, if people were to find out -” she inhaled sharply. “My entire existence
has been pitiful since I was eighteen and my parents passed. Then to lose my fortune, for Lady
McGonagall - however generous - to have to support my sister and myself or we would be forced
to live like beggars…”

”Do you believe any of that matters to me?”

”No,” she looked up at him again, eyed him - she could not help herself, he was impossible not to
love - fondly, “I know it does not. Which is exactly what frightens me, James. You must be
practical, you must think of the damage I could do to your reputation, to the Peverell family's -”

His arms circled her waist, their chests flush together now. “You know I do not care to have one,”
he muttered. "Not to mention that any and all damage has been done by myself at a certain point
already. You knew me as a child, Lil," he laughed ever so softly, the depth of his dulcet tones
making her toes curl. "Surely, you know that any chance I might have at preserving what is left of
my family's good name, is ruined if I were not to marry a woman twice as sensible as I am
myself?" He nudged her, the tip of his nose brushing against her own. "Lily, my love -"

"Only twice as sensible?" She asked him in an attempt to alleviate some of the gravity of the
conversation. He chuckled, pecked her lips three times as if to answer her question that way. Her
lips curled against his, her arms wrapping around his neck as she told him: "You severely
overestimate your rakish reputation if you feel you might have done anything to ruin anyone's
opinion of yourself. Men can wreck other's and live on in notoriety. No one would even bat an
eye." She thought of Mr Snape here, how he had managed to find himself a job at Westminster,
working for the Prime Minister himself, while he had left her destitute, her future destroyed
through his actions.

He must have seen something on her face that alerted him to her anguish for he loosened his grip
on her ever so slightly, palmed one of her cheeks. "You cannot have honestly thought that I would
think ill of you after revealing your secret. Not when I love you so -" he seemed to perk up just
slightly. "I can still recite the poem that I wrote with Sirius' help if you need me to -"

"James," she stopped him, stepped out of his embrace, turned her back on him as she inhaled
shakily, "this is not so much about my being penniless, it has more to do with -" she squeezed her
eyes shut, hands shaking ever so slightly. "I hate having been so naive as to trust where clearly
none was warranted. Petunia warned me time and time again and here I was, falling into a trap with
my eyes wide open."

He was quiet for a moment before she could sense him getting closer again, his fingers brushing at
her lower back. "I take it Mr Snape was the one you trusted and should not have?"

She turned, bit the inside of her cheeks as she looked at him. "His father worked for my parents. I
thought we were friends." He nodded, stepped towards her once more, took her clammy hands in
his. She wondered if he could feel how she trembled, wondered if he thought her frail as a bird that
did not yet know how to take flight. "I was foolish, I told myself after that day I would never let a
man best me any longer, that I would never again allow myself to be deceived." She tilted her chin
in defiance, almost daring him to contradict her. "I cannot let my guard down, James, not again."

Something twitched in his jaw. "You do not think -" he closed his eyes, seemed to collect himself.
"Lily, you must know that you can with me. That I would never -" She stopped him, did not allow
him to get lost in his agony, by pressing her lips against his, kissing him with a sense of urgency,
hoping to convey her love for him, which was - in all truthfulness - too large a thing to contain,
leaving her vulnerable if his intent had been anything like Snape's.

"I know," she reassured him, her palms now resting against his chest. "I do, I just -" it was difficult
to put into words her reservation, which was most certainly twofold. Only part of it had to do with
Mr Snape's betrayal, the other part had everything to do with her own desires to learn and grow, to
educate herself. "I do not want things to change between us. I want for us to stay the same always."

He wrapped his fingers gently around her wrists, the action making her look up at him. There was
an affection in his eyes that she had far too quickly become addicted to, his voice hardly more than
a whisper when he said: "I cannot promise you that, Lily. I find myself falling in love with you
more every second I am in your presence." She blushed, her blood coursing through her veins,
making her go slightly light-headed, her knees close to buckling in the weak state he left her in.
"Trust me when I say that when we marry, though," she wanted to correct him, tell him that he
should be using the word if but she found it harder to resist him with every minute that passed,
"everything I own will be yours, that you will have more than you have ever wanted, that I will
leave you be as long as you kiss me once a day -"

"Just the once?" She smiled as his lips quirked up into a grin, his dimple showing.

