Welcome! This is a Jily Bridgerton AU that has been living in my head for awhile and is finally making its way out.
Standard disclaimers obviously apply but are worth reiterating since Bridgerton watchers will notice that I've included a lot of Lady Whistledown's commentary verbatim, as well as some scenes/dialogue from the TV series, especially in this first chapter (this will relax more as we go on). This is not a straight rewrite of the show—I think it will become apparent from this first chapter that I'm switching up some storylines—but the bones of the show's framework and iconic scenes lend themselves to the adaptation I imagined for Jily and, I hope, help ground you in visualizing this world and its grandeur, fashion, music, etc. At the end of the day, this is fanfic—it's meant to be pure fun, dramatic and a bit salacious—and all respective credit goes to JKR, Julia Quinn, and everyone at Shondaland. I should also note that I've messed with some HP bloodlines and timelines (AU, remember) and I'm no Regency Era scholar, so if any of you actually are and something seems historically inaccurate, it's probably because it is and I've simply made something up.
THE SEASON
Chapter 1
Diamond of the First Water
Grosvenor Square, 1813.
Dearest reader,
The time has come to place our bets for the upcoming social season.
Consider the household of the Baron Meadowes. Three Misses—Prudence, Dorcas, and Agatha—foisted upon the marriage market like sorrowful sows by their tasteless, tactless mama. Far better odds might exist at the noble and most ancient household of the Earl Black, a shockingly prolific family noted for its bounty of perfectly handsome sons and perfectly beautiful daughters, though it should be noted that the sons have thus far seemed disinclined to marry, and only one daughter, the eldest Miss Bellatrix, is entering the market. Or, perhaps, a better fortune may land on the household of the widowed Viscountess Evans, where the elder flower, Miss Petunia, will resume her second season after the unfortunate passing of the late Viscount forced her withdrawal from her first, and the younger flower, Miss Lily, will make her debut.
Today is a most important day—and for some a terrifying one—for today is the day London's marriage-minded misses are presented to Her Majesty, the Queen. (May God have mercy on their souls.) Whose waist is smallest? Whose curtsy is deepest? Whose coiffed hair is grandest? Whose white debutante dress is whitest? It is only the Queen's eye that matters today; a glimmer of displeasure and a young lady's value plummets to unthinkable depths. But as we know, the brighter a lady shines, the faster she may burn.
It has been said that of all bitches dead or alive, a scribbling woman is the most canine. If that should be true, then this author would like to show you her teeth. My name is Lady Whistledown. You do not know me, and rest assured, you never shall. But be forewarned, dear reader: I certainly know you.
Familiar streets filled his eyes as the November chill bit his face and his legs guided his horse as though by muscle memory. It had been several years since James had been in London, about as long since he'd even spared a thought for the God-forsaken city, and yet now that he was here, it was as if he'd never left.
He still hated it.
With a deep breath, he trotted through the front gates to the residence of the woman who was some mixture of mother, aunt, and friend—and whom he hadn't seen since he'd set off for his Grand Tour the day after graduating from the University of Hogwarts. He'd gone the opposite direction of his classmates; instead of making the return trip to London from the university's home deep in the Scottish Highlands, he'd instead crossed the North Sea and disembarked in Denmark, venturing up to Norway and Sweden before returning south to the Continent, lazing about in Italy and Spain, and then spending another year in Paris.
Only a nagging sense of guilt had prompted his return. An only child—only son—orphaned since before he could read, he'd been raised by his mother's best friend, who had hurriedly been appointed his legal guardian and temporary administrator of the duchy before his parents passed within hours of each other from the smallpox they'd contracted. And though she'd had no legal obligation to do so once he came of age, she'd graciously agreed to continue administering the duchy while he went to University and did his (rather extended) Grand Tour.
But now, being a prestigiously educated man and an adult in the eyes of the world, even he had to admit he'd ran out of excuses to not come home.
