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mypointlessintrigues · 1 year

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the very first night

joe burrow x fem!reader | bridgerton!au

summary: at a bridgerton family ball, you meet mr. joseph burreaux for the first time

warnings: pure fluff, idiots in love (at first sight), my attempt at writing with the eloquence and beauty the regency era deserves

word count: 6.5k

notes about the au: reader's last name is sedgewick, i'm spelling joe's last name burreaux to be fancier, and this is set in 1812 (the year before the first bridgerton book)!

the long promised start of my bridgerton!au is finally here!! i hope you enjoy reading this one as much as i enjoyed writing it <3 this is the first part of a brief series (thinking maybe 4 parts? no promises about when the next one will be out lol) that will establish the basis of the reader/burreaux relationship. i would love to also write oneshots/blurbs in this au, so if you have any requests for that please send them in <3 happy reading!!

dividers by @firefly-graphics <3

The start of the season in London brings much excitement with it, as always. A close acquaintance of the much sought after Lord Bridgerton, Mr. Joseph Burreaux, has made a return from his travels on the Continent and is expected to appear at the Bridgerton ball later this week. The prospective diamond of the season, Charlotte Beaumont, is also expected to be in attendance. Gossips are already pinning these two as a promising, and very attractive, match, but whether or not Burreaux intends to marry this season is unconfirmed at present. Even if he has no intentions of marriage this year, if the diamond sets her sights on him, he will surely find himself locked down by the close of the season!

Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers,

27 April 1812

The largest ball of the season in London thus far was to be held tonight, hosted by the well known Bridgerton family at their residence in town. Presumably, many eligible young women across London were feeling particularly stressed as they prepared for the occasion, all hoping to catch the eye of one of the charming Bridgerton men. You, however, were as comfortable around the Bridgertons as around your own family, sometimes even more so.

The Sedgewicks were a well respected, affluent family in London high society, and thanks to the time your father had shared with the former and deceased Lord Bridgerton at Oxford, a close bond existed between the clans. Even after the passing of Lord Bridgerton, the bond remained strong. Lord and Lady Sedgewick, your parents, supported the Bridgertons while they grieved.

You had known the family since you were born, but were especially close with Daphne. Being the same age, you two had entered London society in the same season.

This year marked your second season. Reflecting on the young woman you had been a year ago, you felt slightly grieved. The girl of last season had been so hopeful and had had such faith in finding a true love match. However, only one month into the season, most girls’ hopes of finding such love had been crushed. The men, although often dashing and outwardly respectable, often had questionable reputations or impure intentions, or were just plain old blithering idiots whose company could not possibly be tolerated for longer than a single waltz. That wasn’t to say you hadn’t had any suitors last year; as the only Sedgewick daughter, you were highly sought after. The trouble was that you, even after having given up on the idea of finding a true love match, couldn’t even find a suitor agreeable enough that you felt you could spend a lifetime with them without compromising your own sanity.

Entering this season, you were trying to lower your expectations. Another season without a match would not look good, and you had no desire to be labelled a spinster or to be spurned by men in favour of younger, more naive brides. You had to take advantage of what youthful charms you still possessed.

You secured the low bun in your hair with one final pin, craning your neck to examine your handiwork. You had often mourned not having sisters to help you do your hair, although your mother had taught you how to manage it yourself well. You blended some rouge across your cheeks to give yourself a subtle flush, using a light touch; you knew by the end of the night you would be thoroughly red faced from dancing and laughing. A touch of golden eyeshadow on your lids, and you stepped back from the mirror to examine your full form.

Your dress was a soft shade of green, made of satin that draped beautifully down to the floor, giving you an elegant, feminine silhouette. The lacy sleeves ended just past your elbows, and your matching gloves left a few inches of forearm exposed. The rounded neckline was edged with lace, exposing your collarbones, giving you a certain allure while still maintaining a modest, ladylike appearance.

Your moment of self-appreciation was cut short by your mother knocking at the door. “Come in!” you called.

