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Chapter Text

Gregory knew something was wrong the moment he walked into Lucy’s apartment. It was that feeling, accompanied by the fact there was no music playing. Lucy always had something on in the background. So he would have known even without Hermione’s warning text.

It’s the Great Report Freakout all over again, she’d written. And since it’s your wedding this time, it’s your problem to fix. Have fun!

Lucy was sitting cross-legged on the sage-green rug, her fingers twisting through the tassels as she glared down at a coffee table buried in papers. Sheets of calculations, venue quotes, and guest lists were scattered like battlefield debris. A half-melted bowl of ice cream perched dangerously close to the edge. She’s tried and possibly failed to use it as a stress reliever.

“Luce?” Gregory said gently, settling onto the couch behind her.

“This is never going to work,” she muttered, more to herself than to him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, already bracing for it.

“Too many people. Too many prices. Do you know how expensive this wedding is turning out to be? And the house—what were we thinking? Every time we start something another problem appears. We’re going to be in debt up to our eyeballs. My contract ends in June. If I don’t get something lined up, then this whole thing is hopeless.”

Gregory leaned forward and picked up one of the pages from the chaos. Venue estimates, colour-coded and kind of grim-looking.

“Luce, what is all this?”

She turned to him, frustration flickering in her eyes. “Every venue we’ve looked at. Every single one. Do you even know how many people we’re trying to invite?”

He opened his mouth, hesitated. “Ninety?” he guessed.

Lucy stared at him. “Gregory. Just from your siblings we’re already at thirty-six people.”

“Oh,” he said, blinking.

“We’re close to two hundred, Greg. Two hundred! We can’t afford that. Every venue big enough might as well be Westminster Abbey—with a reception in Buckingham Palace.”

Gregory gave her a hopeful grin. “Now that would be a day to remember.”

She didn’t even crack a smile. “I don’t think there’s any way we can do this.”

“Then we cut down,” he said, like it was that simple. He slid on to the floor beside her.

“And how do you suggest we do that?” Lucy snapped—then immediately she sighed and pulled off her glasses to rub at her eyes. “Sorry. I just… I don’t want to disappoint anyone. I want everyone we care about to be there. But it’s a lot.”

Gregory reached for her hand and threaded his fingers gently through hers. “It’s alright,” he said softly. “We’ll figure it out. Together. Let’s break it down. Where’s the guest list?”

She pointed wordlessly to the laptop, and he reached for it, flipping open the lid and tapping at the keyboard. It sprang to life instantly—of course it did; Lucy never let it sleep for long.

“It’s in the spreadsheets folder?” he asked.

She nodded, still rubbing her temples. “Second tab.”

Gregory scrolled, then found what he was looking for. “Okay then,” he said, rubbing his chin as he squinted at the screen. “Guest list version... four-point-eight. That sounds promising.”

“Don’t mock my system.”

“I would never.” His smile made her feel a little lighter already.

He scanned the names. “You know, my family’s done enough weddings by now. We could just cut all of them,” he offered cheerfully.

Lucy shot him a look. “Your mother would hunt us down with a cake knife.”

“True. A monogrammed one,” he agreed. “Fine. So they stay. Even Amy?”

“She’s already sent me five links to flower girl dresses,” Lucy said with a sigh. “Apparently she wants to match the colour scheme to the cake tiers.”

“She’s twelve,” Gregory said, raising a brow. But she was also Daphne’s daughter.

“I know. I was thinking someone younger—Violet or Jane maybe—but how do you say no to Amy without triggering full betrayal?”

“You don’t,” Gregory said. “She inherited the Bridgerton flair for drama. And you are her favourite teacher.” Lucy blushed at the compliment that she heard from most of the Bridgerton children – she was pretty sure they were biased.

He clicked to scroll further. “Alright, let’s keep going. Agatha and Marcus?”

“If we don’t invite Marcus, your mum will just bring him anyway,” Lucy replied.

“Right. Other Bridgertons and Rokesbys… they probably won’t all come, so that’ll naturally trim the list a bit.”

“Then we’ve got Hermione and Richard, her parents, my uncle, and my grandparents,” Lucy added, counting off on her fingers.

Gregory gave a slow nod. “So that’s all family.”

“Exactly,” Lucy said. “Hard to cut people when they’ve known you since you were in nappies.”

Gregory scrolled again. “Uncle Robert?” he asked, naming him specifically. He didn’t like the man.

Lucy hesitated. “He won’t come. He never goes anywhere.”

“Then let’s save the postage and skip the invite.”

“I still have to send it. He technically raised me.” If what he did could really be considered raising.

Gregory paused, then nodded with understanding. “Fair enough,” he said gently. “We’ll keep him on the list.”

He clicked over to the next column: Friends.

Names filled the screen—Lucy’s university friends, her netball team, colleagues from the school where she taught. Then his football mates, a couple of school friends he still saw on occasion, and a generous sprinkle of people they just sort of knew but liked enough to feel awkward not inviting.

Gregory scanned the page and whistled. “You’ve given everyone a plus one,” he said, eyebrows lifting. “That’s, like… an extra fifty people. So cut them and we’re good.”

Lucy shook her head without hesitation. “No. Everyone deserves to have someone with them. I wouldn’t want to be the person sitting alone at a table, surrounded by couples. It’s awful.”

Gregory sighed—but he understood. It was such a Lucy thing to say. Always thoughtful, always inclusive, always thinking about how other people felt, even at the expense of her own peace.

“Fair,” he admitted. “But a lot of them will know people already. Like your choir group—they’re practically a cult. Stick them at the same table and they’ll be harmonising by the starter.”

Lucy pursed her lips. “I suppose…”

He scrolled a bit further. “Okay, what about Lydia?”

Lucy groaned. “Oh, Lydia,” she muttered.

“You complain about her every week,” Gregory pointed out, tapping her name on the spreadsheet. “Loud, irritating voice, keeps interrupting you in group chat, never passes you the bowl. Flirts with me at every opportunity.”

Lucy bristled a little, especially his last point but

“Yes, but I can’t not invite her if I’m inviting the rest of the team,” she said helplessly. “Can I?”

Gregory leaned back, folding his arms. “Yeah, you can.”

But even as he said it, he knew she wouldn’t. And she knew he wouldn’t either.

Because this was the exact problem Hyacinth had warned him about last month:
“You’re too nice, Greg. You’re both too nice.”

She was right. Neither of them had a ruthless bone in their body.

Chapter Text

In the eighteen months since becoming more involved with the Bridgerton family—more than just Miss Abernathy, the teacher—Lucy had come to realise something extraordinary. She hadn’t just gained a fiancé. She had inherited an entire army of siblings, in-laws, nieces, nephews, and a mother-in-law who could strike fear into the hearts of grown men using only an eyebrow. A woman who had claimed little orphan Lucy as a daughter the moment she knew her son was head over heels for the girl.

Growing up it had always just been her and Richard, and then Boarding school had brought Hermione into her life—a best friend who felt more like a twin soul, even if she had, somewhat traumatically, ended up dating her brother. Which was weird but she kind of loved it now. But the Bridgertons? They were another level of family dynamic.

Eight siblings, countless babies, and a volume setting perpetually stuck on "maximum." And still, somehow, they’d made room for her. She was now “Auntie Lucy” to over a dozen sticky little faces who ran to her for a hug the moment she arrived, who asked to plait her hair and were content to wipe snotty noses on her jeans. And she loved them for it.

That feeling of belonging was part of the reason she was determined to get the wedding sorted. Everyone had begun asking questions, and now, with nine months elapsed since Gregory’s Christmas proposal, the pressure to nail down the details was inescapable.

Lucy found herself standing in the grand hall of Bridgerton House, watching the festivities from inside while everyone else enjoyed a lazy barbecue outside. The walls were dotted with framed wedding photographs—a small, carefully curated gallery. There was Anthony and Kate’s lavish Indian wedding, resplendent with vibrant colors and joyful tradition; Benedict and Sophie’s last-minute elopement that had become legend; Colin and Penelope’s whirlwind which was practically a shotgun wedding; and then Daphne and Simon’s ceremony, a glittering affair that could have rivalled a royal wedding.

Each photo carried stories and laughter, memories that made Lucy’s heart ache and swell all at once every time she heard about them. She knew it wouldn’t be long before Francesca and Michaela’s snapshot appeared on that same wall—a momentous celebration scheduled in just three weeks. Lucy sighed inwardly. If that wasn’t the clearest proof that she and Gregory needed to get a move on, she didn’t know what was.

They had had nine months since the proposal, she thought. Nine. They could’ve grown a baby in that time. That might have been easier. But did they have a venue? No. A dress? No. A guest list? Sort of. Panic attacks? Several.

“I think that’s your spot,” said a dry voice behind her.

Lucy nearly jumped out of her skin. Her hand flew to her chest. “Bloody hell, Michaela!”

A smirk tugged at Michaela’s mouth. “Apologies,” she said, in a tone that suggested absolutely no remorse.

“No, you’re not,” Lucy muttered, shooting her a sideways look.

Michaela chuckled. “You’re right. You were an excellent target. Daydreaming in a hallway? Practically asking for it.” She crossed her arms proudly; Lucy the unflappable was normally the one she couldn’t scare – even with the help of the children.

It had taken Lucy precisely two weeks after meeting Francesca’s girlfriend to understand one core truth: Michaela Stirling delighted in causing mischief. She had the unnerving ability to sneak up on people with the stealth of a cat and the snark of someone who knew they were clever enough to get away with it.

Lucy turned back to the wedding photos. “I wasn’t daydreaming. I was panicking in a quiet sort of way.”

“Ah. Bridal dread,” Michaela said knowingly. “Classic.”

“We haven’t even started properly planning. Meanwhile, you and Fran planned an entire wedding in, what? Three months?”

“Two and a half, technically. Violet got involved.”

Lucy exhaled heavily. “See? You’ve already passed me. We’ve done nothing.”

“I thought you were just taking it slow.”

“Yeah. Slow... and then stop,” Lucy muttered.

Michaela raised an eyebrow. “Have you got a venue?”

“Nope.”

“Guest list?”

“Kind of. Mostly an Excel sheet of people we don’t know how to uninvite.”

“Dress?”

“Don’t even start.”

There was a beat of silence as they both stared at the wall. Then Michaela said, “You know people are going to start asking questions. Like are you ever going to get a move on?”

“They already have,” Lucy replied. “Hyacinth cornered me last week with a Pinterest board and an actual clipboard.”

“Good God.”

“She says we need to get started before we’re old and grey and have to get wheeled down the aisle.”

Michaela laughed. “She’s right. Like if you don’t get a move on…”

“Not helping.”

“Just do things how you want. Small or big. Soon or in a decade. You could go away?”

Lucy smiled faintly, slipping her hands into the pockets of her linen trousers. “You make it sound easy.”

Michaela’s grin curved into something gentler, more knowing. “You just need to make decisions that keep the two of you happy. But I know that’s practically impossible for you incurable people-pleasers.”

Lucy huffed out a laugh, nodding. It was good advice. The best advice, really—obvious and frustrating in how hard it was to follow. Just focus on them. But they were so bad at that!

“There you are! You’re on my team!”

Charlotte came thundering down the hallway, red-cheeked, out of breath, and absolutely glowing with purpose. She grabbed Michaela’s hand without preamble.

“For what, exactly?” Michaela asked, one eyebrow quirking as if she already regretted asking.

“Rounders!” Charlotte beamed. “We’re starting now.”

Ah yes. The latest obsession of the Bridgerton offspring. A game that somehow turned from casual garden play into something approaching Olympic-level competition.

“What about me?” Lucy called after them as they turned toward the garden.

“You’re on Oliver’s team!” Charlotte shouted over her shoulder. “He said so!”

Michaela sighed dramatically as she allowed herself to be pulled along. “Now there’s slow and stop,” referring to Oliver’s uncle Philip, “think he’ll ever even propose?”

“Eloise might beat him to it,” Lucy quipped, trailing after them as the breeze picked up and the sounds of children shouting filtered through the open French doors.

She stepped outside into golden afternoon light, the garden already alive with movement. Gregory was standing near second base (which was currently a flower pot), trying to explain to Elliot how to use a bat – because his own father appeared more preoccupied with ensuring the bases were evenly spread out.

Lucy glanced over at her future husband—messy-haired, slightly sunburnt, already getting far too invested in the game jusging by his large gestures—and smiled. As if knowing she was there Gregory looked up and grinned at her.

“Ok. We’re batting first,” Oliver ordered, before putting adults and children alike into an order. These children were possibly more competitive than the adults and all were dying to win.

Chapter Text

The moment Lucy laid eyes on Fernleigh Cottage, she declared it perfect.

With its uneven thatched roof, ivy-covered stone walls, and a garden bursting with unruly wildflowers. The place was dripping with charm—or as the estate agent tactfully put it, “ripe with potential.”

But Lucy didn’t see a crumbling fixer-upper. She saw a future. She could picture herself outside reading on the little bench beneath the cherry tree. She imagined Christmas lights strung across the low eaves, the windows glowing with laughter and warmth. There was even a crooked little gate that creaked perfectly. It was practically a storybook.

Because Lucy fell in love with it immediately, so did Gregory. He didn’t understand how she managed to see a home in a house that smelled faintly of mildew and mice, but he trusted her instincts—and her dreamy smile had him pulling out his phone by the end of the viewing to make an offer.

The estate agent nearly dropped her clipboard.

The place had been on the market for over a year. Most people couldn’t get past the broken windows or the fact the upstairs floor sloped so alarmingly it looked like it was trying to escape the house. But to Lucy and Gregory, it was the one. Somewhere just for them—for now—with space enough for someday. They wanted a big family, and Fernleigh promised to be the perfect place for one.

Not that anyone else saw it that way.

“What were they thinking?” Daphne muttered, not bothering to hide her disdain on her first visit. She had stepped inside, taken one whiff of the musty air, and instinctively backed out again.

“£200,000?” Anthony asked, incredulous. “It’s going to cost twice that just to make it habitable. Maybe more if you want hot water.”

“Does it even have electricity?” Benedict squinted up at the ceiling, eyeing a single hanging lightbulb like it might be a relic from the Victorian era.

“It was wired in the 1920s,” Gregory said proudly. “Vintage!”

Penelope, more charitable than most, cocked her head and offered carefully, “It has character.” Which was code for mice, cracked plaster, and likely haunted. “It’s a... fixer-upper.”

That was what the young couple kept saying. Fixer-upper. With hopeful grins and paint samples that kept multiplying in their kitchen drawer. Even though, after six months of scraping wallpaper and dodging suspicious creaks, it felt more fixerthan up.

“You know, new builds are the way to go,” Hyacinth groaned as she yanked up another rotten floorboard one Saturday afternoon. “No rats. No weird smells. No ghosts.”

“We didn’t want something new,” Lucy said. For the hundredth time.

“Yeah, but why?” Hyacinth grumbled, wiping her brow. “You know, you could’ve just bought a cottagecore aesthetic. They sell it now at IKEA.”

“We wanted history,” Gregory chimed in. “A home with soul.”

“You’re going to have to summon a few souls to get this place done,” Gareth muttered as he stretched out his aching back. He had been coerced into lifting floorboards with the promise of lunch and hadn’t seen a sandwich yet.

“Good things come to those who wait,” Gregory declared brightly, standing in what used to be the hallway and now resembled more of a war zone.

“You’re going to be waiting a long time,” Gareth replied, sitting back on his heels and stretching out his legs. He had paint on his cheek, dust in his hair, and a generally resigned look about him.

Hyacinth glanced at him, smirking. “Says the man who’s been promising to fix my leaky bathroom tap since October.”

“I have a system,” Gareth replied. “Strategic procrastination. It’s very efficient.”

“Strategic laziness, more like.”

“And yet,” Gareth said, turning to her with a grin, “you still brought me along for floorboard duty.”

“Because you’re useful. Occasionally.” She leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, smudging him with more paint.

Lucy, watching from the stairs with a fond smile, could only shake her head. God help them if they ever tried a DIY project together. There’d be a murder in the first hour and no one would be surprised.

And yet, it was sweet. In their own way, Hyacinth and Gareth worked—bickering and teasing one another like it was a competitive sport, but deeply loyal underneath it all. He was the only one, Lucy suspected, who could keep up with her future sister-in-law’s razor wit and relentless energy.

“Speaking of strategic waiting,” Hyacinth said suddenly, eyes gleaming, “When are we getting a ‘Save the Date’?”

“Whenever we set a date,” Gregory said, not missing a beat.

Hyacinth groaned. “Can you please get on with it? I want another wedding.”

“Then plan your own,” Gregory said with a shrug.

Gareth blinked. “Wait, are we getting married?”

“You’re not proposing with rotten floorboards and dust in your hair, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Hyacinth said, deadpan.

Gareth looked down at himself. “Fair enough.”
Hyacinth Bridgerton would expect a lot more. The day he proposed to her, he was fairly certain she’d already have a Pinterest board, five spreadsheets, and a venue tour booked by nightfall.

“Anyway.” She turned, arms folding with the sort of energy that made even Gregory visibly brace. “You two need to get a move on. What’s the excuse now?”

Lucy opened her mouth, but Hyacinth cut her off with a raised finger. “And don’t say you’re busy. Francesca and Michaela are busy, and their wedding is next week. Michaela is photographing the English ladies football team this week and Fean is performing in Vienna. What exactly are you doing?”

“Uh… levelling floorboards?” Gregory offered, glancing around at the mess that was Fernleigh Cottage.

“We just haven’t figured out what we want,” he added more seriously, and Lucy nodded beside him.

“There’s so many options,” she said, sighing. “And so many people. We’ll get there. It’s just—”

“Overwhelming,” Gregory finished. “And expensive.”

Hyacinth’s eyes narrowed in that distinctly Bridgerton way that made grown men nervous. She looked between them, lips pursed. Then she stepped forward and pointed at them both.

“You’ve got one week.”

“One week?” Gregory repeated, warily.

“One week,” she confirmed. “If you haven’t at least picked a date and a venue by then, I’m sending out invitations myself. I will plan this entire wedding without your input. You’ll show up and be legally wed, but I swear to God there will be doves, a chocolate fountain, and a bagpipe solo. You’ll hate all of it.”

Gareth laughed. “She will, too. Don’t test her.”

“She’ll do it,” Lucy muttered, eyes wide. “Greg, she will.”

“I know,” he said. “ We’re doing this. Tomorrow. Date, venue, guest list. Before she makes good on the bagpipes.”

——

The following afternoon, Gregory and Lucy were positioned at the long dining table in Bridgerton House, fully armed for what they were calling The Great Wedding Planning Summit.

Three sharing bags of crisps—salt and vinegar, cheese and onion, and Lucy’s favourite sweet chilli—sat open in the middle of the table, surrounded by various dips. Two tall glasses of lemonade stood nearby, and their respective notebooks were already filled with scribbles and post-its. The huge family laptop had been borrowed for the occasion and sat open between them.