He took a long pull from the flask he kept at his hip, the burn of whisky down his throat a welcome distraction from the senseless nerves fluttering about in his stomach, and then swung himself smoothly off his horse.
She approached him across the lawn, her ability to appear out of nowhere not having faded one bit even though she now leant heavily on a cane to propel her measured steps. But her spine was still ramrod straight, her hair still pulled into the severe bun he remembered, even if it was more thickly streaked with gray, and as she neared, he saw the same twinkle in her eye he'd seen since he was a boy.
"Well, if this is not a sight for my sore eyes!" she exclaimed, smirking at him. Then, bowing her head, "My condolences, Your Grace, for the ending of your frivolous adolescence."
James fought a smile, ducking his head. "Very kind of you."
She scoffed. "Kind of me? You hate this city."
His grin won as he swept off his hat and said, "It is so wonderful to see you, Lady McGonagall."
She fixed him with an even look as she faux-scolded, "Words I do not hear often enough." But then her face relaxed into a smile and she prodded him with her cane—"Come!"—and turned toward the front of her estate, telling him as they fell in step, "You must excuse the, ah, disorderliness. As you know, I'm to host a ball this evening—"
"Yes—"
"Now, I have managed to keep the details of your return quiet, but when those vulgar mamas discover that there is an eligible duke present at tonight's fete, I shall be able to keep such a secret no longer."
"That is what I was hoping to discuss," James told her, turning to face her. "I have only returned to London to deal with the legalities of assuming my administration, which I'm afraid leaves me no time to…socialize. And so, whilst I appreciate your most gracious invitation, Lady McGonagall, I must ask you to accept my regrets."
She'd watched him with an appraising eye as he said all this, and then with raised brows she said simply, "Your regrets are denied."
Fuck. James pulled his lips under as he held her gaze, suddenly feeling rather like he was twelve years old instead of well into his twenties. "Well, I suppose a brief appearance—"
"Excellent!" Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "After all, you cannot be a proper duke without a duchess, now, hmm?"
James rolled his eyes. "Last I checked, balancing books didn't require a wife."
Lady McGonagall tutted him. "We'll see who's rolling their eyes after you've met the girl whom Lady Whistledown has called a diamond of the first water."
"Well, if she's already a diamond, I don't suppose she needs another one."
Her mouth twitched. "Do let me know tomorrow if that opinion changes once you've met Miss Evans." She gestured with her cane towards his hip. "You may leave that, ah, flask you carry at home. Most undignified."
And with that, she swept past him in dismissal, leaving James turning on the spot only to sigh at her retreating figure and ponder how he'd let himself get roped into attending a ball filled with gaggles of obnoxiously simpering ladies and even more obnoxiously hovering mamas.
He fucking hated London.
The season's opening ball at McGonagall House is a most highly sought-after invitation, indeed, for every darling debutante from Park Lane to Regent Street will be on display. Titled, chaste, and innocent, this is what they have been raised and trained for since birth. Tonight, we shall discover which young ladies might succeed at securing a match, thereby avoiding the dreadful, dismal condition known as "the spinster."
If it wasn't for the footman's steady hand, Lily surely would have face-planted right then and there from marveling at the stately columns of McGonagall House, lit up in a romantic glow. She wasn't cut out for this.
But maybe it wasn't too late; maybe she could still trip on her next step, and then her perfectly pressed and pleated dress would be soiled, and oh, drat, she would have no choice but to get back in the carriage and go home, where she would have nothing else to do but lay in the bath and return to her novel. She'd had to leave off at a good part, and she desperately needed to know more about this John Willoughby character (she'd already decided she was obviously Marianne and Petunia was obviously Elinor)—yes, reading Sense and Sensibility was a far more sensible thing to do than struggling to breathe in a ball gown, so she just needed to roll her foot just there—
A hand gripped her arm strongly, and Lily's eyes shot upwards, finding her mother's piercing blue gaze fixed on her with a knowing smile. "Watch your step, dearest. We can't have you rolling an ankle and being unable to ride, let alone walk."