She entered. “Carriage leaves in five minutes, my darling. Oh! Look at you! Turn around for me! Oh, you look lovely,” your mother gushed. “That colour does wonders for your complexion.”

“Thank you, Mama,” you replied, smiling at the ground.

“Come, let us head downstairs.” You took your mother’s arm, descending the grand staircase of your London home to the foyer, out the front door, to be helped up into the carriage by a footman. Once safely settled inside, your mother began speaking about the latest edition of Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers.

“Have you read it yet, darling?”

“I have, Mother.”

“Well, it seems Mr. Burreaux has returned from his travels on the Continent! He is meant to be a perfect gentleman and he comes from a highly reputable family. You would do well to make his acquaintance this evening, which shouldn’t be hard as he is close with the elder Bridgerton boys. Oh, what am I still calling them boys for! They’re grown now!” she exclaimed.

“Mother,” you sighed, “If he’s such good friends with Anthony, shouldn’t we be concerned that he is a rake? I know so many people say reformed rakes make the best husbands, but I shouldn’t ever be able to fully trust the fidelity of a man who at one time possessed such a roguish reputation.” Although you argued this point with your mother, you couldn’t pretend that you weren’t intrigued by him. He was meant to be incredibly handsome and he did come from a well respected family. Still, handsome men were more often than not in possession of numerous mistresses, indicating they most likely wouldn’t be seeking a true love match like you still secretly longed for.

“My dear, I haven’t heard a word about him being a rake! Ever! Just because he is friends with a particularly notorious one,” she whispered in a rather conspiratorial tone,” doesn’t make him one himself! After all, your brothers are good friends with Anthony, and they were never rakes before they married!” (You had to stifle a laugh at that comment - your mother turned a willing blind eye to anything questionable her sons did.) “Anyways, if there is any suspicion that he is a rake, I’m sure Lady Whistledown will be writing about it right away, and then we shall know. Regardless of your concerns, do make sure you speak to him tonight.” With a rather unladylike and quite girlish giggle, she added in a whisper, “I hear he is quite dashing too!”

“Oh, Mother!” you said, trying to lace your tone with fabricated disinterest at the fact. She didn’t need to know that the prospect of making his acquaintance excited you so. Besides, you shouldn’t get your hopes up, only to be let down by yet another insufferable man.

Carriages had begun arriving at Bridgerton House, gentlemen and young ladies filing in through the front door, all unknowingly overlooked by the two men in Lord Bridgerton’s study: the Lord himself and his close personal friend, Mr. Joseph Burreaux, Joe to those who knew him best. They were sharing a drink before descending into the fray of the party, Joe’s first proper social engagement since his return to London.

“I must warn you,” Anthony began, “of the mamas and daughters you will face in the ballroom tonight. They will be throwing themselves at you trying to gain your favour. From what I’ve heard, half of the ladies out this season are already positively besotted with you.”

Joe sighed, clearly not anticipating the evening with much joy.

“Oh, it’ll be fun tonight, though,” Anthony reassured him. “Even if you don’t find any suitable marriage prospects, you’ll find someone to have a little fun with. I know I will.”

Looking down into the brown liquor in his glass, Joe shook his head. “I don’t think I will. Find either, I mean. I’ve never had much interest in brief dalliances with ladies, unlike yourself, and I have little hope remaining of finding a wife I could truly love after so many years. Although, I do need to marry soon.” As the firstborn son of the Burreaux family, Joe took the responsibility of bearing a male heir to carry on the name very seriously.

“Oh, you don’t want to find a wife you could love!” Anthony laughed. “Makes it all the more complicated.”

“No, I don’t think it does. I think it would make it all much easier and that I should be much happier with someone I truly loved, although my hopes of finding that in this lifetime are waning,” Joe mused, melancholy heavy in his tone.

“You’ve always been a dreamer, Burreaux, a real romantic.”

“Is it such a crime for a man to wish for a wife he truly loves? Who loves him back?”

“No, I suppose not, but, if you ever change your mind, I can surely point you towards some women who could give you a little entertainment in the interim,” Anthony smirked.