They were ready.

Gregory grabbed a handful of crisps. “Alright. So what do we start with? Budget? Guest list? Or… venue?” He ripped into the salt and vinegar like a man who hadn’t eaten in days.

“Venue,” Lucy said firmly, brushing a blonde hair behind her ear and flipping to a clean page in her notebook. She looked unusually serious, her “teacher face” slipping into place. “I’ve been thinking. Michaela made an offhand comment the other day that actually stuck.”

“Terrifying,” Gregory muttered. “What did she say?”

“That if we went abroad, we could cut the guest list without hurting feelings. People understand travel’s expensive.”

Gregory paused, genuinely considering. “So you’re saying… we could use international travel as a weapon of diplomacy?”

“I’m saying we let logistics do the dirty work,” Lucy smiled, pleased he caught on. “A smaller wedding. Fewer expectations. It becomes a family holiday instead of a giant public event.”

“I like it,” Gregory said, nodding enthusiastically. “We say it’s intimate. Romantic. Exclusive.”

“Something different,” Lucy said.

Gregory grinned. “It could be, like, Tuscany or the South of France. Or Greece! Can you imagine the food? You know how much I love feta.”

Lucy rolled her eyes affectionately. “It’s not a holiday just for the cheese.”

“No, but cheese is a factor. And Colin would agree.”

“Of course it is.” Lucy leaned over to write Possible destinations at the top of the page. “And we can host a big party at Aubrey Hall when we’re back. That way we include everyone who couldn’t make it.”

Gregory nodded vigorously. “Yes! A reception back home. Less pressure. Everyone’s happy.”

Lucy smiled, uncapping her pen. “I think we’re actually onto something.”

Gregory popped another crisp in his mouth and raised his glass. “To brilliant ideas and escape strategies.”

Lucy clinked hers against his. “To fewer people, less stress, and feta cheese.”

Gregory beamed. “You know, I think we’re really going to survive this wedding.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Lucy said, glancing at the tabs open on the laptop. “You’ve still got to tell your mother it might not be at the church I think she has already put a deposit on.”

Gregory blanched. “One hurdle at a time.”

Chapter Text

The Penny Court was usually a haven of elegance and calm—a boutique hotel with tasteful art on the walls, fresh orchids in every hallway, and a concierge who wore gloves even in summer. But that weekend in October, the Bridgertons had arrived en masse, and calm had long since fled the building.

“Edmund, give me my Switch!” Bella’s voice echoed down the velvet-lined corridor as she thundered after her cousin.

“No! Amma said I could play on it!” Neddie shot back, clutching the device to his chest like a prized relic as he darted toward the end of the hallway.

“For ten minutes! It’s my turn now!” Bella skidded to a dramatic halt in the middle of the plush red carpet, her small arms folded, you’d think she was channeling her grandmother.

A door creaked open nearby, and Colin stepped out, little Jane perched on his hip, her beloved pink lamb dangling by one floppy leg.

“What’s going on now?” he asked, already tired and not even halfway through the evening.

“Neddie won’t give me back my Switch,” Bella declared, her tone one of injustice.

“You know you have to share, Bella,” Colin sighed. “He’s younger than you.”

“That’s what everyone says,” Bella muttered. “He’s only younger by three months. It hardly counts.”

Colin, who had once sworn he’d never become one of those adults who used phrases like he’s younger than you, rubbed his temples. He remembered hating being told he had to give things to the girls. “Why don’t you play together?”

Penelope emerged behind him, ushering along George, who was just beginning to toddle.

“I don’t want to play with her,” Neddie grumbled, sulking by a potted plant.

“You’ll share or I’ll tell your dad,” Colin warned.

Neddie puffed up slightly. His dad’s warnings usually came with lectures and very serious eyebrow raises, neither of which had a lasting impact.

“Tell his dad what?” Anthony asked, turning the corner with Benedict, both of them holding one half-asleep twin.

“Edmund,” Anthony said firmly, shifting Charlie to his other arm, “give the Switch back. You know the rules. No devices at dinner.”

Neddie reluctantly handed over the console, his face contorted in noble suffering. “But I just got to level three.”

“And now you get to level three of being a good cousin,” Anthony replied with zero sympathy.

The children scattered toward their respective rooms, mumbling mutinously.

“Remind me again,” Benedict muttered, “why we thought a family dinner the night before the wedding was a good idea?”

“I believe it was Francesca’s idea,” Anthony said. “Which means if it falls apart, it’s on us when she gets annoyed.”

“I’m not afraid of Fran,” Benedict said.

“You should be,” Anthony replied.

Penelope reappeared, tugging George along like an unwilling sack of potatoes. “Aggie just peed through her dress. Lucy’s changing her.”

Colin sighed deeply. “Well, at least we haven’t sat down yet.”

“Dinner’s at seven,” Penelope said, exasperated.

“It’s six forty-five,” Benedict checked his watch.

“Exactly. This is the warm-up act,” Colin muttered.

Nearly every suite in the hotel had been booked under the Bridgerton name thst weekend, and the restaurant—normally a calm, candlelit venue—was alive with the sound of seventeen conversations at once. Cutlery clinked, napkins fluttered, and one waiter had already been elbowed twice by children hurrying between tables to find the best seat.

The Stirlings, by contrast, were gathered quietly at one table. All ten of them—poised, polite, slightly bewildered by the hurricane of Bridgertons—occupied their seats with polite grace and the occasional raised eyebrow.

Lucy deposited Aggie into her grandmother’s lap with a whispered “Good luck,” then slipped into the chair next to Gregory, who was enthusiastically explaining Arsenal’s chances this season to Simon. On Lucy’s other side, Alex had already settled himself with his elbows on the table, peering seriously at the menu.

She flipped hers open and scanned the options. “What do you fancy?” Gregory asked, leaning in close.

“Hmm.” Lucy’s eyes flicked from the starters to the mains. “It all sounds good.”

“I was thinking the ribs and then the steak,” Gregory offered.

“Maybe the egg mayo to start… then the chicken burger,” Lucy mused aloud. “Or the stroganoff.” She glanced at the mains again, then at the dessert list, already anticipating her usual ‘yes to both’ internal crisis. Too many options that all sounded delicious.

“I’m having pasta,” Alex said confidently, peering at the waiter’s notepad like a seasoned food critic. “With white sauce.”

“Plain pasta!” Will snorted from beside him.

“No, you’re having bolognese,” Sophie chimed in without missing a beat in her chat with Daphne.

Will frowned. “Don’t like it.”

“Yes you do, William,” Benedict said wearily, not even looking up. The ‘Plain Pasta Debate’ was entering month three. A nightmare for parents with more interesting tastebuds.

“Can I have a burger?” Charlie piped up, half-lounging in his chair. “With cheesy chips?” His tone suggested this was a negotiation, not a question.

“Fine,” Sophie said with a sigh. Benedict nodded, handing over the menu with a smile.

Charlie beamed and leaned back over to whisper something to Carrie, who giggled behind her lemonade.

“The burger actually does sound good,” Gregory admitted. “Hy? You getting the burger?”

Across the table, Hyacinth didn’t even glance up. “Probably. But I’m not sharing.”

Gregory gasped with mock offence. “How did you know I was going to ask?”

“You always ask,” Lucy said, squeezing his hand with a fond shake of her head.

“I’ll go half,” Gareth offered from beside Hyacinth. “Burger and curry?”

“Deal.” Gregory clapped his hands once. “Sorted.”

“So,” Gareth continued, refilling his water glass with a raised eyebrow, “I hear we have movement on the wedding?”

The conversation at the table stopped. Even Daphne, mid-sentence, turned her head with interest.

“There is?” she asked, smiling slyly.

Lucy winced. “Sort of…”

“We have an idea,” Gregory clarified quickly. “We’re just narrowing down the date.”

“When?” Sophie leaned in.

Lucy glanced at Gregory. “We’re thinking… spring?”

“Spring next year?” Daphne asked, a little too hopefully.

“This spring,” Gregory said, cheerful and unapologetic. “We’re thinking May. Abroad. Fewer guests. Less stress.”

“You mean less us?” Benedict asked, raising a brow. “Because that’s the only way you’re getting fewer guests.”

“Not less you,” Gregory said smoothly. “Just… family and some friends with a cap on plus-ones.”

“Wait, abroad?” Hyacinth asked. “Where abroad?”

“That,” Lucy said firmly, “is still being decided.”

“Somewhere warm,” Gregory added.

“Somewhere with cocktails,” Lucy added.

“Somewhere where you can’t take over the planning,” Gregory finished, to a round of knowing laughter and an offended scoff from his youngest sister.

“Please,” Hyacinth said, flipping a breadstick between her fingers like a weapon. “I live for weddings.”

“We were thinking Greece,” Lucy grinned.

The table broke into chatter again and beneath the chaos, Lucy and Gregory exchanged a glance.

They’d done it.

They’d made a decision.

Now they just had to survive the family’s reactions to it.

Chapter Text

It was a widely known, deeply embedded, and universally respected truth in the Bridgerton family that Hyacinth Bridgerton required her beauty sleep. Seven hours was the minimum threshold for her to function as a decent, civilised human being. Anything less, and one risked facing a version of Hyacinth that could curdle milk at twenty paces. Even Violet had once described her youngest as “charmingly homicidal” after a poor night’s rest.

So, when the Bridgertons descended upon the breakfast room at The Penny Court the morning after the rehearsal dinner, the elder siblings wisely steered clear of the corner table where Hyacinth sat in silent fury, her expression suggesting a bad night.

In leggings and an ancient Oxford hoodie that had once belonged to Anthony. Her fingers were tightly wrapped around a mug of coffee that had long since gone cold, and she was glowering at her cornflakes.

Across from her, Gareth sat calmly working through his scrambled eggs, his expression patient and practiced—the look of a man who knew he was in dangerous waters but had learned how to sail them without capsizing.

To be fair, he’d had no choice. He had shared a room with her the night before, and while that wasn’t usually a problem, the lack of sleep—and more importantly, the fact that he had managed to sleep while she hadn’t—had only increased her current level of passive-aggressive rage.

At the buffet table, Lucy was a sharp contrast to the stormy gloom of Hyacinth’s table. She was humming softly under her breath as she spooned strawberries and granola into a bowl, deep in cheerful conversation with Michaela’s cousin about breakfast pastries. She might as well have had birds chirping over her shoulder.

Then, as she turned with her bowl in hand, scanning the room for a seat, she spotted the glum breakfast duo. Despite Hyacinth’s reputation, Lucy made her way over. The table was quiet—and Bridgerton quiet was rare enough that Lucy wasn’t about to miss it.

“Good morning,” she greeted, her voice warm but tentative.

Hyacinth responded with a vague growl and a flick of her eyes upward that might have passed for a glare, had she possessed the energy to muster one.

“Morning, Luce,” Gareth said instead, speaking around a mouthful of egg as he gestured for her to sit.

Lucy took the seat opposite them and offered a sunny smile, undeterred. “It’s a good breakfast,” she offered, like a peace treaty.

“The bacon’s really good,” Gareth agreed helpfully, as if it might neutralise his girlfriend’s murderous aura.

“How’d you sleep?” Lucy asked lightly.

“Great,” Gareth replied. “I thought it was pretty comfortable. Bed was a little short though. If I was any taller I wouldn’t have fit.”

“Yeah, I heard Benedict say that too. I don’t think he and Sophie got much sleep – Violet and Will climbed in beside them at some point.”

“Ok. Maybe just Hy wasn’t so bad then,” Gareth said, eyes flickering to the brunette who had now picked up a spoon to attempt her cereal.

“It was musical beds last night,” Gregory yawned, as he sat beside Lucy with an omelette. “The boys figured out to unlock the adjoining door.” He rubbed his face still sleepily. “Charlie invaded our last night. I spent the night hanging off the bed with a foot in the face.”

Lucy chuckled, “we can lock our side tonight.”

Across from them, Hyacinth made a sharp noise of exasperation. “Well, I’m glad you all slept so well.”

“Not a good night?” Gregory asked, turning toward her.

Hyacinth glared at him through bloodshot eyes. “No. First of all, he—” she gestured accusingly at Gareth “—took up the entire bed and snored like a congested walrus.”

Gareth, to his credit, didn’t flinch. He calmly sipped his orange juice.

“Then the twins,” she continued, “were talking until after midnight. Like full volume chit-chat. And Eloise and Philip did nothing. Nada. Zip.”

“Oh no,” Lucy murmured sympathetically.

“And then,” Hyacinth said, voice rising slightly with each syllable, “they started using the bathroom like it was a team sport from five a.m. onwards. I don’t know what they were doing but that toilet must have flushed every ten seconds.”

 Gregory, still chewing a mouthful of toast, tilted his head. “El looks a bit peaky this morning too, if that’s any consolation?”

“It’s not,” Hyacinth snapped, then took an aggressive sip of her coffee.

Gareth, who had wisely kept a low profile during the rant, nudged her mug a little closer. “Drink up, Hy. You’ll feel better once the caffeine kicks in.”

“And then you can nap before the ceremony,” Gregory offered helpfully.

Hyacinth turned to him slowly, her expression a masterclass in scathing disbelief. “The ceremony is at eleven, Gregory.”

He blinked. “Yeah. Loads of time.”

Lucy and Hyacinth exchanged a long look, perfectly in sync as they both rolled their eyes.

“Boys,” Lucy sighed, biting into a piece of melon.

“You do realise that hair and make-up takes time?” Hyacinth said pointedly, directing the comment at her brother.

“And unlike some people,” she added, turning a narrowed gaze to Gareth, “my idea of wedding prep doesn’t involve splashing my face with cold water and running a comb through my hair twice.”

“Hey,” Gareth held up his hands in mock offence. “Three times, thank you very much.”

Despite herself, Hyacinth’s lips twitched in a half-smile.

By 10:40, the chaos of breakfast had been replaced by the serene bustle of the bridal suite. The Bridgerton males had all been conveniently assigned to child-minding duties – keeping their children out of trouble to the best of their ability.

That had thankfully left the women to focus on what they did best: strategic wedding execution.

Hyacinth now sat on a low bench in the airy suite, hair and makeup done to perfection, sipping sparkling water while watching Lucy slip into a purple dress.

“You look good,” Hyacinth said, standing to zip it for her.

Lucy smiled. “So will you.”

“I’m the only bridesmaid, I have to look good.”

Fran had made it clear from the beginning—one bridesmaid only. Not a sea of matching dresses. Not a military parade of siblings. Just one. Straws had been pulled. Hyacinth had won.

Not that anyone really minded. Daphne was happily overseeing logistics like a stage manager with a clipboard, and Eloise had declared she’d rather be caught dead than wear lemon chiffon.

There was a knock at the door and the bustle paused.

“Who’s there?” Kate called, her voice rising above the gentle whirr of a hairdryer and the rustle of silk.

“Me,” came the unmistakable reply.

Kate’s face broke into a smile as she crossed the room and opened the door. Anthony stood in the hallway, already in his suit, his expression somewhere between amused and sentimental.

“How many times have we done this now?” he asked, stepping inside and glancing around the room.

“This is number five,” Violet answered from her place by the window, her voice warm with disbelief. “Five weddings. Over halfway there.” Her eyes twinkled, though there was a distinct sheen of emotion hiding behind her dignified smile.

Anthony let out a soft breath as his eyes landed on Francesca—elegant, serene, and radiant in her gown. She was standing still as Penelope gently fastened the delicate clasp of her necklace, her head tilted just slightly, dark hair swept into an intricate updo. There was something achingly grown-up about her in that moment, and it caught him off guard.

Francesca turned at the sound of his breath, and when her eyes met his, something silent passed between them—years of sibling loyalty, quiet understanding, and the weight of a thousand shared memories.

Anthony felt the sting at the back of his eyes and immediately looked away, blinking hard. Of course, Kate noticed. She was watching him like a hawk, the corners of her mouth twitching in anticipation of a good tease.

He cleared his throat. “Michaela’s downstairs. Waiting. So… we’re all ready for you.”

Francesca nodded slowly, smoothing the front of her dress with steady hands. “Okay.”

“Right, everyone. Let’s go,” Daphne announced, ever the practical one as she clapped her hands together and began shepherding bridesmaids, flower girls, and wandering family members toward the door. “Give them a minute,” she added with a glance toward Kate, who nodded and began helping to usher the crowd out with surprisingly little resistance.

As the bridal suite emptied, the noise faded into muffled echoes in the hallway, leaving just Francesca and Anthony in the soft, golden stillness of the room.

Anthony took a step toward his sister and held out his hand. She took it, giving it a gentle squeeze. Neither of them spoke right away. They didn’t need to.

“You ready?” he asked eventually, his voice quiet.

Francesca gave a small nod, then smiled. “I think so.”

He looked at her a long moment, then leaned in and pressed a kiss to her temple.

“You look beautiful,” he said. “Dad would be proud.”

Francesca’s eyes shimmered, but her smile never wavered. “I hope so.”

“Come on then,” Anthony said, straightening his shoulders and offering her his arm. “Let’s go get you married.”

It was perfect. All of it.

The ceremony had taken place on a sunny terrace overlooking a garden filled with the colours of autumn. The air was crisp, the breeze gentle, and everything felt suspended in a kind of golden stillness. Guests leaned forward in their seats, holding their breath, as Francesca and Michaela exchanged vows. Benedict captured it all with his camera—from the hushed gasps as the brides caught sight of one another, to the knowing blushes that followed their shared smiles. He even caught the moment Agatha and Jane half-raced each other down the aisle in a flower girl duel, and the high-pitched shriek of displeasure from baby Jade when the officiant asked, with traditional ceremony, if there was any reason the marriage should not go ahead. The guests had laughed, and Michaela had rolled her eyes fondly. Francesca just picked up her goddaughter and kissed her cheek before continuing her vows.

Afterward, the party moved indoors to a reception space glowing with soft lights and warm laughter. A string quartet—friends and colleagues from Fran’s orchestra—played gentle melodies that danced through the room. Their first dance was understated and full of joy, two people wrapped in each other’s arms, swaying to the music like no one else was in the room.

Later in the evening, Lucy stood near the edge of the room, one hand curled loosely around a glass of Prosecco, watching the shifting whirl of colour and energy on the dance floor. Violet was dancing with Carrie, Edmund and Bella were spinning wildly in circles laughing, and Kate had just dragged Anthony up for a song he clearly didn’t know but was pretending to enjoy. It was chaos. It was love.

She hadn’t noticed Gregory appear until his arm slipped around her waist. She jumped slightly, then melted into the familiar curve of his side as he pulled her close.

“Us next?” he asked softly in her ear.

Lucy tilted her head and gave a small, nervous smile. “Yes. Which is slightly terrifying.”

“But we know what we’re doing now,” he said, grinning. “Sort of.”

“True,” she admitted. Her fingers brushed his.

“Dance with me?” he asked, offering his hand.

She was about to take it when Hyacinth appeared in front of them like a whirlwind in heels, her dress swirling with dramatic flair.