Bugger. She'd momentarily forgotten that accidentally-on-purpose injuring herself would have repercussions longer than one evening.
Lily huffed a sigh and gathered her dress. "Yes, mama."
Her mother's hand squeezed her arm, a steady presence among the thickening swarm of daughters and mothers and fathers stepping out of carriages and making for the grand double-doors. "You'll do wonderfully, dear. Ah, there's Orion."
The Black's carriage was only a few ahead, and Petunia—scampering over-eager princess that she was—had already reached it, excitedly greeting their cousin Bellatrix, who was far more enthusiastic about debuting than Lily ever would be.
Her cousin Sirius sauntered toward her, all-black ensemble impeccable, face haughty as always, and inclined his head. "Lily."
She inclined hers back. "Siri."
He offered her his arm, a smirk playing at his mouth. "Shall we?"
Lily muttered, "If we must," but his low chuckle told her he had definitely heard that.
She supposed their situation was somewhat unconventional, but as Lord Orion Black was an earl and Lord William Evans had been a vicomte, no one questioned it—at least not openly—because both families were held in fastidiously high regard and the circumstances surrounding her father's death had been rather tragic. But the unfortunate truth that had remained after he passed was that someone needed to oversee Petunia and Lily's presentation to society, and that someone couldn't be Lily's mother Violet because she was a woman and society didn't allow such things. Hence, the obligation had passed to Orion, their uncle by marriage to Violet's sister Walburga.
All things considered, Lily knew she was lucky. If it couldn't be her own father presenting her to the ton, there was no man she trusted to look out for her station more than Uncle Orry, with whom her father had been close. Plus, there was the fact that being cousins with the Blacks meant she had built-in friends of sorts at these things, though she'd truthfully always gotten on better with Sirius and Regulus than she had with Bellatrix, who was more Petunia's style.
"Relax, Lily," he murmured.
She hadn't realized she'd been keeping a death grip on arm. "Sorry."
His voice was laden with an easy grin. "These dandies have far more to fear of you than you do of them."
Lily stole a sideways glance at him. "I'm not afraid."
He ran his other hand lazily through his hair, smoothing it back against the side of his head. "That's the spirit, love."
Something about him seemed far too genial than normal. "What's gotten into you tonight?"
Sirius glanced down at her and winked. "Half a flask of scotch."
Her mouth fell, but before she could make a clever retort (or ask for a forbidden sip), they were being ushered through the doors of the ballroom for their entrance.
Petunia and Bellatrix went first on either side of Orion, with Violet and Walberga arm-in-arm behind them, and then Lily followed with Sirius. The eyes of the crowd drank them in, a few faces hiding behind well-placed fans to whisper, but Lily steeled herself ahead, spine straight and chin high. Let them gawk at the fact that Lily was being escorted by one of the most eligible bachelors in town (though not for her, obviously, being her first cousin); let them gossip under the guise of pity. She didn't need them; she didn't need anyone. She'd lost her father, the only one who had ever seemed to truly understand the wilderness of her imagination and the conviction of her heart. Those vultures could choke on their judgment, and may their time in purgatory be as miserable as their marriages.
Lily took in the dance happening up ahead in the center of the ballroom under the glittering chandelier, the roving eyes of eligible bachelors in their ruffled collars and identical waist-coats, the snatches of simpering conversations about skills for gardening and piano-forte and watercolor. Maybe, if any of these girls ever bothered to open these things called books, they might realize the utter ridiculousness of parading themselves for the attentions of randy, obtuse, and boring boys.
Sirius chuckled quietly. "Think they could be any more obvious with their staring?"
Violet was suddenly back at Lily's side, admonishing softly, "Allow them to come to you, dearest."
Lily nodded her understanding, then looked over at Petunia, standing next to Bellatrix with a smile so practiced plastered on her face it was like she was born ready for this. Which, Lily supposed she was. As the elder daughter, Petunia's marriage mattered rather more than Lily's did.