“You are dreadful, Bridgerton, you know that?” Joe laughed. “You can keep those women for yourself. I’m sure they’re plenty satisfied with you.”

“Ahh, that they are,” Anthony replied, ever cocky. “Now, I presume we should be heading downstairs before my mother comes knocking down the door demanding our presence.” “I suppose so.”

Draining the last of their glasses and placing them on the windowsill, the two men exited the study and headed towards the grand hall.

Upon your arrival at the Bridgerton residence, you received your dance card and were greeted by the viscountess, Violet Bridgerton. “Oh, Mrs. Sedgewick, Miss Sedgewick, what a delight it is to see you! I’m so pleased you could join us tonight!”

“Oh, Violet, you know we would never miss it!”

“Never,” you murmured, repeating your mother’s words mindlessly, eyes roving the crowd, searching for Daphne. You needed to hear more about this Burreaux fellow.

“Oh, my dear, don’t let us hold you up!” Violet joked fondly. “I’m sure Daphne anxiously awaits your presence.”

With a brief curtsey, you departed, weaving through the packed ballroom in search of Daphne, locating her by the lemonade table. “Daphne!” you called out as you approached.

“(y/n)!” she replied, her head and body immediately turning in the direction of your voice. She grasped your gloved hands in hers, her mind evidently in the same place as yours as she exclaimed in a hushed voice, “You absolutely must meet Mr. Burreaux tonight!”

“Did my mother somehow put you up to this?” you asked warily.

“Of course not! How could she have, I haven’t even seen her yet.”

You narrowed your eyes in suspicion. Your mother would find a way if she wanted to.

“Oh, I promise it’s not because of her! He is utterly dashing and a perfect gentleman! He is also meant to be quite well educated and cultured, especially after spending so many years on the Continent!” Daphne gushed.

“If you find him such a suitable prospect,” you asked, “why haven’t you set your sights on him?”

“Oh, I could never marry him. I’ve known him for far too long, he’s like a brother. And I know he wouldn’t ever have such feelings for me. You, on the other hand, don’t have that inhibition, and any man who isn’t utterly taken with you is nothing but a fool,” she said. “I also think your personalities might be quite compatible.”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind meeting him,” you said, smiling back at Daphne, feeling a blush rise in your cheeks.

“Oh, good! I don’t believe he and Anthony have come down yet, but when they do we shall go find them.”

“Are there any men you have your eye on?” you asked, linking your arm through Daphne’s.

Her spirits seemed to sink slightly at the question. “No, although that Nigel Berbrooke is courting me as incessantly as ever. The poor man seems incapable of taking a hint. He is nice, but I just couldn’t marry him.”

“Nor could I,” you said, shuddering at the thought. He was a perfectly nice and respectful gentleman, but you were convinced he possessed not even half a brain.

“It is of no matter, someone will catch my eye eventually!” Daphne said lightly.

“They absolutely will,” you reassured her with a gentle squeeze of your hand on her forearm.

While awaiting the arrival of Anthony and Mr. Burreaux, you were approached by another gentleman asking for a dance with you. You wrote his name down in your dance card for a waltz slated to begin in approximately twenty minutes. He bid you a temporary farewell with a gentle brush of his lips on your gloved knuckles.

Almost immediately after he had disappeared back into the crowd of bodies, Daphne exclaimed, “There they are!” pointing in a most unladylike fashion.

“Daphne!” you hissed, snatching her wrist to bring it back down to her side.

Ignoring your admonishment, Daphne promptly led you to the two men. The first thing you noticed about Mr. Burreaux was his height. His sturdy frame towered even over Anthony, a well built man.

“You’ll be the first woman he meets tonight!” she whispered in your ear gleefully. You almost didn’t hear, caught up as you were taking in his blue eyes, his soft blonde hair. “Anthony!” Daphne called out once within a few feet of the two men. You snapped your gaze away from Mr. Burreaux. Now was certainly not the time to be caught staring.

“Ah, Daphne!” Anthony greeted his sister. Upon seeing you, he gave a brief bow. “Miss Sedgewick.”