“You’re going to be an uncle again!” she declared without any lead-up.

Gregory blinked. “Is this… news?”

“Of course it is! Guess who?” she said, eyes gleaming, practically vibrating with the thrill of gossip.

He looked thoughtful. “Well. Not you, obviously—Kate said four was enough. Didn’t Sophie make Ben—uh—take precautions?” His voice dropped on that last bit. “Maybe Daphne? Or Penelope?”

Hyacinth shook her head, lips pressed together like a smug schoolteacher. “Wrong, wrong, and wrong.” She threw her arms wide as if expecting applause. “Eloise!”

Lucy nearly choked on her drink. “No!”

“Yes,” Hyacinth said triumphantly. “I just saw Ben ordering her a drink. A juice. Just a juice. No alcohol. And all that noise this morning? That was morning sickness!”

Lucy and Gregory exchanged wide-eyed glances.

“I need to sit down,” Gregory muttered.

“No, no—come dance with me,” Lucy said, setting her drink aside and tugging at his hand. “Before your brain explodes.”

“I need to get telling everyone. We need another betting pool!” Then she turned on her heel and disappeared into the crowd, off to spread the news with a speed that would make the Daily Mail weep.

Gregory looked down at Lucy, who was already smiling at him.

“Let’s dance,” she said.

Chapter Text

“Right. So… Greece,” Lucy murmured, mostly to herself as she tucked one leg under the other on the living room sofa, her laptop balanced carefully on her knees. The tired glow of Francesca and Michaela’s wedding had finally worn off, and after days of recovery and leftover cake, she and Gregory were finally ready to focus on their own wedding.

She had eight tabs open. A few scenic clifftop venues, one with a chapel on the edge of a vineyard, another that came with a boat for a sunset cruise. Some of them just seemed perfect. She could picture being there.

“Actually…” Gregory’s voice broke through her concentration. He was sitting in the old armchair by the window, scrolling through something on his phone with the particular expression of someone about to say something possibly controversial. “I was thinking… maybe not Greece.”

Lucy stopped, blinked, and looked up from the screen, her eyes slowly rising above the silver rim of her laptop. “Sorry—what?”

He gave her a sheepish smile. “It’s just… if we’re thinking May, Eloise is due in April. She might not be able to travel.”

Lucy gave him a long look, half-exasperated, half-amused. “Gregory. Eloise will be fine. She’ll be six weeks postpartum. She could probably run a marathon.”

“Yeah, but what if she has the baby early?” he said, leaning forward now, his voice low and sincere. “Or… I dunno… if the baby’s in the NICU like George was? She might still be in hospital. She might not want to leave.”

Lucy bit her lip. That was true. She knew how much family meant to Gregory. He wanted everyone there, not just physically but emotionally present—all in. And if something happened, it might be impossible for Eloise and Philip to fly out. She closed one of her tabs reluctantly.

“Maybe… maybe something closer to home then?” she offered gently, opening a new search for UK-based venues.

Before Gregory could answer, a third voice cut through the air.

“No.”

Violet Bridgerton appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a tea towel and holding a very sharp steak knife like a murder weapon.

“You are going to Greece,” she declared, fixing them both with a look that dared them to disagree.

Gregory blinked. “Mum. We were just saying—”

“You’re both thinking of everyone else,” she said, pointing the knife in a vague, yet somehow still menacing circle. “Eloise will be fine. Have you ever seen that woman not do something just because someone told her it might be inconvenient?”

Gregory opened his mouth. Closed it. Sighed. “Fair point.”

Lucy raised a cautious hand. “Maybe we could just… check with her?”

“No,” Violet said flatly. “You are going to Greece. Lord knows this family will need a holiday by the time your wedding arrives. You’ll regret it if you plan around everyone else’s needs instead of what you want.”

She paused at the doorway, turning slightly. “And I want a venue picked by dinner time.”

“That’s in twenty minutes,” Gregory muttered.

Violet smiled sweetly. “Then I’d hurry up, darling.”

As she disappeared back into the kitchen, Lucy and Gregory exchanged a long look. Then, without a word, Gregory got up, grabbed a bag of crisps from the counter, and plopped down beside her on the sofa.

“Right then. Show me what you’ve got.” Gregory peered over Lucy’s shoulder at the laptop screen, resting his chin briefly on her shoulder like a clingy golden retriever.

“A private island?” he said, eyebrows lifting. “Seriously, Lucy-Loo?” He tugged gently on a strand of her blonde hair, and she smiled despite herself.

“It’s very Mamma Mia, okay?” she said defensively, clicking to expand the gallery. “It’s a tiny hotel—only fits about seventy people. You can get married on the beach, then the reception’s on this terrace under fairy lights. There’s a wedding co-ordinator that organises everything. It’s… quaint. Romantic.”

Gregory leaned in, squinting at the screen as she clicked through the photos. Soft white sands, a turquoise sea, and a stone path leading to a simple altar by the waves.

“Okay,” he admitted slowly, “that does look amazing.” He paused, flicking to the next tab. “Let’s see the others though.”

The second venue was sleeker—a modern boutique hotel perched on a hill overlooking an olive grove.

“It’s only an hour from Athens,” Lucy said, a little too hopefully. Gregory hummed in consideration but clicked again.

The next tab opened to an all-inclusive resort. Big, bright, and bustling. Pools. Restaurants. A water park. And a landscaped wedding garden.

“I like that one,” Gregory said, eyes gleaming.

“As a wedding venue?” Lucy asked, turning to side-eye him. “ I think it might be a bit much.”

“I mean... sure,” Gregory said, tilting his head. “But cheesy chips on demand? Unlimited buffet? There’s a water slide, Lucy. A water slide.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “We are not getting married with screaming children sliding past our vows.”

“Fair enough,” he sighed.

She rolled her eyes and clicked back to the island venue. Her finger hovered over the booking link. “You know, I’d like to see them in person,” she admitted. “Photos are great, but if I book and we get there in May and something feels off, I’ll panic.”

“I knew you’d say that,” Gregory grinned, already reaching for his phone. “Let’s just go. Midterm week?”

Lucy hesitated. “Gregory, I can’t just disappear for a week even if I’m off. I’ve got planning and marking and,,”

“Luce,” he said, turning to face her properly. “It’s midterm. You’re supposed to relax right? I’ll skip my lectures for a few days. I can catch up. And this is our wedding. We need to see it for ourselves.”

She bit her lip. He had a point. Plus, she could already feel the knot of anxiety loosening at the idea of seeing the venues firsthand, talking to people, making actual decisions.

“And we could stay in the resort,” Gregory added with a hopeful smile. “Strictly for research.”

“Of course,” she said dryly. “Purely academic.”

He grinned, bouncing slightly in his seat. “So we’re doing this?”

Lucy sighed dramatically. “Fine. Go look at flights. I’m off the first week of November.”

Gregory shot off the sofa like he’d been launched. “YES. Destination Wedding Planning: Level One is complete. Mum, we’re going to Greece!”

Chapter Text

“There’s mine. There! The pink one!”

Lucy jumped as Hyacinth’s excited voice cut through the din of the baggage hall. She leaned back slightly against Gregory, who had just finished adjusting the strap on her carry-on.

“Remind me why we invited her?” she murmured under her breath.

“I’m pretty sure she invited herself,” Gregory replied, cracking his neck and stretching out after the four-hour flight from London. “I think she might’ve even booked her plane ticket before we did.”

“You need me,” Hyacinth declared confidently, fixing her large sunglasses on her head. “Lucy needs a second opinion. Objective. Stylish. Decisive.”

“Isn’t Greg the second opinion?” Gareth asked dryly, appearing behind her as he yanked her enormous pink suitcase from the luggage carousel with a strained grunt. “What do you have in this thing? Bricks?”

“Essentials,” Hyacinth said airily with a wave of her manicured hand. “A girl can’t plan a destination wedding without options.”

“Right,” Gareth muttered, staggering slightly as he placed the pink monstrosity down beside his own modest black rucksack, which contained what he proudly referred to as his entire life in one bag.

Lucy smiled, amused despite herself. She looked around, taking in the cheerful chaos of luggage and tourists.

They had officially arrived in Greece. The adventure—of venues, decisions, menus, guest lists, and Hyacinth’s unsolicited opinions—was about to begin.

“Alright,” Gregory said, clapping his hands together. “Rental car time. Bags in, snacks collected, and then we’re off to see some actual venues. Preferably ones that don’t involve ten-minute uphill hikes in 30-degree heat.”

“I veto hiking,” Hyacinth announced immediately.

“You veto everything that involves physical effort,” Gareth replied. “You vetoed climbing escalator in the airport.”

“It was steep,” she said defensively. “Besides, my shoes aren’t made for terrain. Let’s remember we’re not peasants.”

Gregory snorted and reached for his and Lucy’s bag. “Come on, bride-to-be. Let’s go find your perfect wedding.”

They reached the first hotel just after noon, the sun now high in the sky and casting sharp, glimmering reflections off the car’s bonnet as Gregory pulled into the small parking area.

“This is the modern one, right?” Gareth asked, peering through his sunglasses at the sleek whitewashed facade. The hotel was perched neatly on a hillside, its geometric lines softened by olive trees and the scent of rosemary drifting on the breeze.

“The one with the olive grove view and rooftop terrace,” Lucy confirmed, flipping through her printed itinerary. “It’s meant to be very minimalist. Clean. Chic.”

“Sterile,” Hyacinth muttered, unimpressed as she stepped out of the car and adjusted her sunhat. “It kind of looks like a dentist’s office for very rich people.”

“It looks lovely,” Lucy said quickly. She didn’t want to judge anything too fast.

Inside, they were greeted with chilled lemon water and wide marble floors. A young man with perfect teeth and a name tag reading “Luka” ushered them toward a waiting area.

“The wedding planner will be right with you,” he said with a bow of his head.

“I could get used to this,” Gregory said, stretching out on a pale linen sofa. “If they serve drinks like that all weekend, I’m in.”

“It smells like  money,” Gareth said, slouched beside him.

“I still think it’s a bit cold,” Hyacinth whispered to Lucy, who was trying to take in the minimalist sculptures and floor-to-ceiling windows. “Like the kind of place where you have to whisper even when you're alone.”

Lucy ignored her and sat up straighter as a woman in a sharp navy blazer approached.

“Miss Abernathy? Mr Bridgerton? I’m Callista—I’ll be showing you around today.”

She shook hands efficiently and led them through the hotel. They saw the private rooftop terrace, decked with glass railing and panoramic views of the sea. Below, the ceremony space was surrounded by olive trees, sun-dappled and peaceful.

“Imagine lanterns here,” Callista suggested smoothly. “You could have your ceremony at golden hour. Then cocktails at the rooftop bar while we reset the space for dinner.”

“I love the light,” Lucy whispered to Gregory. “It’s kind of magic, isn’t it?”

“It is,” he admitted. “The view’s amazing.”

“It’s very… clean,” Hyacinth said again, not able to stop herself. “Where does the personality come in?”

Callista smiled, clearly used to the sceptical sister/friend. “We like to think of our space as a blank canvas. Your wedding, your way. We help you bring the colour.”

Lucy looked around. It was beautiful. Modern. Easy. But something about it felt a little too polished, like it belonged in a magazine, not her real life. She wanted a little more charm. More chaos. Something to match the Bridgertons, really.

“What do you think?” Gregory asked her as they stepped out into the sun again after the tour.

Lucy hesitated. “I think… I like it. But I don’t know if I love it. I don’t think it’s us.”

“That’s fair,” he said, linking their fingers. “But we’ve got two more to see.”

Hyacinth turned behind them and whispered to Gareth, “Told you. No charm. No chance.”

Gareth rolled his eyes. “You’ve got stronger opinions about this than your own hypothetical wedding.”

“I’m not hypothetical,” Hyacinth smirked. “Just biding my time till you ask me.”

“Let’s go to the resort, get checked in and eat before we have the next appointment,” Gregory said, hopping into the driver’s seat.

An hour later they pulled into the sweeping palm-lined driveway of the all-inclusive Elysian Waters Resort & Spa, the bright blue of the water park slides curling in the distance like ribbons. Children dashed between sun loungers shrieking, music floated from the pool bar, and someone was already ordering a mojito even though it was barely past noon.

Gregory whistled low. “Now this feels like a holiday.”

Hyacinth pressed her face to the window. “Is that a lazy river?” she asked, her voice a mix of judgement and intrigue.

“It is,” Gareth said. “Which means we are definitely spending tomorrow in it. You two can do the island alone.”

Lucy stepped out of the car, eyes scanning the grounds. This place was the opposite of the first hotel. It was loud. Colourful. Full of life. There were towel-clad guests holding oversized inflatable flamingos and the smell of suncream, grilled meat and chlorine filled the air.

“I’m not sure this screams ‘wedding’,” she said quietly.

Gregory came up beside her. “No, but it screams fun. Which, frankly, is exactly the vibe I was hoping for after all the stress.” True. And it most certainly screamed Bridgerton. The clan would fit right in. No worrying about anything being broken or being kicked out for being too loud.

“Are you imagining the boys in that splash pool?” Lucy asked with a small laugh.

“I’m imagining Hyacinth being forced to go down that bright pink slide in a dress,” Gregory said.

“Tempting,” Hyacinth said, stepping beside them with Gareth dragging the suitcases behind her. “I’m still reserving judgement until I’ve seen the spa.”

The lobby was massive—white marble floors, golden accents, a dramatic chandelier made of cascading seashells. The check-in process was surprisingly swift, and within ten minutes they were being led to two adjoining rooms that overlooked the gardens and a small part of the beach.

“Right. Lunch first. Then venue tour,” Gregory announced, tossing his rucksack on the bed and bouncing once. “God, these mattresses are great. We’re stealing the pillows.”

Lucy kicked off her shoes as she shook her head and opened the balcony doors. The sea breeze rolled in warm and sweet. For a moment, she could see it—guests spilling out onto the lawn, fairy lights strung between the palm trees, dancing barefoot in the sand with music playing into the night.

“It’s a bit mad,” she said.

“But you like it?” Gregory asked, reading her expression.

“I think I do.”

“Let’s eat. Chaos is easier to process when you’ve got a burger and a cocktail in your hand,” Hyacinth declared walking in, already pulling Gareth by the wrist.

As they made their way toward the poolside restaurant, Lucy let her fingers brush against Gregory’s. “Even if we don’t pick this one, I’m really glad we came.”

“It’s a good holiday spot,” he agreed.

The boat rocked gently beneath their feet as the sea breeze caught Lucy’s hair, lifting it off her shoulders. She tucked a strand behind her ear, eyes fixed on the little island coming into view in the distance—its whitewashed buildings scattered like pearls along the hill, a small chapel perched at the top like a crown.

“I’m hopeful for this one,” she murmured, her fingers tightening slightly around the strap of her tote bag.

Gregory reached for her hand, warm and steady. “This is your favourite from online,” he said, his voice easy and encouraging. “Hopefully it’s perfect then.”

Lucy nodded, watching as the island grew closer with every gentle surge of the boat. The water was crystal-clear, revealing a mosaic of pebbles and seaweed underneath. A small wooden jetty jutted out, waiting to greet them like something out of a postcard.

“Look at that,” Gregory breathed. “You can actually see the chapel roof through the trees.”

“And the terrace,” Lucy added. “That’s where they set up the dinner tables.”

As they docked, the hotel’s wedding coordinator—an impossibly stylish woman in linen trousers and oversized sunglasses—waved from the pier with a clipboard in hand.

“Welcome to Niko’s Island,” she said brightly, helping Lucy step onto the sun-warmed planks. “You must be Lucy and Gregory. We’re so thrilled to show you around.”

They were led through winding paths draped in bougainvillea, past a scattering of whitewashed villas with terracotta roofs and shutters painted in soft blue. The scent of lemon trees and sea salt perfumed the air, and small lizards darted across sun-drenched stones.

“Wow,” Lucy whispered, practically breathless.

“It’s quiet,” Gregory said, surprised. “Like actually peaceful.”

“It’s meant to be exclusive,” the coordinator explained, leading them through the open-air lobby. “Only one event booked at a time. You have the island more or less to yourselves.”

Lucy’s eyes lit up.

The beach ceremony area was nestled in a cove of smooth white sand, framed by olive trees and low cliffs. There were wooden benches, festooned with linen, and a simple white arch that looked out over the Aegean Sea.

“I can see it,” Lucy said softly. “The sun setting behind us. Everyone barefoot. Music. Maybe lanterns on the sand…”

Gregory grinned. “You planning the whole thing in your head already?”

“Kind of,” she admitted. “Is it crazy that I feel... completely calm here?”

“No. Because I feel it too.”

They were led next to the terrace, where twinkling lights were already being strung between trees in preparation for another wedding that weekend. The long tables, white with rustic centrepieces of olive branches and candles, overlooked the water.

“It’s like a fairytale,” Lucy whispered. “But not overly polished. Just... natural.”

Gregory nudged her gently. “I think we found our place.”

She turned to him, smile blooming wide. “I think we did.”

As they sipped fresh lemonade beneath the pergola and watched a few staff set up a wedding rehearsal dinner, Lucy leaned her head on Gregory’s shoulder and whispered, “Let’s book it.”

Gregory kissed her hair. “Done.” He smiled and added, “you know. We could do the three days here. Day before, wedding and the day after then stay in the resort either before or after.”

Lucy lifted her head just slightly, eyes sparkling. “That’s… actually really smart.”

Gregory looked mock-offended. “Why do you sound so surprised?”

She laughed, nudging him with her elbow. “Because I know you. You’re more of a ‘book it and figure it out later’ type.”

“Hey, I’m growing,” he said, holding up his lemonade like a toast. “Taking after my brother. Evolving into a man of spreadsheets and timelines.”

“Oh God, please don’t,” Lucy laughed. “One of us has to be the fun one.”

He grinned. “Fine. I’ll still be the fun one. But it’s a good plan, isn’t it? We get all the ceremony stuff here, then we go full Bridgerton at the resort.”

“And people can choose when to come,” she added thoughtfully. “If someone can’t get the time off, they can just do the main event. And those who want a longer trip can come for everything.”

“Exactly,” Gregory said. “Three days here. Peace, quiet, the dream wedding. Then back to the resort for pool bars, waterslides, and food.”

“Well, at least the island will be calm. Just the wedding. Just us and the people we love most.”

He leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Exactly the way it should be.”

“Now we should get back,” Lucy said.

“Nah. Let’s stay here a bit longer,” Gregory said, in no rush whatsoever.

Chapter Text

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” A squealing Jade was practically launched into Lucy’s arms as she stepped over the threshold of the Bridgerton house.

The door swung shut behind her with a gust of wind and a wave of voices. The air inside was thick with the smell of tomato pasta, baby powder, and lavender floor cleaner—the unmistakable scent of a well-lived-in home filled with children.