In a bizarre echo of how distinctly unalike Violet and Walberga were—the former all softness with chocolate-colored hair and round cheeks, the latter all hard lines and black tresses she'd passed to her children—Lily and Petunia couldn't be more different if they tried. Somehow, Petunia had ended up looking much more like a Black than like Violet Evans, and Lily looked nothing like either of her parents, the only girl in the room—as far as she could tell—with shockingly dark red hair and a scattering of freckles that seemed impervious to face powder. Like Violet and Walberga, Lily and Petunia were also highly opposite in temperament, though her mum and aunt had been close as long as Lily could remember, so maybe her and Petunia would be able to get along like that one day.
Petunia caught her eye, and her practiced smile momentarily dropped from her face as she hissed between gritted teeth, "What did I tell you?"
Then again, maybe not. Lily rolled her eyes and turned away, that afternoon's confrontation still painfully fresh. "This is my season," Petunia had shouted defiantly. "We both know you should have waited for me to marry before coming out, so you're not going to ruin my chances, is that clear?" Lily hadn't bothered trying to explain to Petunia that coming out hadn't been her choice at all, but had been decided for her by Orion (with Violet and Walberga no doubt in full approval), because telling Petunia that would have only prompted its own lecture on why Lily needed to have a better attitude about marriage and society.
She was rather sick of her sister, but she was sick of those lectures even more, so she'd bit her tongue, rationalizing that the sooner her sister married, the sooner she'd be out of Lily's way.
"My God," Sirius muttered, tugging her arm for a turn about the room, "can't the two of you get along for one night?"
"Siri! Lil!"
Lily looked over her shoulder to see Regulus catching up to them, slightly breathless.
"It's confirmed, I'll be beginning my Grand Tour in Greece."
She beamed at her cousin, her heart swelling with pride even as envy pricked at her veins.
"That's wonderful, Reg—"
"On guard," Sirius said quickly, and Regulus immediately made to escape as Sirius turned around, but an unmistakable voice called, "Too late! I already noted you."
Sirius faced front slowly, baring a rare polite smile, as they chorused, "Lady McGonagall."
The older woman smiled, fixing her penetrating gaze on Lily. "Miss Evans, you look rather lovely this evening. Might I expect to see you on the dance floor later?"
Sirius spoke up beside her. "All in good time, Lady McGonagall."
"Yes," she said thoughtfully, "I daresay your sister wants to get her dances secured first, no?"
Was it more polite to agree with an impolite-yet-true-statement or to make up an untrue-yet-polite defense of her sister?
Lily was saved having to choose, as Lady McGonagall swept past her, muttering, "You poor thing," as she went, though that left her feeling, if it was even possible, rather worse.
She turned to Sirius. "I'm going to get a lemonade."
He blinked down at her for a moment, then offered, "Oh—er, I'll get it—"
"No, Siri." Lily set a hand on his arm. "I just—I need a moment."
His face softened, and though he nodded his understanding, he also teased, "Don't talk to anyone your sister wants to talk to first, mind."
A dry chuckle escaped her lips as she set off for the refreshment table, cutting neatly through the crowd and avoiding any eyes that would warrant stopping for more than a polite good evening.
Having reached her destination, Lily lifted a dainty cup of lemonade to her lips. It was really quite smooth, not too tart or sickly sweet like most lemonades were wont to be, but as it was Lady McGonagall's, she really shouldn't have expected anything less.
"Small glasses."
Damn. Lily looked up, seeing a foppish young man with an overly ruffly collar above a stretched paisley waistcoat that looked one size too small. Damn, damn, damn.
She gave the smallest of curtsies. "Lord Pettigrew."
He raised his own glass of lemonade. "Tiny little things, are they not?"
She suspected something else of his was rather tiny and she immediately had to bite down hard on the inside of her cheek to keep herself from smiling, though the heat around her neck meant her betraying skin was working against her.