"All right, perhaps just the once an hour, perhaps twice or thrice," he spoke, pressing a soft kiss to
her forehead.
The feel of his lips against her skin, the way he lingered there, the heat of his exhale, made her
pliable as candle-wax. She wondered if he knew what power he had over her, if her touch had a
similar hold on him. It seemed impossible almost that she could inspire anything of this magnitude,
especially considering the fact that he - being a well-travelled gentleman - was so much more
experienced than she was. What did she know? What did he that she did not? What could she offer
him that he had not already received?

I have heard him speak, seen him strut about as if he owns all of Westminster, have heard him speak
about his adventures in Europe were he went to - undoubtedly - tie his garter up in public - Mr
Snape's words should not resonate with her, she knew she should not care what a man like him had
to say, much less so even about a person she knew to have a heart as good as gold, who so openly
adored her.

Yet, there was a part of her that wondered, that allowed her insecurities to fester, that made her
doubt the truth of her convictions, that made her question if perhaps she was naive to think she
could ever live up to the expectations he might have, that made her shudder as she considered what
Mr Snape had said afterwards: He will fill you up with his seed, demand an heir and once you have
given him one, he will lose any and all respect and interest, seek his pleasure elsewhere.

There was a part of her - the one that feared failure more than anything and thus prepared for the
worst - that believed this was to be her fate, while another side of her - the stubborn one that always
aimed for success - contradicted the image Mr Snape had presented vehemently. She leaned against
him, let her cheek rest against his shoulder, closing her eyes as she allowed him to just hold her,
shutting out her thoughts and the outside world.

"Come to Gryffindor Palace with me," he murmured against her hair. "Let us escape the hustle and
bustle of London and run through the woods as we did as children, let us hide away, pretend that no
one but you and me exists." His offer was tempting, her childhood memories of the place the Duke
of Peverell called home nothing but warm. When she thought of Gryffindor Palace, she thought of
sunshine, of laughter, of everlasting summer. "We will have my mother and the Dowager Duchess
join us, they will be far too busy discussing the latest Lady Whistledown to even notice as we slip
away. Or, they'll turn a blind eye and you and me can -" he stopped there, she could hear his heart
speed up and a flash of heat shot up her spine. "That is - only if you would want - I could educate
you further."

The memory of his hand guiding her own, the feel of his fingers under her skirts, the desire he
showed as he pressed up against her, was almost too much to bear, certainly too enticing for her to
do anything but agree, letting out a soft, wanton yes.

Yet, while those who are fairly flush in the pockets were rarely seen out and about in the last few
 days, this author has it on good authority that a certain duke was seen visiting Elphinstone House
on several occasions. Whom he might have gone to see, of course, is no great mystery, even if he
had not invited the lady in question and her guardian to visit his Godric Hollow's family seat
Gryffindor Palace. One wonders when the pair will make things truly official.

In many ways, Gryffindor Palace was as familiar to her as Cokeworth House - her own family seat
- had been. She knew every nook and cranny, had hidden in every corner as she and James had
played hide and seek as children, knew of the secret passage that connected the late Duke of
Peverell's study to a hidden library. Never, however, had she imagined she would find herself
perched on the ladder in said secluded room, James Potter on his knees in front of her as her legs
had wrapped around his shoulders and his mouth was pressed against her most intimate parts. Her
fingers curled into her hiked-up dress, keeping herself in place, while her other played with the
curls on his head, tugged when she felt he needed to let up for air, when she herself nearly
succumbed from the pleasure of it all, seeing absolute stars.

"James, please, I -" she could not speak, her mind swimming as his tongue flicked against a tiny
bundle of nerves he had taught her to brush her fingers against and apply pressure to when she
touched herself. "I cannot breathe, I need to -" She was unable to finish, did not know exactly what
she needed other than him and for him never to cease his efforts to please her. They had only
arrived at the duke's ancestral home an hour earlier, yet she had already decided that she never
wanted to leave again. Not, that is, if this was to be how she and James would spend her days there.
She wondered what her sister might think if she saw her like this, if she would consider her morally
depraved.

