Chapter Text
Tea wasn't something she enjoyed. Sure, bobas were fucking awesome, but hot tea? Not really her. But she'd spent enough time in Regency Era England that she built a tolerance for it. She could drink and endure tea when the situation called for it, but like a normal modern human being stuck in the past, she craved coffee as if her life depended on it. Being the now rich young lady that she was, she managed to acquire coffee beans imported from Spain, and it was hella expensive but what was she about to do with her money if she couldn't spend it?
Adding a number of sugar cubes in tea, a way she learned that made it more bearable, she stirred her drink and stared at the man in front of her.
Anthony Bridgerton was Fiyero Tigelaar.
Her best friend kept on pushing her to watch Bridgerton but she never really found the time to watch it when she was so busy with her Star Wars obsession. That started with Pedro Pascal being the Mandalorian; that it just spiraled down from there and look what she found: Ewan McGregor as Space Jesus. The same Ewan McGregor that she crushed hard on when she saw the man on Angels & Demons as the villainy priest. She felt so sinful for crushing on a priest, even if it's just on a movie, but why did they have to make him so hot?!
So yeah, she was unaware that Fiyero Tigelaar was Anthony Bridgerton. She watched Wicked in cinemas because she was a frustrated theater kid at heart and because she had always loved the wickedly talented Adele Dazeem. She was pleasantly surprised that she loved Fiyero in the movie because the actor played him so fruity. She agreed with the gays that they won with Jonathan Bailey and it was like Jonathan Groff all over again!
Why didn't her best friend tell her that Fiyero was Anthony Bridgerton? Then, before she died (did she die?) she could've at least binge-watched the entire show!
"How many languages are you fluent, Miss Williams?" God, his voice sounds like that of an angel's!
"That depends."
"Depends on what?"
Depends on which life, Eri guessed. In her first life, she was so fluent in numerous foreign and local languages of her country that she actually lost count of how many there were. And in this life, her brother told her that she studied three.
"Three, I guess." Eri shrugged, a habit she had from her past life that she couldn't get away from even when she learned that no respectable ladies do such things. "Italian, French and Greek. Four, if you add English."
Anthony Bridgerton narrowed his eyes at her and Eri sighed in disappointment. Why does he have to be so serious?
She noticed that when she sighed, the man looked a bit confused before he schooled his expression.
"Do you play any instrument? The pianoforte? Or are you more interested in arts?"
"No to the first two." She could beat box and pen tap, but that's not something she could say. "I am interested in the arts, but if you ask me to draw or paint you, you'll find yourself deeply offended by my work."
"I see. How is your needlework?"
The last time Eri tried to sew, she heard that noble young ladies know their way around a needle and thread—the family had to call the physician because there was too much blood, and no, don't ask her what happened.
"Horrible."
"... How are your numbers?"
"I can count."
"And is that all?"
"Do you want me to solve a trigonometry problem for you, is that it?" She sarcastically asked, starting to get irritated by his questions.
"Do you read?"
"Do you sing?"
That seemed to stump the man and made him look at her as if she'd lost her mind.
Eri was annoyed. Really, she was. She was expecting the singing, dancing, and charming Fiyero and not this—whatever this is. She could endure the game of twenty questions if she would get him to sing for her. It was fair trade after all. That's why, when he answered in negative, Eri sighed again.
"That's a disappointment," she commented.
Occupying a table, a few paces away from them, Eri saw her brother giving him a questioning look that says 'do you want to go home?' and she loved him dearly for it. She shook her head and gave the grumpy Fiyero her attention.
Eri didn't really care if she's not acting like a proper and well-bred noble young lady. He was rude to her first. And she wouldn't get a song and dance number from him after this terrible tea session. What was the point of accepting his invitation again?
Ah, that's right, Eri was curious about the main character.
This was what got her best friend in a twist? Really? She really has no taste at all.
Anthony Bridgerton seemed deeply offended by his comment that he looked like he was about to say something in rebuttal, but, in a brusque manner, he just asked:
"Are you interested in being a mother? And how many children do you want?"
Eri couldn't help it. She laughed. Out loud. And geez, so much to pretending to be a perfect young lady. This was her first appearance back in society after her long coma, and Eri wanted to make a good impression. But damn, did he really have to ask her that?!
Now, every patron in the tea shop was looking in their table and just watching the young daughter of Earl Williams completely lose it.