"The glasses?" she managed to choke. "I suppose."
He stepped closer to her, grinning widely below watery blue eyes. She thought he rather looked like a rat, what with that pointy face and long mouth—
"Then the matter is settled."
Lily blinked. "I'm not entirely sure the matter in which we discuss, my lord."
That stupid, ratlike smile was still on his face as he seemed to puff up his chest. Oh, no. Lily recognized a dandy preparing for an oration when she saw one, but before she could think of anything to say, Lord Pettigrew began, "You've always amused me, Miss Evans. Ever since I was a schoolboy, and you were—"
"All but…five?"
He smiled awkwardly and took an exaggerated sip of his lemonade, slurping loudly.
Lily seized on the moment. "My cousin. He summons me. Adieu."
And she set off, her pulse quickening in time with her steps as she heard him call, "Miss Evans!" and then, "A moment, please!" followed by a weak chuckle and yet another, "Miss Evans!"
Her stomach twisted, heat rushing to her face, with the knowledge that people had to be noticing by now. She looked over her shoulder, needing to know much of the gap he'd managed to close, when her breath was suddenly knocked out of her as she walked straight into something solid.
"Oh!" The gasp rose out of her on impact, the shock giving way to panic as she stepped back and looked up and realized that that something solid was actually a rather tall man who was wearing a crisply cut suit with a stand-up collar and a dashing red velvet jacket, and he was looking down at her with all the disgust of having found an insect on his shoe.
"Pardon me," she said quickly.
"Forgive me," he responded politely, making to move past her. But just then, Lily heard the babbling voice of Lord Pettigrew approaching behind her, and really there was only one thing to be done in the interest of self-preservation, and that was stepping in front of the tall man in the dashing jacket and demanding, "Tell me your name."
He stared at her, and Lily stared right back, noticing the inky black hair that lay slightly tousled over his forehead and the piercing hazel of his eyes above those carved cheekbones.
"Your name, sir," Lily repeated.
He scoffed lightly. "Am I honestly to believe you do not already know my name?"
Behind her, Lord Pettigrew's bumbling excuse me's grew ever louder, and something about the whole situation, the complete disastrousness of it all, the image of horror she imagined was surely on Petunia's face if she was watching her sister be chased by a dandy and making a fool of herself in front of a gentleman, set giggles bubbling out of Lily's mouth before she could stop them.
The tall man in front of her rolled his eyes as he scolded, "If you wanted an introduction, madam, I do believe accosting me to be the least civilized of ways."
That caught Lily's attention. "Accosting you?"
He looked over her shoulder as he muttered, "Truly, they will try anything."
Embarrassment flooded her at the realization that he thought she was another simpering young lady throwing herself at him, when that couldn't be further from the truth.
"Sir, that is not—this is not—" Her spine stiffened, and she met his glare evenly. "What is your name?"
Sirius's voice drifted up from somewhere beside her. "Prongs!"
The tall man broke into a grin that changed his face completely. "Padfoot!"
"Come here, old friend!"
Lily watched, slightly bewildered, as Sirius exchanged a slapping hug with the tall man, both of their smiles threatening to stretch as wide as their ears.
"You didn't tell me you were coming back to London," Sirius accused.
"I just meant to duck in quickly and get my affairs in order—"
"Nonsense, it's been ages. Where were you last, Budapest? Milan?"
This Prongs fellow at least had the good grace to look modest as he corrected, "Paris, actually."
"Ahh"—Sirius swirled his glass of lemonade, holding up his pinky finger—"ouai, Paree, how could I forget! Zee city of all ze light and weemin?"
Prongs was pinching his nose under his glasses, genuine chuckles rumbling from his throat as he shook his head. "You haven't changed a bit, Pads."
Pads? Lily's eyes darted to Sirius, who was now looking his old friend up and down with an appraising eye. "You have."
Sirius's friend faltered, glancing around so as to not meet Sirius's eye, but that meant his gaze swept past Lily, and that unfortunately seemed to remind him how the whole encounter had started.