You curtsied in return. “Your Grace.”

“Let me introduce you to my good friend, recently returned from travels on the Continent. This is Mr. Joseph Burreaux and this is a close family friend, Miss (y/n) Sedgewick.”

You dipped another elegant curtsey. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Burreaux.”

“The pleasure is surely all mine,” he murmured back, taking your gloved hand to brush a kiss over your knuckles. His ocean blue eyes held yours the entire time, forcing you to break eye contact before your heart cracked one of your ribs with the force of its beats. His gentle kiss, although much the same as any other suitor would bestow on you, had an entirely different and much more potent effect on you.

“How have things been with you, (y/n)?” Anthony asked politely.

“Oh, I’ve been very well, thank you. I must admit,” you said, laughing, “I’ve spent much of the past few days on the couch in the library reading that Jane Austen novel, Sense and Sensibility.”

“You like to read?” Mr. Burreaux interjected.

“Oh, I love to read! I have a particular affinity for novels.”

He dipped his head, his lips quirking in a smile that felt as if it was intended just for you, as if a secret something had just been shared between you. “A respectable pastime, and one you and I share.”

“Oh! Have you read the new Austen, then?” you asked, momentarily forgetting that you were supposed to be capturing this man's interest as a potential marriage prospect rather than chatting with him so casually. Most men didn’t care about how a woman spent her spare time, but something in his eyes, focused so intently on your face, gave you the sense that he was actually listening, actually interested.

“I started it just this afternoon, and I am finding it quite enjoyable thus far. Perhaps once I have finished it we could exchange our thoughts on the story and characters,” he suggested.

Trying your best to subdue the force of your smile at the prospect of spending more time in this man’s company, you replied demurely, “That would be lovely.”

“It is settled then. Might I impose myself on you and ask to share a dance this evening?”

“Of course.” You pulled out your dance card, disappointed you had already found a partner for the upcoming waltz. You pencilled his name in for the following dance, curtseying as you departed to locate your other partner.

When Joe had seen you approaching with Daphne, his breath had caught in his throat. You were a vision in sage green satin, falling perfectly from your waist down to the floor. The vibrant joy in your eyes and the sweet smile on your face when you had spoken of your love of reading had given him a warm feeling deep in his chest, and he found he didn’t want to rip his gaze from you. Your open demeanour was refreshing, a change from the women he had met who followed careful scripts in their interactions with him, trying to present themselves as perfect ladies who would make suitable wives for a man of his status.

He had felt as if he could have listened to you talk until he died, which was why he had suggested a meeting to discuss the book. It was rather forward of him, but he couldn’t stop himself.

He knew immediately he wanted to secure a dance with you. When he saw another name, that of some Jack Pembroke he had never heard of, pencilled in for the upcoming waltz, an unexpected bolt of jealousy shot through him. Why should he be jealous? You were one of a hundred eligible young women here, surrounded by just as many eligible gentlemen. Of course you would have numerous dance partners this evening, as would he. Despite his rationalization, he still wanted to scratch that name off of your list and pencil himself in for every single dance that evening. He resisted the urge, saying goodbye to you with a promise he would find you for your dance.

As the waltz music started up and the couples on the floor began to dance, he trailed Anthony through the crowds to meet up with his brothers, Colin and Benedict. Without meaning to, his eyes searched for you amongst the whirling couples in the centre of the room. He spotted you quickly, that radiant smile gracing your features as you talked with your dance partner, capturing his attention instantly. Unexpectedly, you looked up, your gaze catching his. He looked away, but he had held your eyes for a beat longer than was generally deemed appropriate. To tear his eyes from such warmth, such comfort, seemed, and felt, like an unnatural thing to do.

Jack Pembroke was a perfectly adequate dance partner. He was respectful and actually quite entertaining to chat with. Nonetheless, your attention was divided, your eyes flicking around the room to try and catch another glimpse of Mr. Burreaux. Something about him had fascinated you and you wanted to be back in his somehow magnetic presence. To be observed by those sweet, attentive blue eyes. To be held by those strong arms. To be kissed - your rapidly wandering thoughts were interrupted when you realized you were staring directly into his eyes.