"I beg your pardon—" Eri tried to control her laughter. She really did. Her brother looked at her as if he were so concerned that she was having an episode. "I just... Ha... I didn't know you are so funny!"
There was this expression on the Viscount's face that simply told Eri that he'd rather be anywhere else but the presence of a crazy young lady.
"I am... Not trying to be funny."
Now that, that got Eri's surprise.
"Really? You really ask ladies that question? In your first meeting?" She would never understand these people. If someone asked her that on their first meeting, from a man that's basically a stranger, she'd think he's a creep. And a total sexist.
"It is a perfectly normal question."
"It's really not," Eri patronizes. She couldn't help it. That was such a backwards way of thinking that made Eri remember that feminism wasn't a thing here.
The first formal Women's Rights Convention was in 1848, and that's still a long way. Sure, there were female authors hinting in the ideas but it's still such a foreign concept that men like Anthony Bridgerton, she thought, couldn't fathom such a thing.
Again, the man narrowed his eyes at her.
"Miss Williams, this was a nice tea—"
"It's not," Eri contradicted him again and rolled her eyes when the man remained glaring at her. Rest in peace, Fiyero, you will be remembered. "Viscount Bridgerton, may I ask the purpose of this invitation for tea? I admit that I am curious as to why you have invited me when I couldn't recall any chances of us having a conversation or being an acquaintance."
"No, we are not acquaintances. But what else do you think I have invited you for aside from the fact that I have considered you to be a prospect for my wife?"
She stared at the man. Was he being serious?
Oh, he was being serious!
It was strange for Eri. All of this was strange. She had never encountered anything like this before in her past life. She was twenty-two, and at twenty-two she had relationships but nothing serious enough for her to think of marriage. She forgot that ladies at this age was considered a bit old to marry. Girls debut at eighteen and at that age, they are pushed and pressured to marry.
(Considered, he said in the past tense.)
Eri heaved a long sigh; she seems to be doing that a lot.
"And have you interrogated other women, too?"
"I didn't interrogate them," the man denied, offended by her use of word. "I am merely using the most effective way to seek out a wife as soon as possible."
How easy it was to offend him. He should be thankful that Eri's dialing down the crazies.
"Well, good luck with that," Eri muttered to herself, wishing the poor woman that would be saddled with this not-charming, not-Fiyero man.
Poor female lead; you would have Eri's silent support.
"And those questions were your basis then? For your wife?"
"Yes."
Eri raised an eyebrow. "Then how come you still haven't chosen someone to marry when all those questions could be answered by any suitable young lady of the ton?"
Lord Bridgerton stirred his untouched tea. "I simply find their answers... lacking."
"Change your questions, then," she said as if it were that easy. And it was. It really was. "You can't exactly know someone just from those questions alone. Even a child could do better than that."
That offended him.
"Are you comparing me to a child?" He gritted his teeth.
"Not really," Eri answered and refused to elaborate.
She glanced at her brother, who was still watching them like a hawk, and nodded to him. Elijah stood up and approached their table.
Eri stood up, and the Viscount, the gentleman that he was supposed to be, scrambled to stand up with her.
"I prolonged my stay, and I am starting to feel unwell," Eri lied in the man's face and she added without an ounce of hesitation, "you really should try singing... Let's not do this again, yeah?"
Foregoing a bow or a curtsy—whatever was right and dictated by society—Eri took her brother's arm and strode out of the tea shop.
The sun was bright and hot outside. Being the caring brother that he was, Elijah opened Eri's parasol, ignoring its lacy and feminine design as he used it to shield her against the sun. He's really the best brother anyone could ask for.
"Are you really feeling unwell?"
"No, I completely lied. I need to get out of there before I strangled the man."
Elijah laughed and shook his head. "He's the most eligible bachelor of the season."
"He is?" Eri scrunched her nose in a genuine show of confusion. If he was singing, dancing, and charming Fiyero, she could understand, but that man? "Do the ladies of the ton have low standards, brother?"
Eri sent her brother to a laughing fit.
She smiled. "Would we stop at my favorite bake shop first to buy an eclair?"
"Anything for you, dear sister."
(It was right for Eri to decide that she shouldn't concern herself with the main characters. She shouldn't have been curious about Anthony Bridgerton and now, she was disappointed at what she learned. Eri would just stay at her house and do whatever she likes. She was just an extra after all. A background character that wouldn't affect the story.)
(Oh, how wrong she was.)