She cried out, her head banging against one of the ladder's steps, but she barely registered the pain,
all tension leaving her body as she went slack, her body slumping ever so slightly, her chest
heaving with every breath she took as James' lips moved to her thighs, placing butterfly kisses there
before emerging from underneath her skirt, pleased grin splitting his face as he stood and stepped
between her legs.

"Did you enjoy the lesson?" He asked, eyebrows raised ever so slightly as he looked at her and she
huffed. His hands wrapped around her waist, holding her up, her arms - in turn - coming up to settle
on his shoulders.

"This was hardly a lesson," she replied. "It was more of a demonstration."

"Semantics," he told her, his voice a deep rumble, fingers flexing against her sides. "Not to mention
that yours is an answer which is severely lacking in clarity." He cocked an eyebrow and she rolled
her eyes, bit down on her bottom lip.

"I would think that my enjoyment was more than obvious," she replied to which he beamed,
stepping forward to close the distance between the two of them even further. Their chests were
pressed together, their hearts beating in sync. "I think you are already fulfilling your promise of
Gryffindor Palace being an ideal place for the both of us to hide. It is remarkably easy to pretend it
is only you and myself here."

"Every vow I ever make to you, I will endeavour to uphold," he spoke very seriously and her heart
fluttered, pulling his face down for a kiss, which soon grew in intensity, she clinging to him as he
lifted her off the ladder, swung her around, causing her to erupt in a fit of giggles.
"James!"

"Lily," he shouted, sounding so blissfully happy that her heart felt as if it was too large to fit in her
chest still, "Lily, oh, Lily! Wherefore art thou Lily?"

"Stop," she admonished him, feeling a little flustered and most certainly undeserving of his
enthusiastic, Shakespearean proclamations of her name. "You're making me blush." He did as she
asked, her feet touching the hardwood floor once more, his hands coming up to cup her cheeks, his
thumbs brushing against the spots where she knew roses had bloomed.

"Surely, this does not make you blush more than me disappearing under your skirts?"

She playfully narrowed her eyes at him, he laughing and dropping his hands to take hers in his
own, dragging her out of the room, entering his late father's study again and leading her down the
hallway.

"You cannot say things such as this," she whispered as she followed him. "What if anyone
overhears -"

"If we are going to live here," he told her, smile wide as he looked over his shoulder, "this might be
inevitable." She huffed, the pair of them descending the stairs, on their way to join his mother and
the Dowager Duchess in the drawing room. "I intend to take full advantage of the peace and quiet
of the palace when we are married."

She held her tongue, not daring to say anything more for they had entered the drawing room where
his mother and her guardian sipped some tea, the pair of them looking up with smiles on their faces
and - dare she say it - knowing looks in their eyes.

"Was the tour to your liking, Miss Evans?" Asked Lady Peverell. "I trust your memory has been
well and truly refreshed and that it feels as if you had never been away?"

She flushed, nodding, dropping James' hand as she remembered the impropriety of it all, even if she
did not think that either of the two women truly cared about what others might think indecent or
vulgar. On the contrary, she imagined that both women would rejoice or cackle gleefully if she and
James were to disappear together again, not to be seen for the next few hours.

"Gryffindor Palace is as remarkable as ever," she answered politely, sitting next to Lady
McGonagall. James remained standing at his mother's side, his eyes molten gold - a stark contrast
to the darkened orbs that had stared down at her earlier - as he looked at her, the corners of his lips
upturned. "It is the most marvellous place I have ever visited."