She smirked up at him. "Prongs, is it?"
Sirius snorted. "Hardly, that's just a nickname from school. Finally claiming your title, then, eh, Duke of Peverell?"
All the oxygen seemed to have been sucked from her lungs. She'd just ran into a duke?
Said duke shifted uncomfortably. "Er—"
"Don't worry, mate, you'll always be Potter to me."
"Thanks—"
"Probably couldn't call you Peverell if I tried."
"Fine by me—"
"And this is my cousin."
The duke looked down at her, eyebrows lifting. "Your cousin," he repeated.
"Yes, Lily Evans," Sirius told him before looking down at her. "Lily, Potter's one of my best friends from my days at Hogwarts." He grinned slyly at the duke. "Days we shall not soon forget."
A slow smile spread over the duke's face as he looked at Sirius. He really was rather handsome when he wasn't acting like an insufferable git.
"Yes," Lily interjected, looking smugly between the two of them, "as I am well aware of the company you keep, Siri, I'm certain your days with His Grace"—she fixed her eyes on the duke's—"were most civilized, indeed."
Only the slight lift of one eyebrow betrayed his surprise.
"Potter, we shall need to get together properly," Sirius told him, oblivious to the bristling current of hostility that had seemed to settle between herself and the duke. "I expect to see you at our club, then."
The duke cleared his throat. "Indeed."
"There you are!" The unmistakable voice of Lady McGonagall sounded from behind them, but Lily was surprised to see a genuine smile on her face as she gazed at the duke. "Found your old friend, I see."
The duke's eyes flitted to Sirius. "It's like no time has passed at all."
Sirius slapped his arm genially, and Lady McGonagall looked pleased. "I'm glad to hear it. Now, I told you there was a diamond of the first water for you to meet, did I not?"
Lily and Sirius both looked back toward the duke at the same time, Lily's breath catching as she saw the duke's eyebrows climb up his head as he turned his gaze on Lily.
Without missing a beat, Lady McGonagall went on, "Allow me to present Miss Petunia Evans, eldest daughter of the Dowager Viscountess Evans and the late Most Honorable Viscount William Evans."
Lily watched as Lady McGonagall stepped aside to reveal Petunia, glossy dark hair coiffed to perfection, diamonds shimmering at her neck, and practiced smile on her painted lips.
"Your Grace." Something about her voice was throatier, that tone Lily recognized Petunia used primarily in the drawing room while entertaining suitors, and she curtsied smoothly.
Lily wanted to vomit.
The duke inclined his head politely. "The pleasure is mine, Miss Evans."
Sirius caught his eye and said, "The club—tomorrow?"
The duke nodded his agreement, his face back to that inscrutable expression that made him look vaguely disgusted.
Maybe that was just how he always was, because Sirius merely held his elbow out to Lily and asked, "More lemonade?"
"If you spike it for me," she muttered, but apparently it hadn't been quiet enough because the duke chuckled quietly, fighting a smile, and Petunia glared down at Lily, a silent get out of my sight with which Lily was all too happy to oblige.
She lifted her eyes to the duke's, not bothering to wipe the smirk from her face as she looked pointedly between him and her sister, nor to keep the tone of her parting, "Your Grace," from having all the sentiment of good riddance.
For the briefest of moments, she could have sworn she saw something like challenge flicker in his eyes, but then he turned his attention back to her sister, putting on his own practiced smile that looked far more like a grimace than the expression of happiness she'd seen minutes before.
"Lady McGonagall speaks highly of you."
Lily rolled her eyes, not missing Petunia's simper, nor how her mother and Lady McGonagall were avidly watching Petunia and the duke from across the way. Scheming very highly was more like it. Surely the duke had picked up on that, because he looked distinctly stiff as he made polite conversation with Petunia, but then, remembering the arrogant manner in which he'd reacted to Lily asking his name in the first place, she rather thought he deserved to suffer.