You were frozen, immobile, for a moment, until he looked away and you did the same. A furious blush rose in your cheeks and fear flooded your body, as if he could have read what you were thinking through your eyes. Of course he couldn't have, but you still felt as if you had been caught in an indecent act.

Jack, noticing the sudden change in your demeanour and the colouring of your face, looked at you with concern. “Are you alright? Do you need to sit down for a moment or have a drink?”

You brushed it off. “Oh, no, I’m quite alright! Dancing always tires me.” That wasn’t entirely true - you could dance for hours on end with the right partner, but poor Mr. Pembroke didn’t need to know that.

Joe greeted Colin and Benedict amiably. He was good friends with them, too, and hadn’t had much time to catch up with them since his return from the Continent. Anthony, the devil, took the opportunity to poke fun at Joe now that he had his brothers for backup.

With a smirk, he said, “Seems our Joe here has taken a liking to sweet Miss Sedgewick. You should’ve seen him with her! He’s already gone and set up another meeting to discuss the book they both happen to be reading.”

Colin gave Joe a look of undisguised admiration. “Joe, you move fast, don’t ya? Nice work.” Joe tried to will away the red creeping up his neck.

Benedict, less fond of engaging in the well-meaning bullying of his brothers, gave Joe a brotherly pat on the back. “She’s a great girl, Joe, but good luck trying to lock her down. It’s her second season and she had God knows how many men knocking at her door last year, but she didn’t take a single one.”

“I never said I had any plans to court her. It’s not as serious as Anthony makes it sound,” Joe insisted. “It’s important for me to become acquainted with the locals, that’s all. I’d treat anyone the same as her.” As he said it, he knew it was a blatant lie, as did Anthony by the mirthful look on his face. Unbeknownst to his friend, Anthony had observed the moment you two had locked eyes during your dance with Pembroke, had noticed the subtle flush of Joe’s cheeks.

At that moment, another young lady and her mother approached to introduce themselves to Joe. The young lady was Charlotte Beaumont. He’d read of her in that bizarre Whistledown column - for some reason, people thought their marriage to each other was a distinct possibility. He hadn’t even met the woman until this very moment. She was pretty, that was undeniable, and spoke eloquently during their brief exchange, but he felt nothing in her presence. After spending mere minutes in yours, after feeling that profound pull towards another person, his heart could be inspired by nothing less. He sensed that the warmth in his chest he felt around you could quickly become addictive, rendering him utterly dependent on you. Would that be such a bad thing? The two Beaumont women took their leave after a few minutes of bland conversation - Joe wasn’t sorry to see them go.

“Now, that,” Colin said, with a slight incline of his head towards the retreating back of Miss Beaumont, “would be a real catch, Joe.”

“She was certainly pleasant,” Joe conceded, but his mind was elsewhere as his gaze drifted back over the crowd, seeking you out.

Anthony looked at his brothers pointedly, eyebrows raised, giving them a look that said See what I mean? They most definitely saw. He had to bite his tongue to stop himself from adding, “Didn’t see you asking Miss Beaumont about meeting again to discuss your literary pursuits.” Resting a hand on Joe’s shoulder.

Anthony settled for asking, “Still so convinced finding a wife in London will be such a chore? Ah, look at the time! The next dance is starting soon. Better go find your girl.”

He only smirked when Joe shot him a look over his shoulder as he began weaving through the crowd in search of you. He liked hearing Anthony say “your girl.” His girl. My girl.

Your dance with Mr. Pembroke had ended, and after giving him a farewell curtsey, you drifted through the crowd in search of Daphne. You had a couple of minutes to spare before your dance with Mr. Burreaux, and you needed her reassurance. “Daphne!” you exclaimed once you found her.

“(y/n), hi!”

“My dance with Mr. Burreaux is next,” you said hurriedly. “Is my hair okay? My face?”