James' mother laughed. "Surely, Buckingham Palace takes that title," she asked, waving her fan to
ward off some of the summer day's heat. "I am most flattered, however, Miss Evans, that you
would reserve such high praise for our family's seat. The Peverells have always taken great pride in
it. It would be a joy to have a new generation of Peverells grace this hallways in the near future -"

"Mother," James blushed, his eyes flitting furtively to hers before settling on his mother's. Lady
Peverell turned to look at her son, eyebrows raised in question. "You cannot -" he ran a hand
through his hair. "Please do not embarrass me."
"However would my expressing my wish to see you sire some offspring be a source of shame to
you?" Asked his mother. "I would think it in everyone's best interest that we consider the possibility
that this may one day become a reality, that children might be running down these halls again as the
two of you did once upon a time."

She felt as warm as the Duke of Peverell undoubtedly did, her breaths becoming increasingly
shallow, butterflies swooping in her stomach. She envisioned a little boy - black-haired, his mirror
image - in her arms, taking his first steps in this very room, taking his lessons in the study where
James and she had taken lessons in Greek and Latin as well; he protesting that he would much
rather go outside and ride his horse, she eagerly pouring over the myths and memorising the
languages' various inflections. Her cheeks burned.

"One can always dream, Euphemia," spoke her guardian from beside her, the woman's hand patting
her knee in what she was certain was meant to be a reassuring gesture. "I do wonder, though, if you
might be getting ahead of yourself, seeing as a wedding has yet to take place?"

Lady Peverell's eyebrows rose further. "Darling Minerva, I do not concern myself so much with
order when the results will be the same whichever might come first." Lily's gaze was directed at the
hands that she was wringing in her lap, James letting out a tortured noise. "However the foundation
may be laid, all is fair in love and war, if you were to ask me."

As we wait for the first wedding of the Season to take place, this writer must content herself writing
about some other notable members of society. The Danish Prince Reginald is said to find our
Princess Royal delightful, the pair of them were even said to have gone out hunting together,
Princess Mary being the one - rather than the two males in her presence - successfully shooting a
boar. Miss Greengrass was - notably - absent despite Prince Amos' attendance.

A soft knock sounded on her door, she turning around, hairbrush in hand which she had been
running through her loose locks that fell in waves to her waist. Her eyes fell on her guardian, the
Dowager Duchess Lady McGonagall, whom she greeted with a smile.

"Might I come in?" The Dowager Duchess was in her nightclothes already, her hair which was
always so tightly pinned back in a bun now falling past her own shoulders. The style of it made her
look younger, less severe, marginally softer.

"Please do," she told her guardian, putting down the brush as Lady McGonagall entered, closing the
door behind her. The woman remained standing there, in the middle of the room, waiting for Lily to
join opposite her, opening her mouth when she did.

"I am well aware that you are far more educated and informed than I most likely was when I was
your age and on the brink of marriage," her guardian spoke slowly. "However, as your guardian I
consider it to be my duty to talk to you about a woman's marital duties, the ones that exceed the
running of the household."

She blushed, cleared her throat. "Please, Lady McGonagall, we do not need to speak of this now or
ever, even. I -" she bit her lip, paused for a second, "- I have my books on anatomy and I have read
-"

"Books are valuable resources, but they do not teach you everything." The Dowager Duchess
walked over to the bed, sat down on the edge of it and patted the empty space beside her, prompting
Lily - feeling just a little apprehensive - to sit down beside her. "I am - of course - under no illusion
that you and the Duke have not already engaged in some form of physical intimacy," the look in her
guardian's eyes was knowing, Lily flushing, "but I do not want you to enter a marriage without
having ever received the female perspective of what the marital act entails, of what a woman is
expected to engage in." Lady McGonagall reached for her hand, the older woman's fingers
wrapping around her own. "I do not want you to be as unprepared as I myself was."

She chanced another look at the Dowager Duchess, meeting her gaze. Her guardian sent her an
encouraging smile. "Now," Lady McGonagall began, "seeing as you are well-versed in anatomy, I
do not imagine I have to explain how the female and the male body might fit together." She let out
a breathy laugh, shook her head.

"No, I -" it was an embarrassing truth to admit to given the fact that her knowledge of these things
was hardly dignified or ladylike. "I think I understand the biology, the practicality."