“Scarlett is still eating. Charlie’s watching her. Violet is watching Ariel—again. I don’t know where Alex and Will are but it’s quiet so I’m taking that as a good thing,” Sophie rattled off in a breathless stream, her heels clicking frantically across the hardwood floor. “Benedict? Are you ready? We’re already late!”

Lucy blinked, momentarily stunned by the chaos—and also by the sight of Sophie, who was normally so calm and laidback, dashing through her own home like a whirlwind.

She knew tonight’s awards ceremony meant everything. Ten years of pouring her soul into the bakery, missing holidays and sleep and social events, juggling parenthood with spreadsheets and spatulas. Tonight was her moment.

And yet here she was, muttering under her breath about “bloody clutch bags” and “why won’t this necklace clasp.”

From the stairs, Benedict’s voice floated down—calm, slow, infuriatingly unbothered. “Soph. Stop panicking.”

Lucy looked up to see him descending with the sort of ease only a Bridgerton man could possess: his cuffs rolled, tie draped casually around his neck, waistcoat half-done. A man who had clearly mastered the fine art of getting dressed in the car.

“Why aren’t you ready?” Sophie barked, spinning on him.

“I am,” he said smoothly, giving Lucy a brief wink. “Hi Lucy.”

“Hi,” she said with a half-smile, gently bouncing Jade in her arms. The baby gurgled with delight, already thrilled to be with her favourite non-aunt.

Sophie appeared again in a blur of maroon fabric, hair pinned up and cheeks slightly flushed from the rush. She snatched her matching clutch from the hallway table, pausing only to squeeze Lucy’s arm.

“I’m so sorry this was last minute,” she said. “The bed’s made up in the spare room. You know the drill. Snacks in the cupboard, emergency ice cream in the freezer. I don’t know when we’ll be back—but just call if you need anything. Anything.”

“We’re fine,” Lucy said warmly. “Go win your award.”

“She’s right,” Benedict added, straightening his jacket. “Mum will be here around ten—hopefully after bedtime. Is Gregory coming over? Where are the boys? Boys!”

A brief scuffle echoed down the hallway, followed by the thunder of little feet. Charlie appeared first, holding Scarlett with exaggerated caution, as if she were made of glass. Behind him toddled Violet, her curls half-clipped back and half escaping, dragging a tattered mermaid doll in one hand and a jammy dodger in the other.

“Look Eomma! She’s not crying!” Charlie beamed, already proud of his babysitting prowess.

Benedict crouched to kiss each child’s head, Sophie following behind him to whisper final instructions—none of which Lucy caught, as they were delivered at rapid-fire pace.

And then, in a whirl of perfume and satin, the front door clicked shut behind them.

The house fell into momentary silence.

Lucy turned slowly, arms full of toddler, and met the wide-eyed gaze of five small faces.

“Well,” she said brightly. She shifted Jade and took Scarlett from Charlie. “Who’s ready for pjs, popcorn and a movie?”

“Jammies are here!” Will announced, already bounding into the TV room like a small, enthusiastic puppy. Four neat piles of pyjamas lay draped over the arm of the couch — folded, at least for now.

“Who can get dressed the fastest?” Lucy asked, eyes gleaming with a challenge that never failed to work.

The words had barely left her mouth before the boys launched themselves toward the couch like it was the finish line of the Olympics. A flurry of limbs, giggles, and Spider-Man prints followed.

Violet, meanwhile, stood still in the middle of the hallway, looking up at Lucy with a resigned expression that clearly said, I am eighteen months old. I am not participating in your competition.

Lucy grinned, scooped her up, and gently set the twins down in the playpen. With Violet nestled on the changing mat, she quickly zipped her into a bunny-covered sleep suit. By the time they returned to the TV room, the boys were fully dressed and perched on the couch like Spider-Man clones, smug with victory and already arguing over which seat was best.

“What are we watching?” Lucy asked, even though she already had a good idea.

“Pets!” Charlie chorused, eyes lighting up.

Of course. The Secret Life of Pets had been on repeat in the Bridgerton household so often that Lucy was beginning to suspect even the dog was over it. Still, she smiled and set up the film, before scooping up Jade and Scarlett one at a time to settle them into their cots. Downstairs again, she was fiddling with the baby monitor at the base of the stairs when the front door burst open with a loud thud of wet shoes.

Gregory stood there, utterly soaked, water dripping from his curls and hoodie like he’d just swum home.

“Tell me you weren’t training in that weather,” Lucy said, arching an eyebrow.

“I was not training in that weather,” Gregory said smoothly, with the kind of lie that came too easily.

“Right.” She gave him a knowing smile and turned back toward the kitchen. “We’re mid-movie. I’m getting the popcorn. Why don’t you go find a towel and some dry clothes?”

“Solid advice,” he agreed, squelching past her toward the stairs.

By the time he returned, he was warm, dry, and barefoot, his curls still damp but no longer dripping. The living room was dark except for the soft glow of the TV screen. Lucy was curled into the corner of the L-shaped couch, Violet nestled on one side of her like a sleepy kitten and Alex curled up on the other, his small hand absently stroking Lucy’s like it grounded him.

Will and Charlie were a tangle of legs and blanket on the little couch, already halfway through the popcorn. Gregory paused for a moment in the doorway, just watching.

He could see it — not just this moment, but a future. A golden little flash of what their life could be. What he wanted it to be. Little Lucys with silver-blue eyes. Mischievous Gregory Juniors climbing trees and falling off kitchen stools. A noisy, messy, loving brood. Maybe eight. Like his family. Big and complicated and perfect.

Lucy looked up and caught him staring, her mouth quirking into a smile.

“Alex, shift your legs,” she said gently.

“No,” came the quiet but firm reply. Alex wasn’t giving up his spot next to Lucy. She was his Lucy, after all.

“Or I’ll sit on top of you,” Gregory warned, teasing.

“No.”

“You can sit on top of him,” Lucy offered helpfully.

“No!” Alex repeated with a bit more force.

Gregory laughed and took a seat beside him but had just settled in when he noticed a shift in the atmosphere. More precisely—a shift in Alex.

The six-year-old had subtly inched himself further away from Gregory, pulling his Spider-Man blanket to him. His arms were crossed now, eyes fixed on the screen, but not really watching. His jaw was set in the dramatic way only six-year-olds could manage.

Halfway through the movie, Gregory leaned in closer to Lucy over Alex’s head and murmured, “What’s up with my shadow? He’s usually glued to me.”

Lucy blinked, flicking a glance at Alex.  Maybe he’s tired.”

“I gave him half my popcorn,” Gregory whispered. “He didn’t even say thank you. Something’s wrong.”

They watched for another ten minutes in relative silence—except for Will’s occasional laughs and Charlie’s dramatic narrations (“This is the funny part. Just wait.”).

But Alex didn’t laugh once.

When the credits rolled, Gregory gently shifted Violet to Lucy’s lap and stood to stretch. “Alright, bedtime, team. Brush, wash, toilet, and don’t even think about hiding under the sofa.”

“I never hide under the sofa,” Charlie said indignantly.

“You did,” Will added helpfully. “And you took biscuits.”

Will gasped. “You promised not to tell!”

“Off you go,” Lucy said, biting back a smile as the boys scampered off, arguing.

Alex lingered. Lucy stood with Violet, kissing his cheek on the way out. “I’ll check on the twins,” she said. “Brush properly, then I’ll be in to tuck you in, alright?”

Alex nodded. But as soon as she disappeared up the stairs, he turned his back on Gregory, arms folded again.

Gregory crouched down beside him.

“Hey. What’s going on, buddy?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s my line,” Gregory said with a smile, gently nudging his nephew’s elbow. “You’re usually my little shadow. You didn’t even sit beside me tonight.”

Alex looked down at his toes.

“Did I do something wrong?” Gregory asked, softly now.

“No.” A pause. “Yes.”

Gregory tilted his head. “Okay... Want to help me out here?”

Alex’s lip wobbled. His small fists clenched at his sides. His face—normally so bright and full of mischief—scrunched up in a knot. Then, like a kettle reaching boiling point, he burst out with a trembling shout:

“You can’t marry Lucy!”

Gregory blinked, caught completely off-guard. “Wait. What?”

He couldn’t understand it. Everyone loved Lucy. Alex adored Lucy. She was his go-to for bedtime stories, kisses for scraped knees, and someone who always remembered his favourite colour changed weekly.

Alex finally looked up, big brown eyes shimmering with unshed tears and righteous fury. “Because I’m going to marry her. When I’m big.”

Ah.

Oh.

“Ohhh,” Gregory said slowly, lowering himself down until he was sitting cross-legged on the carpet like he was about to engage in a peace treaty negotiation. “That’s what this is about?”

Alex nodded with the air of someone enduring a great tragedy. “I loved her first. She’s mine.”

Gregory’s heart squeezed painfully, like someone had wrapped it in bubble wrap and then popped every single bubble. He reached over and gently ruffled the boy’s mop of dark curls.

“Hey, I get it. She is the best, isn’t she?”

Alex nodded again, lip still quivering. He looked utterly betrayed by the universe.

“And you do love her. And she loves you too, you know.”

“But you’re marrying her,” Alex said. “That’s not fair.”

“Well, yeah,” Gregory said with a soft chuckle, “but you know what? You’re still her favourite. You don’t make her late to things. Or leave your socks in the sink. Or forget she told you she was cutting out dairy and then offer her a milkshake.”

Alex narrowed his eyes. “You put socks in the sink?”

Gregory looked mildly defensive. “I was trying to rinse them.”

Alex looked scandalised. “Why?”

“I thought I stepped in jam.”

There was a long pause. Then, with a kind of solemn resignation, Alex said, “You make her mad?”

“Only sometimes. But she wouldn’t say so out loud,” Gregory said with a sigh. “Still, she puts up with me. And you know something else? The first person I wanted to marry when I was your age was already taken.”

Alex tilted his head. “Who?”

Gregory looked mildly embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Auntie Kate.”

Alex’s eyes widened so far they could’ve rolled out of his head. “Auntie Kate?!”

“Yep,” Gregory confirmed with a sheepish grin. “But it wouldn’t have worked.”

“No. ’Cause she’s married to Uncle Ant,” Alex said, full of wisdom and logic.

“Exactly. And one day she told me that when I got older, I’d find someone who was perfect for me. Someone smart, and kind, and a little bit scary when she wants to be.” He smiled. “And that’s Lucy. And when you’re big you’ll find someone even better than Lucy.”

Alex was quiet for a second, processing this new philosophical dilemma. “But nobody’s better than Lucy,” he said at last, stubborn as a knight defending his lady.

Gregory laughed and tugged the boy in for a hug. “You’re right. She’s one of a kind. But one day, you’ll meet someone just as amazing. And until then, you’ve got the best seat in the house.”

“Front row?” Alex asked.

“Always.”

“Can I still sit next to her at dinner?”

“As long as you let me have dessert,” Gregory bargained.

Alex considered this. “Deal.”

“Come on then,” Gregory said, standing and holding out a hand. “Teeth. Bed. And tomorrow, we can fight over who loves Lucy more.”

Alex grinned. “It’s me.”

Twenty minutes later, Gregory was stretched out on the Bridgerton couch, six children sleeping and Lucy curled up with her head resting on his legs, scrolling through something on her phone.

“So,” Gregory said casually, “turns out I have competition.”

“Oh, I know,” Lucy replied, not even looking up. “But I wouldn’t worry. He’s got better manners and he always brings me daisies.”

Gregory bounced his knee slightly so her head jolted.

“Hey!” she squealed, batting at his leg.

He smirked. “You’re mine, remember?”

“I think Alex would disagree.”

Gregory huffed. “Fine. Shared custody.”

Lucy grinned and reached for his hand. “I’ll allow it. But only if he lets you sit next to me at the wedding.”

“No promises.”

Chapter Text

Uncle Robert made Lucy nervous. He always had. Dark eyes and a permanent frown she could never remember seeing him smile.

From the day she was seven, clutching Richard’s hand with white-knuckled fear, being told that they’d live with him now - their only “suitable” guardian - she had known the truth. Known that he didn’t want them. Known that they were a burden.

Uncle Robert Abernathy did not like children.

Uncle Robert did not like people.

He was the kind of man you could imagine scowling at a sunset or sighing disapprovingly at a puppy. He was a bit like Scrooge at the start of the story - except Lucy wasn’t convinced three ghosts would’ve changed him. They’d probably have given up halfway through and gone for someone more promising. Like Satan.

And the feeling was mutual. She had never enjoyed being around him. The way he’d cleared his throat to fill silences rather than speak. The way he stared just a little too long, as if measuring whether your existence was really necessary.

Hence why Gregory had only met the man twice.

Once at her grandmother’s funeral, when Robert had been even grimmer than the occasion demanded, and once the previous Christmas Eve when Lucy insisted on delivering his gift in person - because “he might be miserable, but we still do the right thing.” Gregory had stood awkwardly in the cold hallway while Robert accepted his present of shortbread biscuits and a jumper as though it were a parking ticket.

Now, standing outside the austere black front door of the house Lucy had grown up in, Gregory frowned. “Are you sure you couldn’t just email him?”

“No,” Lucy replied, steeling herself. “We’re the better people. We’ll give him his invitation in person.”

“But Lu…” he dragged the syllable like a sulky teenager, and she shot him a warning look.

“You sound like a child.”

“And he sounds like a dementor. He sucks the life out of everything Luce.”

Before Lucy could respond, the door creaked open, revealing the man himself. Robert Abernathy looked much as Gregory remembered: tall, grey, and unamused. A tweed vest buttoned too tightly across a sunken chest, and the permanent air of someone enduring something deeply unpleasant - like happiness.

“Lucinda,” he said, his frown deepening, as if being visited was an affront to his schedule.

“Uncle Robert,” she greeted politely. When it became apparent he wasn’t going to move aside or ask them in, she added delicately, “May we come in?”

He hesitated, as if debating whether decorum was worth the inconvenience, then finally stepped back. The house smelled the same – if emptiness had a smell. Lucy led the way into the sitting room and perched on the edge of a leather sofa that looked like it had never known comfort.

Gregory sat beside her, his long legs awkwardly folded. He glanced around the museum-like room and resisted the urge to whistle.

“You remember Gregory, don’t you?” Lucy asked. There was a beat of silence. Her uncle’s expression didn’t change.

“My fiancé,” she clarified.

Still nothing.

“Anyway,” she continued. “That’s why we’re here. To give you your invitation to the wedding. It’s at the end of May.”

“In Greece,” Gregory added helpfully, as if that might sweeten the deal.

“Oh… Well, I’m afraid I’ll be unable to attend that day, Lucinda.”

Gregory tilted his head. “We haven’t told you the date yet.”

“I will be unable to attend,” Robert repeated, as though that ended the matter.

Lucy had been expecting it, but the chill of his dismissal still prickled along her skin. “That’s fine. We just wanted to extend the invitation. I’ll leave it with you, in case you change your mind.”

He wouldn’t. They both knew that. She set the envelope on the pristine side table and stood.

Five minutes later, they were back in Gregory’s car, Lucy sighed and looked out the window. He really was a grumpy man.

“Now that’s done. Pizza?” Gregory asked.

“And ice cream,” Lucy said. He squeezed her hand before pulling the car into gear and taking off along the road.

“He really is something else,” Gregory said, chomping on a slice of pepperoni pizza, thinking of their encounter that afternoon.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Lucy replied automatically, though her voice lacked the usual bite. She dipped a chip in barbecue sauce and stared at it for a moment before taking a small bite, chewing slower than usual. Her mind was elsewhere - still stuck in the cold, stiff sitting room.

“He’s always been like that,” she added quietly. “Cold. Formal. Like he missed the day at school where they taught you how to be a human being.”

Gregory made a small, amused grunt of agreement as he reached for a napkin, he stopped focusing on his food to watch his Lucy. But she didn’t meet his eyes. She was staring out the window of Vila Napoli, in her own world. He watched her, it wasn’t often that Lucy was openly pensive. She either said exactly what she thought or went off by herself.

“My dad…” she began, then stopped, her voice hitching just enough to make Gregory look over at her, his smile fading slightly.

“My dad was the opposite. Always smiling. Always laughing at his own terrible jokes. He used to say I smiled in my sleep, just like Mum did.”

She trailed off, the chip now forgotten in her hand. Gregory reached across the small table, brushing his fingers lightly against hers. He didn’t say anything—he didn’t have to. 

“It’s been fifteen years,” Lucy said after a long pause, her voice barely above a whisper. She looked up and a small smile appeared on her face. “I wonder what they would have thought of you?”

“Well your mum would have adored me. All women do if you haven’t noticed,” he said, and she had to snort.

“Conceited much?”

“I’d have brought flowers for her the first time I came to pick you up. And your Dad? He’d probably have hated me at first for defiling and stealing his perfect, sweet daughter.”

Lucy laughed, “maybe so. You maybe got off lightly with Richard.”

“I wish I could have met them,” Gregory said softly.

“Me too. It’s just now… They missed all the events. They’ll never meet you. Or Hermione. Or our children. They’ll only have one grandparent – your mum.” Her voice was trailing off and he sighed.

“Luce.” He moved to her side of the table and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pressing a kiss to her temple. “They’re watching. With my dad. Probably having a great time up there. All agreeing that I seriously don’t deserve you.”

“Right,” she said with a more Lucy-ish smile.

“You weren’t supposed to agree!”

Chapter Text

There was something clearly wrong, Violet thought, as she sat at the kitchen table with a barely touched casserole between them. Her youngest son was uncharacteristically quiet, poking half-heartedly at his food with the same enthusiasm one might reserve for filing tax returns. Gregory Bridgerton, the human vacuum cleaner who could normally demolish a roast chicken in twelve minutes flat, was sitting there pushing food around.

And—sacrilege—he had his phone beside his plate. He wasn’t even using it. Just... staring at it, like it held answers to questions he hadn’t figured out how to ask.

Violet folded her napkin precisely and laid it on the table.

“Gregory?” she said mildly, as if she hadn’t been watching him like a hawk for the last ten minutes. “How was class today?”

“Fine,” he mumbled without looking up.

“And training?”

“Grand.”

Violet tilted her head. “Then what’s bothering you?”

Gregory sighed like the weight of the world had just been dropped squarely onto his shoulders. He set his fork down and finally looked at her. “It’s Lucy.”

Violet’s eyebrows arched slightly. She didn’t say anything, just waited, knowing he’d spill it all out soon enough.

“She’s not herself,” he continued. “She’s been really quiet lately. She says it’s just school stress, that she’s got a new class level and is under pressure, but... I don’t know. It feels like more.”

“She’s still settling into the new school,” Violet offered gently. “That’s a big transition.”

“I know, but she wants to be perfect,” he said with a soft, fond smile. “She always does. For her students, for her boss, for me. And if she feels like she’s not... it eats at her.”

Violet nodded. “Perfectionists tend to be their own worst enemies.”

Gregory leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair. “What if she doesn’t want to get married anymore?”

That made Violet pause. Her fork froze mid-air.