“Oh, you look absolutely lovely,” Daphne said, her tone just like your mother’s. “Falling for a man suits you beautifully, gives you a certain glow.”

“I am not falling for him. I barely know him, it’s far too early to make claims like that,” you insisted.

“Whatever you say,” Daphne replied in a singsong voice, indicating that she didn’t believe you in the slightest. “Speaking of said man,” she murmured, nodding at his approaching form before slipping back into the throng of people, wanting to leave you two as much privacy as could be afforded given the setting.

You shot her a look that you hoped expressed your sense of betrayal, but she just winked before whirling back around, leaving you with a view of her bouncing red curls tumbling down her back.

“M’lady,” Mr. Burreaux greeted you, dipping a small bow.

With a reciprocal curtsey, you said, “Sir.”

“Please,” he began, “call me Joe.”

“Well then, Joe, you had best call me (y/n),” you replied.

“As you wish, (y/n).” To hear your name roll off his tongue was oddly pleasing.

You assumed the appropriate position for your dance alongside the other couples on the floor as the first notes of the music started up. His hand slid around your waist to rest on your lower back, as yours landed lightly on his shoulder. His free hand grasped yours, your gloved palms fitting together perfectly. His touch, albeit blocked by several layers of fine fabric, felt sweeter than any man’s ever had before. You had only just begun your dance, but you already knew you would sense the absence of his hands on you once it was over.

You didn’t know where to look, your gaze flicking uncertainly between his soft blue eyes, his chest, the dancers beside you. You could feel the warmth radiating from his body, and you had to resist the urge to sink into it, to sink into him. To fall until his strong arms inevitably caught you.

“So,” he began, as you drifted between the other couples on the dance floor. “I already know of your love of reading, but I must confess, I’m curious how else you enjoy spending your time.”

His blue eyes were so intense you almost couldn’t voice your response, drowning in those endless oceans in front of you. Recovering yourself, you replied, “I love walking, rain or shine, especially out in the countryside. That’s my greatest qualm with the season in London - it keeps me in town and I go months without a walk in true solitude.”

“I agree with you there. One is never truly alone in London, something that has been a bit of an adjustment for me. I have a lovely country estate that I plan on escaping to frequently.”

How you longed to join him on one of those frequent escapes to that countryside estate. You had just complained about the lack of solitude in London, but his presence didn’t feel like an encroachment on your existence. Many other London residents were insufferably overbearing, and their presence was something worth escaping from. However, you suspected being alone with Joe would be much the same as being alone with yourself.

“Oh! That sounds lovely,” you said wistfully. “I should do the same, except my mother wants me to remain in town, for all the balls and such things. She is set on me spending as much time in society as possible, with the intention of corralling a great mass of potential suitors,” you sighed, forgetting yourself once again as you spoke so casually of these somewhat delicate personal matters with a man you barely knew. None of your usual walls, so carefully guarded most of the time, seemed to be up when you were with him. These were generally conversations saved for your closest lady friends, as they weren’t issues a man could ever really empathize with.

“I can only imagine how restrictive that must feel,” he murmured thoughtfully, before learning slightly closer to you and whispering conspiratorially, “I would stow you in my carriage and take you to my country estate, but I fear your mother would notice your absence and never permit me to be in your presence again, which I simply could not bear.”

You giggled at his comment. As he pulled away, a single lock of blonde hair fell across his forehead, amplifying his sweet, boyish charm. You were glad he couldn’t yet brush it back into place, occupied as his hands were. Occupied with holding you.

“Yes, I suspect my mother would have your head if you pulled such a daring stunt, although,” you mused, “the intervening period before she discovered our plot would surely be most enjoyable.”

You had meant the comment innocently, your mind (mostly) taken up only by thoughts of forests and meadows, sunshine and long, quiet walks, but you saw in his momentarily darkened eyes that his thoughts had turned elsewhere. “I have no doubt of that,” he murmured.