Lady McGonagall nodded. "Good," she spoke, not at all scandalised. "Most women that would
speak to their daughters - and I do regard you as the closest I might have to one - would not reveal
all that much. They would speak about enduring it, about pleasing one's husband, about lying back
and not using one's voice... But, Lily," she leaned forward as if conspiring, a twinkle in her eyes,
"as I am sure you have experienced to some extent already, the wife's pleasure is as important. We
should not merely be passive participants, women should actively pursue their own gratification."

She thought of what James had taught her, how he had guided her as she had first touched herself,
how he had since used his own fingers, his mouth on her too, how infinitely pleased he always
seemed when she reached her peak. She could not speak of it, would not, of course, for she would
not be able to bear the shame of Lady McGonagall knowing the extent to which she was already
familiar with some of the things she spoke of.

"Is there -" she hesitated, one thing still unclear to her, something she was not yet sure of. "What
can I do to please my future husband?"

Lady McGonagall smiled at her fondly. "Oh, Lily, my dear, I think you please him infinitely
already." They didn't need to name him, both knowing exactly whom they were speaking of. The
Dowager Duchess let go of her hand, placing it against her cheek, caressing it gently. "There is no
one more deserving of you. I would not have given my consent to anyone but the Duke of
Peverell."
Lily leaned forward, wrapped her arms around her guardian, holding on to her tightly, one single
grateful tear slipping past her cheek.

There is an intimacy in allowing the person one is hoping to woo to see part of one's truest self.
Whether taking one hunting or showing them the grounds of an ancestral home, it cannot be denied
that catching a glimpse of one's prospective spouse in their natural habitat allows affection to
blossom further, even if one is well-acquainted with the other already. The question thus remains
whether Prince Amos is quite simply no fan of the hunt or whether Miss Greengrass has been jilted
a second time this Season.

She tiptoed down the hallway, sneaking past the room she knew housed Lady McGonagall. Her
bare feet padding against the hardwood floor as quietly as she could manage. She reached the West
Wing, turned a corner and then stopped in front of the door to the room which had been her
destination. Her heart raced, her pulse deafening in its force. She brushed her palms against the
nightgown she wore and then - squaring her shoulders, puffing out her chest - reached out her hand
to knock, her knuckles rapping against the door, anticipation swelling inside of her.

She did not have to wait long, the door swinging open, revealing James in nothing more than his
undershirt and breeches. His eyes widened slightly, a crease of concern forming between his
eyebrows. "Lily? What is -?"

Making up her mind, she stepped forward, wrapped her hand around his neck, stood on the tips of
her toes as she kissed him soundly. He met her passion fervently, his arm around her waist as he
walked backwards into the room, the door falling closed behind her. "Lily..." he breathed out,
leaning back slightly to assess her, a clear question in his eyes.

She stepped away from his embrace, bit her lower lip and then hiked up her nightdress, lifting it
over her head. He made a noise that sounded tortured, his fist in his mouth as she bared herself to
him, the cold night air hitting her skin and causing gooseflesh to erupt all over her body.

His gaze on her was heavy in its intensity, his eyes darkening due to a desire which she had become
familiar with in recent weeks, but seemed amplified to a greater height than she had experienced
ever before. The look of him, the awe in his expression, very nearly took her breath away, made her
heart stutter.

There was, however, no time like the present and she - gathering all her courage - moved towards
him once more, her voice barely more than a whisper as she begged of him: "Teach me, James. Let
me stay the night."
 Whatever the answer to that final question may be, this writer imagines that one pair will come to
an understanding as they grow ever more familiar with the other. Perhaps we should all be dusting
off the best of our gowns for certainly we will be expected to wear them in the not so distant future.
Rumour has it, after all, that a ring was very much in the Duke of Peverell's pocket when he set off
for Gryffindor Palace.

Yours Truly,
Lady Whistledown

Chapter End Notes

Ape-leader is a pejorative Regency term for an older single woman; a spinster or old maid.
From an old proverb that women who die unmarried are fated to lead apes—considered at the
time to be unproductive animals—in hell.

Thank you, as always, for reading! All my love to you!

Please drop by the Archive and comment to let the creator know if you enjoyed their work!