“What?”

“She doesn’t talk about the wedding. Not like she used to. What if she’s having second thoughts?” he said, all in a rush. “What if she’s realised she doesn’t love me enough?”

Violet took a deep breath and reminded herself that panic was not exclusive to firstborns. Apparently it was just a Bridgerton trait, full stop.

“Gregory,” she said with amused exasperation, “Lucy loves you. Good heavens, she must do—to put up with you.”

He gave her a flat look, but she wasn’t done.

“I mean it. You leave your socks in the shower and talk in your sleep about chocolate croissants. If she didn’t love you deeply, she’d have throttled you by now.”

He gave a weak smile, then rubbed his hands over his face. “It’s just... the last few weeks she’s been different.”

“Has something happened?” Violet asked, now serious. “Let’s think logically. When did you first notice it?”

Gregory hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Probably after we went to see her uncle. You know, to give him the wedding invitation.”

“Ah.” Violet’s tone shifted immediately. “And he’s not coming?”

“Nope. Told us before we’d even said the date. Said he was busy,” Gregory muttered.

Violet’s expression darkened just a touch. “And Lucy?”

“She was polite. Quiet. Then we left and she didn’t say much after that.” He paused. “She hasn’t really said much since.”

Violet folded her hands together and leaned forward slightly. “That man was the only family she had left after Richard. At least in the legal, bloodline sense. She grew up with him after losing her parents, didn’t she?”

Gregory nodded.

“And he’s cold. Unloving. Always has been.”

“Pretty much a human iceberg,” Gregory agreed.

“Well then,” Violet said softly, “maybe seeing him reminded her of everything she’s missing. Her parents won’t be at the wedding. Her grandparents are gone. She doesn’t have a mother to help pick a dress or a father to walk her down the aisle.”

Gregory’s heart ached. “I wish I could fix it.”

“You’re not meant to fix it,” Violet said. “You’re meant to love her through it. Remind her that even if she lost family, she gained an entire army of Bridgertons who think the world of her.”

Gregory gave a soft huff of laughter. “It is a bit of an army.”

Violet smiled and reached for his hand. “Go easy on her. She’ll talk when she’s ready. And she does want to marry you, darling. She’s just mourning the people who won’t be there to see it.”

Gregory squeezed her hand, the tightness in his chest easing just a little. “Thanks, Mum.”

Violet gave him a fond smile, then pointed her fork toward his plate. “Now eat your dinner. You can’t mope on an empty stomach.”

Disney piano music was playing softly from the speaker tucked behind the large bowl; it was a rare kind of peaceful in the Bridgerton-Baek house that only existed at nap time when they free range chickens - sorry children – were asleep or out with their father. The smell of vanilla and buttercream hung in the air, so sweet it made Lucy hungry. All she’d had to eat that day was a fruit salad and two slightly stale digestives.

She stepped into the kitchen to find Sophie standing at the counter, piping delicate swirls of blue and lilac onto a perfectly smooth white cake. The light coming in through the window caught on the shimmer of edible glitter dusting the top.

Sophie glanced up when she heard Lucy’s footsteps and gave her a soft smile. “What do you think?”

“Work of art. As always,” Lucy replied, slipping off her coat and hanging it neatly on the back of a chair.

“Hopefully the three-year-old appreciates it,” Sophie said with a snort, setting the piping bag down and stretching out her fingers.

Lucy leaned against the counter, admiring the cake. “Jane will adore it. Any thing princessy and she’s sold. Your cakes are so amazing. They look like they belong in a magazine.”

Sophie laughed lightly, brushing a streak of frosting off her apron. “Wait till you see what I’m thinking for your wedding cake.”

Lucy just hummed in response, the sound low and non-committal. Not dismissive, exactly, but… distant. Sophie caught it. The way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. The way she kept looking at the cake instead of at her.

Violet had been right.

Sophie’s mother-in-law had mentioned it over tea the day before - Lucy might need someone to talk to. Someone who’s done the milestones without parents. Someone who understands the empty bits.

Sophie knew that feeling too well.

“Only five more months,” she said gently, wiping down a spatula. “Bet it’s starting to feel real now.”

Lucy gave a soft laugh. “Terrifyingly so.”

There was a pause.

Sophie didn’t push. She just kept tidying the workspace with the unhurried rhythm of someone who knew the difference between baking and listening—and how to do both at the same time.

Eventually Lucy reached forward and traced a careful circle in a patch of sugar dust on the counter.

“I thought I’d feel more excited,” she admitted finally. “But lately it’s just felt... heavy. Like I’m carrying the whole thing and trying not to drop it.”

Sophie nodded slowly. “Because you want it to be beautiful. And meaningful. And full of joy. And it will be.”

Lucy looked up, eyes misty but dry. “It’s just... I keep thinking of who won’t be there. And I feel guilty for even feeling that. Like I should only be happy. I am happy. But—”

“You don’t have to explain,” Sophie said softly. “You don’t have to be all joy all the time.”

Lucy took a breath. Then another. Her shoulders softened just slightly and she sighed as Sophie wrapped her arms around her. It was a little awkward as Sophie was slightly smaller but the closeness was the important part.

After a moment Sophie backed and looked at her.

“I was four when my Mum died. I don’t really remember her. A few vague memories. Her singing to me. And she smelt of lavender. Then I was sixteen when my Dad had his heart attack. We weren’t close but he loved me in his own way. When I went wedding dress shopping one of the sales people mentioned my parents. And it really hit me then. Before that I hadn’t really considered it. I was used to them not being there,” Sophie said.

Lucy listened without interruption; her feelings which had been so confusing made sense the more Sophie spoke.

“But for an event like getting married it felt wrong almost to have no one. I felt more like an orphan than ever. But I wasn’t sure how I could explain that to Benedict. I imagined a father to walk me down the aisle, a mother fixing me that morning, brothers and sister I never had easing my nerves… Eventually I told Ben and he reminded me that even though I didn’t have my family I had a lot of Bridgertons. And so do you.” Sophie squeezed her hands.

“A lot of Bridgertons,” Lucy echoed.

“And you have me. For whatever you need,” Sophie said.

“Thank you.”

“Now sit down and we can have cake cuts for lunch before the girls wake up from their naps.”

Lucy smiled; maybe the empty feeling was still there but now she could share it. It didn’t seem quiet as lonely.

Chapter Text

“So you’re sure I can’t have three best men?” Gregory asked, twirling the pencil between his fingers like it was a wand that might conjure a solution. He was half-sitting, half-slouched on one of the dining room chairs, his hair slightly damp from his shower and a smear of toothpaste still suspiciously glinting at the corner of his mouth.

Lucy, opposite him at the long oak table, was calmly sipping a lukewarm cup of tea and trying very hard not to lose her patience.

“For the seventh time,” she said, setting her mug down with a soft clink, “they can all be groomsmen. But only one of them gets to be best man. That’s kind of the point of the title.”

Gregory sighed, flopping backward dramatically and staring up at the ceiling like the plasterwork might provide him with divine intervention. “But I have three brothers, Luce. How am I realistically supposed to choose one without the others holding it over me for the rest of my life?”

“Well, Hermione is my maid of honour,” Lucy replied, carefully highlighting a section on the wedding spreadsheet open on her laptop. “That wasn’t a hard decision.”

“That’s because you don’t have sisters,” Gregory muttered. “And she would definitely have held it over you forever if you picked someone else.”

Lucy didn’t argue. He wasn’t wrong.

“Okay then, we’ve got Violet as the flower girl,” Gregory added, reaching for a slice of leftover chocolate banana bread that was now more crumb than loaf.

“And Miles as the ring bearer,” Lucy confirmed. “He already asked if he gets to keep the pillow after.”

Gregory grinned. “I said yes. He looked like he might cry.”

Lucy smiled but tapped her pen twice against the paper. “We still need to finalise the wedding party though. Daphne’s doing the reading?”

“Yup. And Penelope’s writing something, and Francesca wants to play the piano during the registry signing.”

Lucy leaned forward, resting her arms on the table and fixing him with a pointed look. “So. Back to the important part. Best man. You have to pick one. Otherwise, we can’t sort the suits, the fittings, and you can’t have the stag night.”

“What’s the difference if they’re all in the same suit?” Gregory asked, waving the pencil in the air. “Let’s just dress them identically and call it a democracy.”

“Gregory,” Lucy said in a warning tone.

“It’s not that I don’t want to pick,” he said earnestly. “It’s just... Anthony is the eldest. Benedict and I are close. And Colin - he’s the only one who ever actually let me drive his car.”

“He also let you crash it into a lamppost,” Lucy reminded him.

“That’s beside the point,” Gregory said, trying not to smile.

Lucy sighed. “Okay. What if you picked Gareth?”

Gregory blinked. “What?”

“Not a brother, no hurt feelings. You two are close. He could do it.”

“He’d give a wildly inappropriate speech and I’m not sure what he and Hy are capable of”

“So he’s perfect,” Lucy deadpanned.

Gregory snorted but shook his head. “Still doesn’t feel right.”

She sighed again and leaned back, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Okay then, new strategy. I’m going to ask you a question, and I want you to give me the very first name that comes to your head. Don’t think. Just say it.”

Gregory frowned. “This feels like a trap.”

“It’s not. Just trust me.”

He nodded, sitting up straighter. “Okay. Shoot.”

Lucy looked him dead in the eye.

“Who do you want as your best man?”

“Colin.”

The word was out before Gregory could second guess it. His eyes widened just slightly, as if surprised by how fast the answer had come.

Lucy raised an eyebrow. “There’s your answer then.”

Gregory ran a hand through his hair, looking down at the pencil in his lap like it had betrayed him. “Huh.”

“You kind of lit up when you said his name,” she said softly.

“Did I?”

She nodded.

“I mean, Colin is the most fun,” Gregory admitted. “And he’s relaxed, and funny, and will actually help. He won’t try to take over the whole thing like Anthony might.”

“Plus he has the most blackmail material on you,” Lucy added. “So if you want your stag night to remain slightly dignified, you’re more likely to get away with it under his supervision.”

“True,” Gregory said with a grin, and then groaned dramatically, slumping in his chair again. “Ugh, I’m still going to get grief from the others.”

“I’ll manage that,” Lucy said.

He leaned forward again, resting his hand over hers. “Thanks.”

She smiled back at him, all fondness and affection. “One more thing crossed off the list.”

“One million more to go.”

“Yep.”

They sat in companionable silence for a moment.

Gregory reached for another bite of banana bread.

Lucy smacked his hand. “That’s my slice.”

Chapter Text

This is so not me.
That was the only thought Lucy could form as she was half-pushed, half-herded through the gleaming glass doors of Eclipse Bridal. The scent of flowers and expensive perfume hit her like a wall. Her scuffed fuzzy boots squeaked faintly on the polished white floor, which gleamed almost aggressively under the chandelier light.
She barely had time to adjust to her surroundings before a mannequin loomed in her periphery, draped in a voluminous ball gown made of enough tulle to cushion a small child’s fall. Lucy blinked at it. The mannequin looked poised, ethereal like an actual bride. Lucy, on the other hand, looked like someone who had just lost a fight with the wind.
“I don’t know about this,” she muttered, glancing around the impossibly elegant showroom. She caught a glimpse of herself in one of the mirrored columns—jeans, jumper, wind-tossed hair in a half-hearted ponytail, and the usual smudge on her glasses that no amount of cleaning seemed to fix.
The only thing bridal about her today was the faintly panicked look in her eyes.
“You look fine,” Hermione said briskly, pulling off her coat and draping it over her arm like she was preparing for battle. She had that bossy-best-friend energy that suggested there would be no prisoners taken.
“Lucy, like it or not, you need a dress,” she added, already scanning the racks of satin, lace, and organza like a wedding dress bloodhound.
“What else are you going to walk down the aisle in?” Hyacinth chimed in, hands on her hips. “Your underwear?”
“Gregory might appreciate that, though,” Kate murmured, smirking into her coffee cup.
Lucy gawked at her. Hermione looked scandalised. Hyacinth let out a bark of laughter.
Kate merely sipped, unbothered. “What? I was young once. And it wasn’t that long ago.”
Before Lucy could fully recover, a perfectly coiffed woman appeared from behind a curtain with the precision and poise of a magician’s assistant. Her name tag read Melinda, her blazer was crease-free, and her smile was practiced to within an inch of its life.
“Good morning! Welcome to Eclipse Bridal. You must be the Abernathys.” Her eyes scanned the group. “Which of you is Lucy?”
Lucy raised a reluctant hand. “Hi. That’s me.”
Melinda’s smile brightened. “Wonderful. You’re our 11 o’clock. Let’s get you into the fitting room and we can start pulling styles. We’ve got your pre-filled preferences here...”
“I didn’t fill out anything,” Lucy mumbled.
“I did,” Hermione announced cheerfully. “You’re welcome.”
Lucy turned slowly to look at her best friend. “You filled out my preferences for my wedding dress?”
“You weren’t going todo it. Someone had to.” Hermione shrugged. “I know your vibe.”
“My vibe is not lace mermaid-cut with a plunging neckline,” Lucy hissed, looking at some of the shop’s dresses, as Melinda led them toward a private dressing area lined with elegant pale pink curtains and soft gold lighting.
“I added lots of ideas!” Hermione called over her shoulder, clearly enjoying herself.
“I swear to God,” Lucy muttered under her breath.
Hyacinth winked at her. “Don’t worry. We’ll veto anything that makes you look like a marshmallow. Probably.”
Kate leaned in close as Lucy hesitated on the threshold. “Trust us. This doesn’t have to be scary. You’re not going to suddenly turn into Cinderella unless you want to. But... we’ll find something that makes you feel like you. Just... maybe with better tailoring.” She understood how uncomfortable Lucy felt. A reason why she had agreed to take charge of the whole adventure.
That got a small smile out of Lucy, who exhaled slowly and stepped inside.
“I’m trusting you all,” she said.
“Big mistake,” Hyacinth grinned.
Melinda reappeared like a stagehand with a rolling rack of options. “We’ll start with a few different silhouettes and go from there,” she said brightly, already pulling hangers like a magician with a deck of cards. “First one’s a classic.”
Dress #1: Strapless ballgown. Layered tulle. Heavily beaded bodice.
Lucy emerged from behind the curtain with all the enthusiasm of someone walking into a job interview wearing a Halloween costume.
“Oh dear God,” Hyacinth said, clutching her heart like a Southern belle. “You’ve been swallowed by a cake.”
“It’s giving marshmallow disaster,” Hermione whispered.
Kate tilted her head. “It’s not the worst I’ve seen.”
Lucy looked at herself in the mirror. “I look like I’m auditioning to be the ghost of prom past.”
Melinda, ever the professional, smiled. “It’s not for everyone.”
Dress #2: High-neck lace, long sleeves, and a train that could double as a red carpet.
Lucy stepped out stiffly, arms extended slightly like she was afraid of breaking something.
Hermione blinked. “Okay, Victorian governess meets haunted doll?”
“You look like you should be clutching a candle in a cold hallway,” Hyacinth offered helpfully.
“Do you feel good in it?” Kate asked, gently redirecting.
Lucy sighed. “I feel like I’m about to give a lecture in 1883.”
Dress #3: A slinky satin slip dress with a thigh-high slit and a plunging neckline.
Lucy stepped out, blushing furiously, her arms crossed over her stomach.
Kate raised her eyebrows. “Now that’s very Greek goddess on honeymoon.”
Hyacinth wolf-whistled.
Hermione nodded slowly. “You look... hot. Like scandal-in-the-family hot.”
Lucy shook her head. “I feel like I forgot to wear the dress over my slip. It’s not me.”
“Valid,” Kate agreed. “But still—wow.”
Lucy laughed, relaxing a little. It was fun, even if none of them felt right yet.
In the final dress Lucy didn’t walk out of the dressing room so much as drift—quietly, hesitantly—barefoot, because she’d kicked off her boots a few dresses ago. The soft sound of fabric brushing the floor turned heads. Hermione, Hyacinth, and Kate looked up from their phones or seats... and then just stared.
It was a pale dove blue, barely-there and almost silvery in the soft shop lights. Made of the gentlest chiffon and satin blend, it skimmed her frame with effortless grace. The neckline dipped into a modest V, held by barely-there straps that crossed delicately at the back. There was a softness to it all—fluttering short sleeves that kissed the tops of her arms, a subtle shimmer woven through the skirt, and a train that pooled behind her like ocean foam.
It was not white. It was not traditional.
It was very, very Lucy.
“I…” she started, then caught herself. Her eyes locked on her reflection and she stopped trying to explain it. It just was. This was the dress she could walk barefoot down a sunlit path in. The one she could get married in under olive trees with wind in her hair. The one that didn’t make her feel like she was pretending to be a bride—it made her feel like herself.
Hyacinth stood up slowly, hands pressed to her mouth. “It’s so you,” she whispered.
Hermione blinked fast. “Blue? Lucy. That’s—God, it’s perfect. It’s not white because you were never going to be white-lace-and-pearls. And this colour... it makes your eyes look like stormclouds in the best possible way.”
Kate let out a breath. “If I were marrying again, I’d wear that.”
Lucy turned in front of the mirror. The skirt swirled like mist, the fabric catching the light like morning dew. Her smile grew, a little incredulous. “It’s not what I imagined.”
“But it’s what you feel good in,” Kate said. “That’s what matters.”
Melinda stepped forward. “The designer made it in ivory, blush, and this soft blue. You’re not the first to choose the colour version. But you’re the first I’ve seen make it look like it was made for her.”
Lucy felt her throat tighten. “I love it. I actually love it.”
“Then that’s it,” Hermione said firmly, already reaching for her phone. “We’re calling it.”
“And Gregory’s never going to see it coming,” Hyacinth said with a smirk. “He’s expecting white. He’s probably imagining lace and tulle and whatever Kate wore.”
Lucy’s grin returned. “Good. He deserves a surprise.”
She looked one more time in the mirror. She looked nothing like the mannequin brides in the window. And that was exactly why she’d chosen it.
Not a princess.
Not a performer.
Just Lucy—standing in a dusky-blue dress with glasses sliding down her nose, ready to get married.

Chapter Text

If you wanted to organise something simple, you probably shouldn't have invited a Bridgerton.

That was the thought running through Lucy’s head as Colin spun a whiteboard around dramatically in Violet’s conservatory, where the three of them were huddled under the excuse of “wedding buffet planning.” She sat on the wicker sofa with a notebook balanced on her knees, already regretting her decision to let Colin help. But he issued saying he was a good expert – and that she couldn’t disagree with.

“I present to you,” Colin said, tapping the board like a very enthusiastic auctioneer, “The Feast of the Gods.”

Lucy blinked. “That’s a lot of categories.”

“Starter. Main. Side. Sweet. Carbs. Cheese. Emergency cheese. Late night snacks. A station purely for sauces-”

“Colin,” Gregory said, rubbing his temples, “we’re not feeding the Greek pantheon.”