You flushed, looking away, unable to hold his gaze in that moment, the heat of his body so close to yours suddenly magnified, his touch on your waist searing. No dance partner had ever had such an effect on you, and while part of you wanted to run from the inexplicable power this man exerted over you, the other part wanted to lean into the heat, start the fire, burn in bliss with him by your side.

His voice brought you back to the crowded ballroom, disrupting your fantasies. “You are a most elegant dancer,” he said.

“Thank you,” you replied demurely. “As are you.”

In response, he murmured quietly, almost inaudibly, “Nothing compared to you.”

You had to bite down on your lip to quell the overwhelming force of your smile.

When you sank your teeth into your lower lip, it did indescribable things to his head and heart. The banter you had shared throughout the dance, which was regretfully drawing to a close, was oddly comfortable, despite the fact it was your first meeting, despite the satin and starched white shirts. Your presence felt almost akin to slipping into his bed after a hard day - comfortable, warm, safe. A reprieve from the world, presumably similar to what you had described feeling during your countryside strolls. Oh, how he wished to take you on one.

When the music faded, he mourned the loss of contact as he was forced to wrench his hands from you. You dipped a perfect curtsey, smiling up at him. “Thank you for a lovely dance, Joe.”

“Thank you, (y/n).” To hear his name, shortened, the version generally reserved for his closest acquaintances, fall from your pretty lips warmed him. “Might I interest you in a lemonade?” he asked.

“You very well might,” you replied with the sweetest smile.

He offered you his arm, so pleased when you took it, guiding you towards the lemonade table. To walk through the crowds with you attached to him, to move through the world as a pair, felt so damn right. He handed you a glass once you reached the table, moving to the side to avoid the crowd that always gathered there following a dance. Ladies reunited with their friends to recount tales of dreadful partners while men tried to secure a few extra minutes with a particularly lovely lady over a glass of the sugary drink. Joe was certainly in the latter category.

The Bridgerton crew found the two of you, and Anthony eyed you standing so close to Joe’s side before sending him a brief wink. Joe only hoped you hadn’t seen. You immediately gravitated towards Daphne and away from the men, sharing hushed words and tittering about something or other. One thing in particular that Daphne whispered to you made you burst out laughing. When you laughed, the rest of his world turned to nothing of consequence, his whole being absorbing the sound as if it was the prettiest piece of music he had ever had the privilege of hearing. He wanted to hear that precious sound again, and God, he wanted so, so desperately to be the reason it had bubbled up from your throat.

You drifted away with Daphne, enthralled by the hilarious story of her horrible dance with a partner, who, to preserve his dignity, shall not be named. Once you were confidently out of Joe and the Bridgertons’ earshot, she asked you about your own dance, demanding you divulge every single detail. You told her everything, her little gasps and excited grabs at your forearm spurring you on.

“Oh, (y/n)! That is so sweet! No man has ever made me feel like that,” she gushed.

“He was perfect,” you replied. “No other partner this evening shall be able to compare to him.”

“I don’t know that any man will be able to compare to him, ever again!”

You were forced to agree with her there. His wit, his charm, his soft smiles had captivated you so. You would have loved to share another dance that evening, but to do so would be seen as highly improper, so you settled for longing stares when he wasn’t looking. Half the time you sought him out he was already gazing in your direction, which sent your heart into overdrive and stirred up the swarm of butterflies that had taken up residence in your stomach when you had first laid eyes on him. Even as you were held in the arms of another man, while he held another girl in his, he shared with you those subtle smiles that you now knew were intended just for you, as you whirled past each other in your separate pairs. Your focus seemed to magnetize to each other, to Daphne’s sheer delight, as she often caught you in the act.

Many hours into the evening, long after the sun had dipped below the horizon and darkened the towering windows, your mother sought you out to inform you it was time to return home. You hugged Daphne goodbye, promising you’d see her again soon.

As you embraced, she whispered in your ear, “I bet Mr. Burreaux will be on your doorstep tomorrow with a massive bouquet of flowers.”

“That would be incredible, but don’t go getting my hopes up! I don’t want to have any expectations, or else I’ll surely be disappointed,” you replied.