“Well, it is in Greece,” Colin said with a wink. “I thought we could lean into the theme.”

Lucy arched a brow. “We’re getting married in Greece. We don’t have to serve Mount Olympus on a platter.”

“Oh ye of little vision.”

She handed the pencil to Gregory with a sigh. “He’s your brother. You rein him in.”

Colin sat down beside them with a dramatic sigh, flipping through the pile of ideas he'd printed out. “Look. All I’m saying is, nobody remembers the speeches, but everyone remembers the food. We want wow factor. Something memorable. Something people will still be talking about at their 80th birthdays.”

“Colin, this is a buffet, not the Last Supper,” Lucy said, though her smile was creeping through despite herself.

“Okay, okay. Let’s start with the basics,” Gregory said, ready to restore some order. “Local Greek food. We want fresh. We want flavour. Something casual but elegant.”

“Olives, feta, dolmades, grilled halloumi…” Lucy murmured, making notes. “Pita, tzatziki, maybe a big Greek salad…”

“Grilled meats,” Colin added. “Souvlaki skewers. Lamb. Chicken. Maybe a seafood option?”

“Spanakopita,” Gregory said, suddenly inspired. “You love that.”

Lucy nodded enthusiastically. “Mini ones. Like bites.”

Colin raised his hand. “And now, the most important question: do we want a pasta option for the picky children and the adults who pretend to be picky children?”

“Yes,” Lucy and Gregory said in unison, because they could be picky themselves.

“Great,” Colin grinned. “We’ll call it the 'Gregory Corner'—plain pasta, fries, probably chicken nuggets for Neddie, and a tub of ketchup the size of his head.”

Gregory laughed. “You say that like I won’t be in that corner myself.”

Lucy leaned into his shoulder. “We’ll put you in charge of it.”

Colin scribbled it all down, then looked up. “And for dessert?”

“Wedding cake made by Sophie,” Lucy said without hesitation. “And something chocolatey for the kids.”

“And cheesecake,” Gregory added.

“Obviously,” Colin said, pretending to be offended. “You think I’d let you get married without cheesecake?”

“Do we have to name all of this for the coordinator?” Lucy asked, looking a little overwhelmed as she glanced at the growing list.

“I’ll type it up,” Colin offered. “And I’ll send it to the hotel manager. I’m extremely good at polite yet persuasive emails.”

“He is,” Gregory confirmed. “It’s weird.”

Lucy gave him a grateful smile. “Thanks, Colin. Seriously.”

Colin waved a hand. “Don’t thank me yet. I’m also coordinating your cocktail menu. Hope you like drinks with inappropriate names.”

“No,” Gregory and Lucy said together.

Colin pouted. “Fine. Just one.”

“No.”

“One. It can be subtle.”

“No!”

Colin laughed. “Alright, alright. You two are no fun.”

“You’re lucky we love you,” Gregory said.

“I am very lovable.”

Lucy laughed and tossed a cushion at him. “Now get typing, Colin. If you’re going to be the buffet king, you’d better act like one.”

As Colin dramatically took up his laptop like a knight arming himself for battle, Gregory leaned back and smiled. The buffet was sorted, the bride was smiling again, and there was only one more thing he needed to do today.

Order food because all that talk had made him hungry.

The kitchen smelled like a dream - warm vanilla, sharp lemon zest, deep chocolate, and a sniff of toasted hazelnut. Lucy wondered if it was possible to gain weight just by inhaling sugar, because surely her bloodstream was now 40% buttercream just from standing there.

No surprise, really. This was Sophie’s domain, and Sophie never did anything by halves. She had started planning the cake tasting a month ago, had sent allergy checklists, favourite flavours, even a survey on icing textures. Lucy had thought she was joking when the form had arrived by text. She had not been joking. That’s why she was the best in the business.

Sophie had seated her at the long table in the heart of the kitchen, lit by golden morning light pouring in through the wide French windows. The table itself was a vision: five small plates arranged in a neat semi-circle, each topped with a perfect square of cake, each cake a work of art in miniature.

There were tiny hand-drawn signs next to each flavour, because of course there were. Sophie had explained them with all the seriousness of a fine wine sommelier.

"This one’s the classic," she said, pointing to the first—a moist vanilla sponge with a deep blush of berry compote visible through the thin layer of frosting. "Vanilla with berry compote and a mock cream centre. I won’t use real cream if it’s going to sit out in Greek heat."

Lucy took a tiny fork and gently prodded it. The sponge looked light, fluffy and cloud-like. There was a swirl of cream at the top with a glistening berry dot that might have been raspberry.

"Second," Sophie gestured to the next plate, where a darker, more serious slice awaited. "Chocolate fudge with salted caramel. It’s decadent, but lighter than you’d expect. Not a brick."

Lucy raised an eyebrow. Chocolate and caramel were her go-to favourites. But... was it too indulgent for a beach wedding?

"Third option: cookies and cream with vanilla buttercream. Playful. Kid-friendly. Bit of nostalgia in there."

Lucy had already noticed the flecks of chocolate biscuit in the frosting. It looked like a birthday cake that had grown up and become chic.

"Next up, lemon and lavender." Sophie’s tone was gentle with that one, like it was a wildcard she didn’t want to scare her off. "Not too floral, I promise. More like a lemon drizzle with a summer garden afterthought."

The sponge was pale gold, speckled with soft lavender flecks and topped with the thinnest swirl of pale lilac buttercream. It smelled like a summer breeze.

"And finally—orange and hazelnut. Something warm, unexpected. Has a bit of crunch from the roasted nuts."

That one smelled like Christmas, even though it looked like a spring cake—soft orange glaze and a few candied peels glinting like jewels on the top.

Lucy stared at the line-up. A rainbow of confections, each silently demanding her loyalty. She rested her chin on her hand and sighed dramatically.

"I don’t know where to begin."

Sophie leaned on the counter, arms folded, a smile playing at her lips. "Well, you could start left to right like a sane person. Or do what Colin did and just eat the chocolate one five times then declare it fate."

Lucy laughed and picked up her fork. "Alright. But if I gain two kilos before the wedding, I’m blaming you."

"Please. I’m counting on it. That means you loved the cake." Sophie winked.

And with that, Lucy sliced into the first cake. Vanilla and berry. The frosting gave way easily, the berry compote oozing just a little onto the plate. The bite was cool, soft, and sweet—but not overly so. Bright and fresh.

It was going to be harder than she thought to pick just one.

A sudden door bang and thud-thud-thud of fast-moving feet interrupted the peace of Sophie’s kitchen - followed by the distinct creak of the back door swinging open with the unfiltered confidence of someone who never knocked.

“Amy Bridgerton,” Sophie called without looking up from wiping down a mixing bowl. “What have I told you about barging in?”

“Sorry Aunt Sophie but it’s important wedding business,” Amy declared, appearing around the corner. “Mum said you’d be here. We have a problem.”

Lucy paused mid-bite of lemon-lavender cake. “Oh no. What now?” She tried her best to act serious.

Amy gave her a look of grave importance. “We need to discuss dress colours.”

“Whose dress colours?” Lucy asked, a fork still hovering between her hand and her mouth.

“Mine,” Amy said, completely deadpan, as though this were obvious. “I am the Junior Bridesmaid.”

Sophie snorted quietly into her dishcloth. “Designated by... yourself?”

Amy narrowed her eyes. “By the universe. And by precedent. I have been flower girl three times. It’s time I moved up the ranks.”

Lucy set down her fork slowly. “I thought Violet was flower girl?”

“She is.” Amy nodded approvingly, like she’d signed off on the appointment herself. “I’ve passed the torch. I’m onto bigger things now.”

She marched over to the table, pulled out a chair, and plonked her clipboard down in front of Lucy with the air of a seasoned wedding planner. On it was a page full of scribbled notes and, adorably, three fabric swatches stapled to the side - pale blue, lavender, and some shade of buttery gold.

“These are my top contenders,” Amy said. “I was thinking lavender would complement your dress. Unless you go blush pink, then I have a whole separate page for that.”

Lucy blinked. “How do you know my dress colour?”

“I don’t,” Amy said with exaggerated patience. “That’s why I’ve planned contingencies. I am, after all, the only one thinking ahead.”

“She’s not wrong,” Sophie murmured, sliding Lucy another forkful of cookies-and-cream cake like a peace offering.

Amy picked up a pen. “Also - I’ve emailed the wedding coordinator to ask if I’ll be included in the ceremony rehearsal. I haven’t heard back yet, but I’ll follow up.”

“You emailed?” Lucy echoed, her brows lifting.

“Gregory gave me the address,” Amy said with a shrug that was far too casual for someone who had just confessed to emailing the wedding coordinator at twelve years old. “He said it would keep me busy.”

Lucy tilted her head back and stared at the ceiling like she could somehow summon patience from the rafters. “Of course he did.”

But before Lucy could even muster a follow-up question, Amy’s focus shifted entirely—as it so often did—with the abruptness of a magpie spotting something shiny.

“Ooh! Are these the cake flavours?” she asked, her eyes widening as she spotted the carefully arranged tasting plate on the table.

“They are,” Lucy confirmed, bracing herself.

Amy leaned forward like a detective surveying a case file. “Which are you choosing? Can I help? I’m a very good cake taster. Aren’t I, Aunt Sophie?”

Sophie didn’t miss a beat, hands still dusted in flour as she raised one dry eyebrow. “Eating an entire cake with your sister after sneaking into the pantry does not make you a good cake taster.”

Amy puffed up indignantly. “It was for research!”

“Of course it was,” Sophie chuckled, grabbing another clean fork and handing it over. “Fine. You can have a bite. A bite, Amy.”

Amy beamed and grabbed the fork like a knight claiming her sword. She dragged a chair right up beside Lucy, hip-to-hip, eyes locked on the plates like a general surveying a battle map.

“Okay,” she said with the seriousness of a five-star chef. “We begin with the classics. Vanilla first.”

Lucy lifted the plate between them and Amy stabbed her fork in, taking a precise bite, eyes closing in theatrical reflection.

“Mm.” She chewed slowly, contemplatively. “That’s… very wedding. Safe. But solid. A dependable cake.”

“Is that your official review?” Sophie teased.

Amy held up one finger. “Pending comparisons.”

Next was the cookies and cream. Amy’s eyes lit up on the first bite.

“This is fun. Is it too fun for a wedding?” she asked, mouth still full. “I mean, what if people stop crying at the speeches and start giggling because they’re remembering Oreos?”

Lucy laughed. “I’m okay with some giggling.”

“Next,” Amy said, like a judge at a bake-off, reaching for the chocolate fudge and caramel. She took a bite, chewed, and leaned her head dramatically on Lucy’s shoulder.

“I need a minute. That one changed me. I think I’m in love.”

“I thought red velvet cake was your favourite,” Lucy said. The two older women looked at each other trying not to laugh at her dramatics.

“It was. But now I think it’s… that one. I need another taste to be sure.”

“You’re not just doing this to get more cake, are you?” Sophie asked, already knowing the answer.

Amy looked deeply offended. “This is official wedding research, Aunt Sophie. It’s serious work.”

Lemon and lavender came next. Amy made a face as soon as it touched her tongue.

“Tastes like a fancy soap. No offence.”

“Some taken,” Sophie said, folding her arms. “That’s one of my most popular flavours.”

“It’s just not wedding cake cake,” Amy clarified. “It’s like… garden party cake. For a duchess. Who likes baths.”

Lucy was laughing now, helplessly.

Finally, they reached the orange and hazelnut. Amy tried it, blinked twice, and then handed the plate back like it had insulted her personally.

“Nope. Weird. Confusing. What even is that flavour? Is it trying to be breakfast? Or Nutella? Commit to a personality.”

“Thank you, Paul Hollywood,” Sophie muttered, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes.

Amy smiled sweetly, stabbing her fork back into the chocolate one. “So. We’re going with this one, right?”

“Actually,” Lucy said, reaching for the vanilla again. “I was leaning toward the classic. With maybe cookies and cream for the second tier.”

Amy considered. “That’s fair. More grown up. Sophisticated, with a surprise middle.”

“Like you?” Sophie asked.

Amy grinned. “Exactly. Junior Bridesmaid wisdom, you’re welcome.”

“But maybe we could get a smaller kid sized chocolate cake?” Lucy asked, looking hopefully at Sophie who nodded.

Amy grinned and she took another bite then sighed dramatically. “You’re so lucky, Lucy. You get to eat this and marry my uncle.”

Lucy smiled into her plate. “I know. It’s a hard life.”

Chapter Text

Late.

Late.

Lucy was never late. She considered being on time late. She was ten minutes early for everything. Five minutes was cutting it fine. Her organised mind couldn’t handle the idea of being late. Her calendar was colour coded; if she had to be somewhere early, everything was laid out the night before. Ricard said she was part watch.

Hermione teased her dreadfully for it in school – calling her ‘Timeturner’ when they went through their Harry Potter phase at age twelve. Gregory, had learned to be early for everything, simply because Lucy would pace the hallway and check her watch every thirty seconds.

So yes, Lucy was punctual. Painfully punctual.

Even her body obeyed this file. Since the age of fourteen her period had been clockwork precise. Never early. Never late. Not even by a few hours. She knew the feeling the moment she first went to the bathroom in the morning. Regular as the sunrise.

But now she was late.

When she’d woken and started about her morning business it hit her like a cold splash of water when she registered the date. A mental alarm bell in her head that she tried very hard to silence.

It’s fine, she told herself all day. There’s a first time for everything.

Hormones fluctuate. Bodies can be unpredictably (not hers, but still). Stressful job. Wedding in ten days.

But a little voice kept whispering: you know.

After school she stopped at the chemist to buy the travel toiletries. Deodorant. Shower gel. Toothpaste. Mouth wash. Pregnancy test. Sun cream. Mosquito spray. It was just a precaution. Like bringing an umbrella when it wasn’t supposed to rain.

Now, Lucy sat on the floor, fingers fiddling with the new fluffy bathroom mat she had been irrationally excited about the previous week. And the test sat on the edge of the bathtub.

Lu?” Gregory’s voice floated from the bedroom, slightly muffled. “How many pairs of socks do I need to pack for Greece? Like, what’s the sock-to-sandals ratio?”

She didn’t respond.

A beat. Then the creak of the floorboard by the bathroom door. A pause. And then—

“Lucy Lu?” he sang, nudging the door open with a grin.

Then the grin dropped.

He took in the scene. Lucy on the floor, pale and still. Her knees drawn up slightly. The white plastic stick sitting with the gravitas of a court summons on the edge of the tub.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

“What are you…? Is that a…?”

Gregory’s voice trailed off. The silence that filled the bathroom was so thick it made Lucy feel as if she were under water. Muffled. Still.

“I didn’t - I mean, I wasn’t even going to buy one,” she said finally, her voice low, like admitting it too loudly might change the outcome. “It’s probably just stress. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

She didn’t sound convinced. Neither did Gregory, who slowly stepped inside and knelt beside her on the tiled floor.

“Have you looked?” he asked softly, as if afraid of the answer.

Lucy shook her head. “Not yet.”

And truthfully, she hadn’t been able to. The moment she’d placed it on the side of the tub, her heart had begun thudding in her ears, drowning out reason, rationality. She couldn’t bring herself to look.

“Do you want me to?” Gregory offered gently, already reaching out with his hand.

Lucy gave the smallest of nods. “Okay. You can look. But I swear, if it’s just one line and I’ve had a full-blown emotional crisis over nothing, I’m going to eat every bit of chocolate in the house.”

Gregory smiled - half anxious, half amused -but didn’t take his eyes off the stick as he reached out and turned it slightly.

Then he froze.

Lucy watched him instead of the test. Her breath caught in her chest.

He was staring at it. Not speaking.

Her stomach dropped. “Gregory?”

He finally blinked and turned to her, eyes wide, stunned, but not panicked. In fact, there was something else there—something reverent, almost.

“It’s positive,” he said.

Lucy felt everything at once.

Terror. Wonder. Disbelief. Joy. A thousand thoughts collided in her head like a car crash of emotions. Her hand instinctively pressed against her stomach, her mouth opening but no sound coming out.

“Luce,” Gregory whispered, scooting closer to her on the floor. “You’re pregnant.”

Tears sprang into her eyes so suddenly she barely had time to realise she was crying. She let out a soft, breathless laugh—a little incredulous, a little overwhelmed.

“I wasn’t expecting this,” she said. “Not now. Not before the wedding. Not like this.”

Gregory cupped her cheek, gently brushing away a tear. “It’s a surprise,” he admitted. “But it’s our surprise.”

She laughed again, watery and broken. “We’re getting married in ten days.”

“Hopefully your dress fits two,” he grinned.

“We’re getting a start on our big family sooner than we planned,” he added after a minute.

Lucy shook her head, not sure how to reply. Gregory wrapped his arms around her and held her close, giving her time to think.

After a long silent moment, Lucy mumbled into his shirt, “we’re not telling everyone yet. Not until after the wedding.”

“Agreed,” he said nodding.

Lucy laughed again, this time a little steadier. “You know, I really wanted to be calm and composed the week before the wedding. Wrap gifts. Organise the itinerary. Match everyone’s sock colours.”

“You’ll still do all of that,” Gregory said, brushing a kiss against her temple. “Only now with slightly more hormones and slightly less coffee.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh God, coffee! I had one this morning..”

“You’re not the first pregnant woman to have a cappuccino, Luce,” he interrupted quickly, pulling her hand into his. “You’re going to be fine. You’ll be incredible. Like always.”

Lucy nodded, even as she started tearing up again. “This wasn’t the plan.”

“No,” Gregory said. “But maybe it’s a better one.”

They sat together in silence for a long minute, the test now forgotten in favour of quiet, shared wonder.

Finally, Lucy exhaled and stood, slowly brushing down her skirt. “Okay. Okay. I need to go sort the toiletries bag and hide all evidence of this or Hyacinth will figure it out before we even land in Greece.”

Gregory stood too. “You want me to hide the test?”

“Burn it,” Lucy said. “Throw it in the sea. Put it in one of your brothers’ pockets. See which will panic the most. I don’t care. Just make it disappear.”

He gave her a mock salute and scooped up the test like it was a cursed relic. “You got it.”

Lucy turned to the mirror and caught her reflection. She looked the same. But she knew something inside her had changed. Slightly bigger than a poppyseed, and already rewriting the next chapter of their lives.

Chapter Text

Anthony Bridgerton had encountered many strange things in bathrooms over the years. Makeup stains in every place thinkable, sanitary products that he’d rather have not seen, Barbie dolls floating in the toilet, inexplicable bits of LEGO in the sink drain. But this—this was a new one.

He stared at the test.

It sat atop the bathroom bin like a discarded bookmark. Two lines. Clear as day. And not even hidden. Not tucked under a tissue or buried beneath a mountain of wipes and toilet paper. Just there.

It was practically staring at him. Daring him to question its existence.

Anthony stared at it a second longer.

Positive.

“Uncle Ant! I gotta go!” Elliot's impatient voice echoed with urgency, followed by a rhythmic knock that sounded more like a tiny battering ram.

“Just washing my hands!” Anthony called back automatically, still frozen in front of the bin.

His mind whirred. The house was full, of course. Sunday dinner with the full Bridgerton clan and extensions had reached near-unmanageable numbers. Who had been in the bathroom before him?

Kate?

Sophie?

Penelope?

Hyacinth?!

Dear God, no.

Then he paused. The test wasn’t hidden. It wasn’t panicked. It wasn’t flushed in shame or stuffed in a makeup bag. It was calm. Almost deliberate.

That meant it was someone who wasn’t trying to not be found out—but perhaps wasn’t quite ready for the announcement either.

The only one he could immediately rule out was Eloise, who he’d passed in her bedroom; feeding a five day old Penny while Philip attempted to give advice.

Anthony reached for a tissue with the air of a man preparing to disarm a bomb. He delicately picked up the test and wrapped it, then stashed it in a nappy sack from the drawer with the practised ease of a father of four. He tied it off, slipped it into his pocket, and washed his hands, as promised just as the door banged again.

Elliot burst in the second the door clicked open, muttering something about emergencies and jumping from foot to foot like a wind-up toy.

“Dinner’s ready,” he said, not even closing the door as he pulled his trousers down. Anthony chuckled and wandered back toward the kitchen, bemused.

He wasn’t sure what he was going to do with the bag now crinkling in his pocket like a shameful snack, but he’d figure it out. 

He sat at the head of the dining table with Edmund at his side and look around at his family. No one seemed out of place; like they were trying to hide something.

Kate. He knew it wasn’t. His wife was an open book to him. He definitely would have noticed. He knew about Miles before she’d even considered taking a test.

Sophie? Somehow he doubted it. Six kids seemed quite enough. Though Benedict couldn’t keep his hands off her. But not in the way that she was like glass, the way he had with the previous pregnancies.

Penelope? A possibility but then he noticed her glass of wine. She wouldn’t be drinking alcohol.

“Dad? What’s better? Indiana Jones or Star Wars?” Neddie asked. Anthony stopped his train of thought to answer his son’s question.

“Star Wars. Obviously,” Anthony replied.

“The originals maybe. But overall Indiana Jones is a stronger franchise,” Colin said.

“I agree,” Benedict nodded.

Gregory looked up from his plate, fork halfway to his mouth. “Absolutely not. Star Wars defined a generation. Indiana Jones is just Harrison Ford running from rocks.”

“Exactly,” Anthony said, jabbing his fork in the air for emphasis. “Running from rocks. And snakes. And sometimes Nazis. It’s fun, but Star Wars has layers.”

“Layers of bad prequels,” Colin pointed out, lifting his wine glass with a smug little smile.

“Okay, but the sequels—” Lucy began, then caught herself and gave a tight little smile. “Actually, you know what? Let’s not go down this rabbit hole. Dinner’s hot.”

But Anthony was only half-invested in the debate now. His eyes roved casually around the table, still playing detective. His pocket rustled softly when he shifted in his seat and he became acutely aware once more of the pregnancy test tucked inside the nappy bag like a contraband treasure.

Across the table, Kate gave him a look. The kind that said you’re thinking too hard again. He blinked innocently back at her and reached for his wine.

He could wait. And he did. Until after dinner, where he called Simon and Benedict into the study.

Anthony placed the nappy bag with care on the edge of the desk, like he was defusing a bomb—or presenting evidence in court.

“Behold,” he said, untying the top and gingerly pulling out the wrapped contents.

Benedict leaned forward. “Oh no.”

Simon squinted. “Is that a..?” He didn’t want to finish the question.

“Yes,” Anthony confirmed. “A pregnancy test.”

Silence.

Benedict blinked. “Okay. First of all, I didn’t put that there.”

“I’d be more concerned if you had,” Anthony replied dryly. “I found it on top of the bathroom bin. Like it was proud of itself. Two lines. Positive.”

Simon exhaled sharply through his nose. “Alright, then.”

Anthony began pacing slowly, arms crossed. “The question is: who?”

Benedict gave a helpless shrug. “You’ve ruled out Kate?”

“Please. I’d know before she even peed on the stick.”

Simon leaned against the desk, intrigued. “What about Sophie?” He turned to his second brother in law.

“No. We’d have noticed. Ben here would be shadowing her like a hawk if she was,” was Anthony’s reply.

Benedict gave a sheepish shrug. “Accurate. And physically impossible unless it’s not mine. I had the.. procedure. Remember?” The three men shivered at the memory what Benedict would do for his wife to ensure she wouldn’t get pregnant again.

Anthony ticked off on his fingers. “Penelope? No. Drinking wine. Daphne? Highly unlikely. You two said you were done. Not Fran and Michaela. Hyacinth? I’d need to get an alibi for Gareth, but I think we’d have heard.”

“She’d have told Mum at least. Who’d have immediately called Daphne and Kate.”

Simon frowned. “What about Eloise?”

“Five days postpartum,” Benedict muttered. “Unless someone wants to rewrite medical science, not a candidate.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t one of the kids playing some sort of trick?” Simon asked, only half-serious.

“With a pregnancy test?” Anthony deadpanned.

There was another silence. Then Benedict looked up, something dawning. “Wait. Lucy.”

Anthony blinked. “Lucy?”

“Gregory’s Lucy,” Simon clarified.

Anthony scoffed. “No, no. She’s not—” But he stopped.

Anthony sat down slowly.

“Oh.”

Benedict let out a low whistle. “There’s a twist.”

Simon sipped his drink. “She’s what, ten days from the wedding?”

“Exactly,” Anthony muttered. “But it wouldn’t be Lucy to leave this in the bathroom. So this…”

“Is a Gregory joke? Plot? Surprise? What do we want to call it?” Benedict asked.

“Following the lead of his brothers?” Simon suggested.

Chapter Text

The cloakroom was chaos - scarves and small boots and raincoats that looked identical except for faint smudges of mud or embroidered name tags (which weren’t always correct; due to the cousin swapshop). Somewhere in the fray, Anthony Bridgerton spotted his opportunity.

He stepped into the tight, wood-panelled space just as Gregory was elbow-deep in the coat rack, muttering under his breath about someone stealing his fleece-lined bodywarmer.

“It’s yours, isn’t it?” Anthony said, voice low but firm.

Gregory didn’t turn, just kept rifling. “What?”

Anthony cocked an eyebrow and reached past a pair of toddler wellies to pluck a red rainmac from a hook. “Or I suppose I should say Lucy’s.”

Gregory finally looked up, blinking. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The pregnancy test I found in the bathroom, Gregory,” Anthony said under his breath, one eye on the cracked open cloakroom door. With a sharp tug, he nudged it closed. The clatter of dinner clean-up and sibling chatter from the hallway was instantly muffled.

Gregory’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Sure it’s not Kate’s?” he teased, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Anthony shot him a look so sharp it could have cut through wool. “No. Four is plenty. And it’s not Sophie. Not Penelope. Not Daphne. Trust me, I checked. That leaves Lucy. Unless,” he lowered his voice, “we’ve got a scandal worthy of Coronation Street and Amy or Amanda’s walking around with morning sickness.”

Gregory laughed, but it was short-lived. “Okay. Okay. Yes. It’s Lu. But keep your voice down,” he said, lowering his own in turn. “She doesn’t want everyone to know yet. I left the test on purpose. I wanted to see how long it would take before someone cracked.”

Anthony stared at him, mouth half-open. “You planted it?”

Gregory gave a shrug that was far too proud for someone potentially about to be murdered by his eldest brother. “It’s called a social experiment.”

“You’re a social idiot,” Anthony muttered, rubbing his face like he was suddenly 90. “You’re having a baby and playing games?”

“I was curious!” Gregory defended. “And, honestly, I thought Mum would find it. Or Hyacinth. You? That was unexpected.”

Anthony looked at his brother - the same kid he used to carry around on his shoulders. The same boy he’d pulled out of trees and told bedtime stories to, who was now standing here, weeks away from his wedding… and about to become a father.

Then, after a beat, he stepped forward and pulled Gregory into a hug.

“I suppose I should say congratulations, then,” Anthony murmured, clapping him on the back.

Gregory nodded, grin fading into something more genuine. “Thanks.”

Anthony leaned back, hands still on Gregory’s shoulders, looking at him with new eyes. “You know, I’m not sure whether I should be glad you joined the club or feel worried that yet another Bridgerton couldn’t wait until the wedding.”

Gregory tilted his head. “What club?”

Anthony smirked, voice soft. “Bridgertons getting pregnant before the vows. Daphne. Sophie. Penelope.” He hesitated. Then his voice dropped.

“Kate.”

The silence that followed was heavier. Gregory’s smile faded, sobering instantly. He knew. He remembered. Everyone in the family knew about the Pea. The tiny life Kate and Anthony had once carried for just a blink in time. The baby who never made it to the world, but had changed them all the same.

Anthony cleared his throat, eyes momentarily far away. “Sometimes life doesn’t follow the script. Doesn’t mean it’s not still a story worth telling.”

Gregory swallowed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

“No,” Anthony cut in gently. “Don’t be sorry. Just… hold onto it. The joy. Even when it comes early. Especially when it comes early.”

A pause. Then Anthony clapped a hand to Gregory’s shoulder with brotherly force. “Just remember—once you’re a dad, it’s permanent. There’s no refund policy when they scream at 3 a.m.”

Gregory laughed weakly. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

Anthony smirked.

 “You’ll need it. And if you ever leave a nappy in the living room bin, I’ll have you banned from family dinners. Ben’s quite looking forward to seeing you on nappy duty, by the way,” Anthony added with a smug gleam. “He said something about poetic justice.”

“Good to know,” Gregory muttered with a crooked smile, though his stomach was beginning to churn at the thought of explosive nappies.

Anthony pushed off the doorframe with a little sigh. “I’m going to tell Kate. Obviously. But I’ll leave everyone else up to you.” He shot Gregory a meaningful look. “Kate’ll want to help Lucy too. She will, you know. So make sure she knows she can.”

Gregory nodded. “We’re going to tell Mum. But apart from that, we’re waiting.”

Anthony gave a loud, disbelieving snort. “You do realise Mum is incapable of keeping a secret, don’t you?”

Gregory grimaced. “We’re hoping if we give her something official to keep quiet, she’ll take it seriously.”

“She won’t,” Anthony said flatly.

“She might,” Gregory countered, though even he didn’t sound convinced.

Anthony shook his head, already imagining the inevitable.

“You may as well hire a skywriter,” he said dryly. “Or announce it during church. Either would be more discreet.”

Gregory groaned. “Brilliant. So much for low-key.”

Anthony just grinned and clapped him on the back. “Welcome to fatherhood, little brother. Privacy ends now.”

And with that, he swung open the cloakroom door and strode back into the mayhem of coats, kids, and Bridgertons - all of whom were definitely going to find out everything sooner rather than later.

Chapter Text

The mattress shifted beneath him and Gregory, still half-asleep, cracked one eye open just in time to see Lucy leave the room, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps padding across the floorboards. A moment later the unmistakable retching began.

Again.

He sighed, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm before dragging himself upright. The room was dim with early morning light filtering through the blinds, casting long, pale stripes across the bed. He grabbed the half-empty water bottle off the dresser, and shuffled toward the bathroom.

The door was ajar.

“Done?” he asked gently, leaning against the frame with a yawn.

Lucy didn’t lift her head. Her forehead rested against the cold enamel of the bathtub, her ponytail askew, and her cheeks flushed from the effort. One hand emerged wordlessly from the side of the tub. Gregory passed her the bottle, watching as she sipped carefully, then gargled and spat into the toilet bowl beside her.

“Hopefully,” she croaked, voice raw. “This is disgusting.”

Gregory crouched beside her, brushing back a few strands of hair from her face. “Mum says it’s a good sign, remember?” he offered.

“It doesn’t feel good,” she muttered, her tone dripping with misery as she wiped her mouth with a tissue and tossed it weakly toward the bin. “What time is it?”

 “Just after seven?” He guessed.

Lucy groaned and shifted onto her knees with the slow precision of someone recovering from a bout with the plague. “Taxi’s coming at half eight,” she said, planting a hand on the edge of the tub to steady herself.

“Slowly,” Gregory warned, jumping up to help her rise. He gently slid an arm under hers and guided her to her feet, bracing her as she swayed slightly.

“Do you want anything to eat?” he asked once she seemed steady, though her pale face already suggested the answer.

She scrunched her nose but nodded, knowing she needed something in her stomach. “Weetabix. Tiny bit of milk. Tiny, Greg. And a banana. Not too ripe. And put the skin in the compost bin outside. Not the kitchen bin. And pour the rest of the milk down the drain - I’m not coming home to off milk smell.”

Gregory stared at her for a beat, brow raised. “You know most people wouldn’t even notice off milk after throwing up their lungs.”

“I’m not most people,” she said, managing a faint, pained smirk that tugged at the corner of her mouth, though her eyes were still heavy-lidded from the queasiness.

“No kidding,” Gregory replied, his tone dry but fond. He rolled his eyes dramatically before turning on his heel and heading for the kitchen. “One breakfast coming right up: precisely not-mushy cereal, a banana that’s just barely ripe, and zero offending smells. Might even throw in a hot chocolate—if you're lucky.”

“Add a halo and you’d be an angel,” Lucy called weakly after him. She slumped against the bathroom doorframe for a moment, letting the cool wood soothe the back of her head. Her stomach had finally calmed, at least enough for her to believe she might keep food down. “I’ll get dressed and be down.”

Gregory chuckled as he walked into their small but functional kitchen, flicking on the kettle and moving with the quiet efficiency of someone who’d become far too familiar with morning sickness rituals over the past week. He reached for the Weetabix, broke two neat bricks into a bowl, and poured in just the slightest splash of milk - measuring it with a precision that would have made a chemist proud. Banana next. One that wasn’t too spotty. He peeled it, sliced it into clean, even rounds, and fanned them across the cereal like a culinary offering.

Then, hot chocolate. Not too sweet, a splash of milk, extra warm. Comfort in a mug.

He made himself some toast - thick slices, golden, butter melting into the middle - and was just running the knife across one when he heard the shuffle of slippered feet.

Lucy appeared in the doorway, looking slightly brighter. She’d changed into a loose, floaty blouse and leggings and had attempted to tame her hair into a loose braid. Her glasses were perched slightly askew on her nose, but she looked more herself.

“You’re a vision,” Gregory said, sliding the toast onto a plate.

“You’re full of it,” she replied, hopping up onto the kitchen counter as she’d done a hundred times before. She reached for the bowl of Weetabix, inspecting the banana distribution. “Perfect,” she admitted grudgingly.

“We really need to get a table and chairs,” she added, scooping a small bite into her mouth.

“Couch took priority. Remember?” he said, sinking into one of the mismatched armchairs with his toast in one hand and mug in the other.

“Yes, yet it still hasn’t arrived. We live like stylish squatters,” she muttered, eyeing the wonky leg of the charity shop armchair Eloise had heroically bartered down to ten pounds.

“Gives the place character,” Gregory said around a mouthful of toast.

Lucy reached over to the nearby sideboard and pulled open her wedding folder - a large, navy blue binder crammed full of printed bookings, confirmations, contact lists, and checklists tabbed with highlighter and sticky notes in three different colours. She flipped through the documents with a familiar, reassuring rhythm, mentally checking things off as she went. Flights. Hotel. Ceremony details. Guest transfers. Passport.

“Everything’s here,” she said aloud, more to herself than to Gregory.

“Excellent. That means we’re only slightly doomed if we forget anything,” Gregory grinned, standing and brushing crumbs off his jumper.

“I’m going to shower, then finish packing,” he said, grabbing his half-full cup and heading toward the hall.

“Don’t forget your charger!” Lucy called after him without looking up.

“I never forget my charger,” he called back.

“You did last time.”

Their bags were packed (chargers included), their passports double-checked, and they arrived at Heathrow with a full forty minutes to spare before even meeting the rest of the travelling party.

“Remind me again why we got here so early,” Gregory asked, wheeling their suitcases through the automatic doors of Departures.

“Because I booked the taxi,” Lucy replied pointedly, adjusting her bag strap. “And because I accounted for traffic, security lines, and potential alien invasion.”

“Can’t argue with alien contingency planning,” Gregory said, reaching for her hand. “But we can’t even check in for another hour.”

“It’s better being early,” Lucy said.

“I’m putting that on your tombstone,” he laughed.

“Uncle Gregory!” A chorus of voices cried and they turned to see Anthony’s brood making their way toward them.

“We weren’t the first ones here I see,” Anthony said.

“I’m afraid your need to be on time can only be beaten by Lu,” Gregory told his brother and Kate laughed.

“He’s waited long enough for someone in this family to share his timekeeping obsession,” Kate said dryly, elbowing her husband with just enough force to make him shift a little on his heels. Anthony, ever the dignified eldest sibling, sniffed in agreement.

“Why don’t we drop our bags?” he suggested, already reaching for the handle of a small suitcase.

“Because bag drop doesn’t open for another half hour,” Gregory said, his tone just this side of exasperated. “There was no need to be here so early. Literally none.”

“I like that buffer,” Anthony replied with a shrug. “You told Benedict an hour early, right?”

“Sophie promised they wouldn’t be late,” Kate said with the kind of optimism that only came from a decade of Bridgerton experience. Anthony didn’t respond—just gave her a flat look that screamed you sweet, deluded creature.

“She texted me to say they left the house,” Gregory added, glancing at his phone. “Forty minutes ago.”

“Good,” Anthony said, but his tone leaned heavily on the I’ll believe it when I see it. Then, his eyes flicked to Lucy, softening slightly. “And you’re all good to go?”

“Yes,” Lucy nodded, adjusting the strap of her tote. “I’m feeling fine.” She managed a small smile at him and Kate - two of the only people who knew the secret quietly tucked into her carry-on alongside her passport. Baby Bridgerton-on-the-way.

A full hour later, the Bridgertons were gathered in various states of chaos outside the check-in desk. Luggage had been dropped. Oversized items dealt with. Children counted and mostly calm. It was all going unusually smoothly… except for one minor problem.

Eight members of the family were still unaccounted for.

“I told you he’d be late,” Anthony muttered, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the entrance doors like a hawk waiting to swoop.

“Why don’t the rest of us go on through security?” Daphne suggested diplomatically, herding her own children into a loose clump.

“I need to feed Penny soon,” Eloise said, glancing down at her daughter with the weary alertness of a new mother. “I'd rather wait until we're through.”

“I need to buy new sunglasses,” Hyacinth chimed in, pulling out a small mirror to check her mascara. “I broke mine.”

“I said to Benedict I’d wait and help them through check-in,” Violet announced, her voice calm but firm, as if daring anyone to challenge her matriarchal authority. “And besides, Gregory and Lucy will need a few spare hands.”