“Oh, I know most men will always disappoint, but I have a feeling we’re dealing with something special here,” she said with a wink before disappearing into the crowd.

You took your mother’s arm, beginning to weave through the people, stopping every few feet to say farewell to an acquaintance, when you saw Joe headed towards you. He apologized to those people who didn’t part like water before him as he was forced to squeeze past them.

“Oh!” your mother said breathlessly when she caught sight of him, the only exclamation she had time to make before he was in front of you.

You both curtsied while he bowed. “Joe, this is my mother, Mrs. Sedgwick,” you said. “Mama, this is Mr. Joseph Burreaux.”

“Mrs. Sedgewick, it is a pleasure to meet you,” he said.

“Thank you, Mr. Burreaux. It is wonderful to make your acquaintance.”

“I just wished to catch your daughter before you left to wish her a good night and safe travels home,” he said, addressing your mother politely.

Your mother, seeing an opportunity, quickly found a reason to excuse herself, something about one friend or another, leaving you in his presence. You could sense her hawkish eyes watching your entire exchange, trying to gauge whether or not you two were a potential match.

“I hope you have a good night, (y/n), and are swiftly home safe. It was a pleasure to meet you this evening and to share a dance with such a naturally talented partner.”

“Thank you, Joe. I’m sure our ten minute carriage ride will pose us little to no mortal risk, though your concern on our behalf is very thoughtful,” you joked.

“I’m sure that is the case, but nonetheless, I would hate for something to happen to you,” he said intently.

“Likewise. I hope your trek upstairs tonight befalls you no harm.”

“I will be sure to hold onto the banister very carefully and to think of your cautions while I climb those stairs to ensure my safe passage.”

“I’m pleased to hear it. I hope you also think of me when you next open up Sense and Sensibility,” you added coyly.

“Oh, I assure you, I will,” he replied.

“It was most thoughtful of you to see me off, but I’m afraid I must be going,” you said regretfully, not wanting to leave him just yet, or ever.

“Of course, I wouldn’t want to hold you up.” He took your gloved hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. Did his lips linger there, or was it just your tired and hopeful mind playing tricks on you?

After reuniting with your mother, you descended the steps of Bridgerton House and were helped into the carriage that had carried you here only hours earlier. It had brought you here with a curiosity about Mr. Burreaux, but also a firm belief that he would be a roguish man not suited for you. Now, it brought you home while you replayed every memory of him from that evening, images of his blue eyes and broad shoulders nurturing the sweet warmth in your stomach, the lightness in your heart. Contrary to your expectations, he had been the perfect gentleman to you, not making any moves or displaying any behaviour that suggested he had rakish motives. His advances would best be described as respectfully improper, perhaps violating the strictly formal rules of London high society but never coming close to crossing your personal boundaries.

Once home and stripped from your green satin, into your bedclothes and tucked underneath the covers, he still filled your thoughts. Just for tonight, you thought. Tonight, you would indulge in dreams of him - tomorrow, you could come to your senses, if you still possessed any.

When you left that evening, Joe’s mind left with you. He thought of you from the ballroom to his plush bed, and everywhere in between. He wasn’t sure if it was wise to foster the dreams you ignited in him, mere hours after insisting to Anthony he had given up on the prospect of love. He knew he shouldn’t get his hopes up in case he had misinterpreted your behaviour that evening, but God, he had never felt like that with anyone before. And when you caught his eyes while another gentleman spun you in his arms? Whoever he was holding disappeared, and he could almost imagine she was you. He wished she was, without fail.

His mind, between dreamy visions of your smile, your eyes, the satin of your dress, kept circling back to what you had said earlier about “corralling a great mass of suitors.” The phrase bit at him, fed a fire of jealousy that had been kindled when he first saw Mr. Pembroke’s name on your dance card earlier that evening. Of course he would have competition - such an attractive lady, and one with such spirit, was inevitably pursued by many men. But that logic did nothing to soothe him; rather, it only made him realize that he must move quickly. He knew he had to call on you the next day - to let this slip away could well become the gravest mistake of his life.

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