Penelope peered toward the departure doors, then at the growing queue for security. The kids were fidgeting, starting to mutiny one by one. “I think those of us who are ready should just go on,” she said firmly. “They’ll manage. We’ll get seats near the gate.”

There was a general murmur of agreement - just in time for the airport’s automatic doors to open with a whoosh and admit a familiar sight: a stampede of dark-haired Bridgertons.

Benedict was red-faced and panting behind a luggage cart stacked precariously with four cases, two sons and a Buzz Lightyear backpack.

“Sorry - couldn’t park the bus,” he called, as Anthony’s eyebrows shot skyward.

The double buggy rolled in behind, driven by Sophie with the unyielding determination of someone who had already answered “Are we there yet?” fourteen times before breakfast. Charlie walked beside her, dragging a bag with one hand and holding Violet’s reins with the other like a small, slightly disgruntled sheepdog.

“Would’ve been easier to take two cars,” Sophie muttered.

“Anyways, we’re here now,” Benedict said, blowing out a breath. “If someone can take the children, I’ll get this luggage sorted.”

Violet swooped in without missing a beat, scooping up Will and Alex, who were already wriggling free of their coats, and shepherding them toward the others. Charlie immediately made a beeline for Bella and Carrie, who had been comparing snacks like tiny traders.

Lucy, watching this small whirlwind of chaos, leaned toward Gregory and whispered, “I am so glad I told Richard to take the later flight. He’d have spontaneously combusted.”

Gregory grinned and nudged her lightly with his elbow. “And you can deal with all this Bridgertonness?”

She gave him a dry look. “To me this is easy now.”

Chapter Text

Gregory sat opposite Colin in a quiet corner of the airport Starbucks, armed with two steaming cups of coffee and a hopeful smile. The hum of Heathrow was a steady background buzz—tannoy announcements echoing, the occasional suitcase squeak, and the ever-present chorus of excitable children.

Across the small table, Colin was expertly juggling fatherhood and technology. He balanced a third tablet in one hand while reaching for a tangle of headphones with the other. His daughter Jane—red curls bouncing around her face like an unruly halo - sat patiently watching him with wide, curious eyes, Elliot and Agatha already glued to their screens.

With the grace of a seasoned parent, Colin clicked on a cartoon, slid the headphones over Jane’s ears, and gave her a reassuring smile. “Travelling with kids - tablets are a necessity,” he said matter-of-factly, finally turning his full attention to Gregory.

“Noted,” Gregory replied, eyebrows raised, as he passed over a coffee. “Remind me to invest in some kind of tech arsenal before we leave the hospital with ours.”

Colin smirked, taking a sip. “You laugh now, but when you have a toddler throwing a tantrum at 38,000 feet, you’ll thank me.”

Gregory grinned.  “Everything’s sorted then?”

“Yes,” Gregory replied, setting the cup down and giving his brother a more serious look. “I think so. Lucy being organised helps.”

Colin nodded in approval. “It does. So… you’re feeling ready? Really ready?”

Gregory’s shoulders lifted and fell. “I am. We are. It’s a lot, but... it feels right. I know it’s early. But it’s Lucy. Everything with her feels right.”

Colin studied him a moment, the mischievous glint fading just a bit. As much as he liked to tease his younger brother, this moment mattered. “You’re young. But I don’t doubt your heart. I just wanted to make sure your head’s caught up with it.”

“It has. I promise,” Gregory said earnestly, and Colin saw it then - the quiet certainty in his brother’s eyes. Not bravado. Not panic. Just a calm sort of knowing.

“Good,” Colin said, then tilted his head slightly. “You have the rings?”

Gregory’s face paled. “You have the rings.”

“No,” Colin replied casually, taking another sip of coffee.

Gregory blinked. “What?”

“You never gave them to me,” Colin added, completely deadpan.

Silence. Then the caffeine-fuelled panic began to rise in Gregory’s chest like a tidal wave.

“Oh my God,” he muttered. “Lucy’s going to kill me. She will literally murder me. In public. With a hair straightener or something. I knew I should have asked Anthony to be best man.”

His brain was already spiralling. Maybe the rings were still in the drawer at home. Or lost in a sock somewhere. Or accidentally packed into the oversized suitcase of doom that was currently buried in the plane's undercarriage. Why hadn’t he double-checked? Why had he trusted Colin?

Just as the first flicker of true dread hit him, Colin leaned back in his chair and burst into laughter.

Gregory stared. “You didn’t…”

“Relax,” Colin wheezed, still chuckling. “Pen’s got them. She said they’d be safest in her jewellery box and that she didn’t trust either of us not to misplace them.” He wiped a tear of laughter from his eye. “You really thought I’d lose them?”

“I completely thought you’d lost them!” Gregory snapped, but his voice was more breathless than angry, as the adrenaline began to wear off.

Colin just grinned. “Point is, all is well. Rings are safe. Bride is amazing. Groom is still a bit gullible, but we’ll work on that.”

Gregory shook his head, chuckling now despite himself. “I hate you.”

“You love me. And you’re going to be fine.”

Gregory looked down at his coffee, smiled, and nodded. “Yeah. I think I will be.”

Lucy appeared a moment later with Penelope in tow, each of them clutching a WHSmith bag.

Colin took one look at the bags and groaned. “Tell me you didn’t buy another book.”

Penelope raised an unimpressed eyebrow as she slid into the seat beside him. “It’s practically a law. You have to buy a book at the airport. Everyone knows that.”

“Or two,” Lucy added cheerfully, dropping into the seat next to Gregory and nudging her tote bag under the table with the toe of her shoe.

Gregory leaned over, his curiosity piqued. “How many did you actually get?”

Lucy tilted the bag slightly toward him but kept it just out of reach. “Two. And a crossword puzzle book.”

“Hard-hitting journalism, I see,” Gregory said with mock seriousness as he tried to sneak a peek, only to be blocked by her elbow. He was sure he spotted one of those cheesy romances.

“And enough prawn cocktail crisps to feed a small, sodium-loving army,” he added, having caught sight of the suspiciously inflated multipack at the top of her bag.

“I was in the mood for them,” Lucy said nonchalantly, patting his shoulder like she was awarding him a prize for observation.

Colin made a face of disgust. “Prawn cocktail crisps. Of all the flavours.”

Lucy stood again. “I think I’ll get a drink. Maybe a muffin.”

“I’ll come with you,” Gregory said, already standing and offering his hand. She took it without hesitation, lacing her fingers through his. They wandered off towards the till, a quiet little bubble of affection in the chaos.

Penelope watched them weave through the crowd hand-in-hand, a soft smile tugging at her lips. The easy way they moved together, the constant rhythm of shared jokes, the way Gregory looked at Lucy like she’d hung the moon - it was unmistakable.

“He’s mad about her, isn’t he?” she said, half to herself, half to Colin, who was still frowning at the receipt from her WHSmith haul.

Colin glanced up, following her gaze as Gregory gently tugged Lucy toward the café, one hand tucked into the small of her back like he couldn’t quite bear to let go. Lucy turned back to say something and Gregory laughed, a full-bodied, head-thrown-back laugh that echoed lightly in the high ceilings of the departure hall.

Colin’s mouth twitched into a reluctant grin. “Mad’s one word for it.”

Penelope nudged him. “Sweet. Pure. Romantic?”

Colin rolled his eyes. “Borderline obsessive.”

She swatted his arm. “Like you were any better.”

“Please. I was far more subtle.”

“Darling, you declared your love via pamphlet.”

“A widely distributed and beautifully written pamphlet,” he said defensively, and she just shook her head, laughing.

They both watched as Gregory gallantly offered to carry Lucy’s drink tray, nearly dropping it when one of the bottles shifted precariously. Lucy rescued it with one hand and raised a brow at him, amused and indulgent all at once. He said something that made her roll her eyes - but she was smiling.

“Still,” Colin added, his voice quieter now, “he’s lucky. Not just to have her. But to know. To be sure.”

Penelope reached over and laced her fingers through his. “They’re good for each other.”

“As we are.”

Chapter Text

“This is stupid,” was the greeting Lucy got when she opened the door to her room.

Gregory stood in the hall, hands buried deep in the pockets of his shorts, hair damp from showering and sticking up at odd angles. He looked like a sulky teenager rather than a groom-to-be.

“What is?” she asked, stepping aside so he could wander in.

“That we both have our own rooms,” he said immediately, dropping onto Lucy’s neatly made bed with a flop. He turned his head to look at the perfectly smooth comforter, brow raised. “Did you make this? You do know the cleaners do that, right?”

“I like making their life easier,” Lucy replied, disappearing into the bathroom with her toothbrush.

Gregory sighed loudly, staring at the ceiling. “But we live together. We’re having a baby. We’re hardly kids sneaking around. Like - what difference does it make?” He was grumbling now purely for the sake of it.

Lucy ignored him until she re-emerged, her mouth minty fresh, wearing shorts and a t-shirt, her hair tied up. She found him sitting cross-legged on the bed, flicking through her wedding folder with the solemn concentration of a monk.

“Less than thirty hours,” she remarked, sliding onto the bed beside him.

He looked up, smile tugging at his lips. “Final countdown.”

“You can still back out,” she teased, nudging him with her shoulder as she slid the file onto her lap.

“Far too late for that.” His hand slid over the duvet to rest on the other side of her waist. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” She was quite fed up of that question already. “Now. Normal guests are arriving today. So we get the boat over in the morning. The ceremony is at two. Then photos. Then speeches, then the meal. The final boat back is at eleven and we get to stay the night.” She rattled it off like a school recital, eyes skimming down her carefully annotated itinerary for the fiftieth time.

“It’ll be perfect,” Gregory said firmly, like a man who believed it even if she didn’t quite.

Lucy flicked open the back pocket of the file, unbuttoned the little pouch, and drew out the folded piece of paper she’d tucked there before they’d left London. The black-and-white blur of the ultrasound.

“And you’re sure you want to tell everyone?” he asked, his voice softening as he touched the corner of the scan. He still couldn’t quite believe it himself - that this little blurry bean existed, and that somehow, impossibly, he and Lucy had made it without meaning too.

“Yes.” She nodded. “They’ll be able to tell tomorrow anyway.”

When she’d tried her dress on a few days before, the faintest swell of a bump had shown through. Barely there, but enough to make her realise they couldn’t keep it quiet much longer.

“What are you doing now?” Gregory asked.

“I’m going to tell Richard,” Lucy said, sliding the scan back into its pouch. “He really should know before everyone else.”

“True,” Gregory agreed. He pushed off the bed with a groan and stretched, glancing toward the door. “Well, I’ve got an appointment with a bunch of children on the crazy golf course.”

Lucy laughed, imagining her fiancé being terrorised by his horde of nieces and nephews.

“Be careful,” she called as he headed for the door. “No black eyes. No knocked-out teeth. I want nice photos tomorrow.”

“Of course,” he said with a grin, blowing her a kiss before vanishing into the corridor.

The door clicked shut, leaving Lucy alone with the silence, her neatly made bed, and the scan photo still lingering in her thoughts. Tomorrow everything would change.

As a Basset/Bridgerton, it could be easy enough to get lost in the very loud crowd of people. When you added distant family members and friends into the mix, it was even simpler: you could turn invisible in seconds. Carrie didn’t mind this at all. In fact, the morning before the wedding she was using it to her full advantage.

The pool area was buzzing - children shrieking as they cannonballed into the water, Eloise and Philip arguing about sun cream application, Hyacinth loudly telling Gareth he was wearing the wrong shirt. But Carrie had slipped quietly away, unnoticed.

She’d claimed an empty sun lounger tucked into a shady corner, positioned perfectly for observing without being observed. On the little table beside her sat the remains of her spoils: a bowl that had once held three scoops of ice cream, the crumbs of her favourite apple-and-custard pastries dusting a plate, and a single banana that she’d taken because fruit made her look balanced, even if she had no intention of eating it.

A well-worn Nancy Drew paperback rested at her feet, its pages soft from being read so often. Balanced across her lap was her notebook, open to a fresh page. Carrie Basset liked writing. It was easier than speaking. Paper didn’t look at you strangely if you stumbled over your words or forgot what you meant to say. Paper didn’t laugh if you said something wrong. She wasn’t confident like Amy, or funny like Bella. Writing was where her voice could be exactly as she wanted it.

Her pen moved slowly, carefully shaping letters in the heat-hazed air. She was working on something for Lucy—something she wanted to give her after the wedding. Words that explained things she couldn’t say out loud.

“There’s Miss C.”

The shadow fell over her page, long and familiar. Carrie looked up, squinting slightly against the brightness, and broke into a small smile.

“Hi, Daddy.”

Simon lowered himself onto the end of her lounger, making it dip under his weight. Carrie immediately plonked her feet onto his lap and he rested his hands over her feet, wiggling her toes and making her giggle.

“This is where you disappeared to,” he said, his voice carrying that amused warmth he reserved only for his children.

She nodded and wordlessly closed her notebook, sliding her pen into the spine.

“Can I see?” he asked gently.

“It’s not done,” Carrie replied, hugging the notebook protectively to her chest. “It’s for Lucy.”

“You can call her Aunt Lucy,” Simon reminded her, brushing some pastry flakes off her shin.

“Tomorrow,” Carrie clarified firmly. She wanted to wait. Tomorrow, when Lucy was officially part of the family, the title would feel right.

Simon shook his head fondly, lips twitching. He’d long since learned not to push her when she had that stubborn Bridgerton glint in her eye.

“Don’t you want to go find everyone else?” he asked after a moment. Though he knew the answer even before he finished the sentence. “They’re going to play crazy golf.”

Carrie wrinkled her nose. “Too loud.”

Simon chuckled. Out of his four children, Carrie was the quietest, the one who most resembled him in temperament. 

“Fair enough.” And he sat as she opened her notebook again.

“Lucy makes me not nervous,” Carrie said, as she stroked a word off her page. “I want to find the right words.”

“You will. You do. And when you tell her they’ll mean everything,” Simon promised.

Lucy had to laugh when she spotted them. Of course they were in the adults-only section of the resort—tucked away in a serene pocket of calm that seemed to repel the noise and chaos of energetic families.

Hermione was stretched out on a sunbed, sunglasses perched on her nose, phone in one hand, iced coffee in the other - looking like the cover of Effortless Living Weekly. Richard, meanwhile, had staked out the shade beneath an enormous white umbrella. He sat with his legs crossed, tablet propped on one knee, scrolling through a digital newspaper as if the rest of the world didn’t exist.

Lucy sank into the lounger beside him, toes brushing the edge of the warm tiles, a small smile tugging at her lips. It was such a Richard and Hermione tableau - both utterly at ease in their adult-only oasis, as far from sticky fingers and shrieking children as humanly possible.

Neither of them had ever quite understood her. When she’d first announced that she wanted to be a primary school teacher, they’d both stared at her like she’d said she was joining the circus.
Richard’s exact words had been: “You mean, on purpose?”

Now, years later, he still looked faintly baffled whenever she spoke fondly of her class.

“I feel like I should be questioning you more,” he said after a moment, lowering the tablet just enough to peer at her over the top.

Lucy turned her head, half-smiling. “About what?”

“The wedding. Gregory. Everything,” he said. His tone wasn’t teasing—it was careful, thoughtful, older-brotherly. “Are you sure you’re ready for it all?”

Lucy watched a couple walk hand in hand across the sand, the woman’s hat ribbons fluttering in the breeze. She thought of Gregory at the crazy golf course right now, probably letting one of the children win. Her lips curved into a small, certain smile.

“I am,” she said simply. “We are. It feels like the right time. A new chapter.”

Richard studied her for a moment longer, then nodded. “Good,” he said. “You deserve that.”

Lucy hesitated, her heart starting to beat a little faster.

“I need to tell you something,” she said quietly.

Richard’s brows rose, but he didn’t interrupt.

“But you can’t tell Hermione,” she added, with a half-smile that told him she meant it. “Not yet.”

That earned her a raised eyebrow. “That sounds ominous.”

“It’s not bad,” Lucy promised. “It’s… unexpected.”

Richard leaned back in his chair, setting his coffee down. “Alright, Luce,” he said, tone softening. “What’s going on?”

Lucy took a slow breath.
There was no graceful way to say it, no speech she’d rehearsed.

“I’m pregnant,” she said softly.

Richard blinked. Once. Then again. The tablet in his lap tilted precariously until it thudded gently against his knee.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I’m pregnant,” she repeated, a nervous laugh bubbling out before she could stop it.

For a long moment, Richard just looked at her, his mouth slightly open — as though trying to process that his perpetually organised, perfectly punctual little sister had somehow gone completely off-script.

Then, to her surprise, he laughed. A proper, warm, delighted laugh.

“Oh, Lucy…” he said, running a hand through his hair. “You’re serious?”

She nodded, a small, slightly watery smile forming.

“I thought you were going to tell me you’d changed your mind about the wedding venue, or that Gregory had lost the rings or something,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “But this—this is…” He broke off, searching for the right word. “Wow.”

“I know,” she admitted. “It’s not exactly part of the plan.”

“You? Deviating from a plan?” he teased, grinning now. “Miracles do happen.”

Lucy rolled her eyes, but she could feel her shoulders loosening.

“So?” she asked after a moment, suddenly uncertain. “You’re not… mad?”

Richard looked genuinely taken aback. “Mad? Luce, no. You’re happy, right?”

“I am. We both are.”

Richard turned to face her then. The little sister who’d once followed him everywhere; who’d cried herself to sleep those first weeks after their parents’ accident; who’d somehow grown into this strong, kind woman sitting beside him.
“How could I be anything but proud?” he said softly. “Mum and Dad would be too, you know.”

Lucy blinked hard. The words hit her like a punch in the stomach. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Richard said firmly. “Mum would be over the moon. You remember how she used to say you were born to take care of people? And Dad—” He paused, smiling faintly. “He’d have given Gregory the full ‘if you hurt her’ speech, of course. But he’d love him.”

Lucy swallowed the lump in her throat, blinking furiously to keep the tears back. “I just… wish they could be here. Tomorrow. For all of it.”

“I know.” Richard reached out and took her hand. “But they are. Just in a different way. They’d be so proud of you. Both of us.”

She smiled through the tears now, a quiet, trembling thing. “You’re going to make me cry.”

“Better now than during the vows,” he said lightly. “Now do I need to go and talk to Bridgerton?”

“I think it’s a bit late for that.”

Chapter Text

The lock light flashed green with a soft beep, and Gregory grinned - the sort of grin that made him look like a mischievous schoolboy knowing he was about to possibly get in trouble, but also like a man very much in love.
He slipped quietly into the room, shutting the door behind him. The faint sound of running water from the shower greeted him, along with the muffled voice of Taylor Swift.

Lucy was singing along. Perhaps it wasn’t quite in tune - but she sounded happy and relaxed, more than she had been the past few days with the chaos of family and wedding prep.
Her pyjamas were folded neatly on the bed beside the well-worn teddy bear she never travelled without - a patchy, threadbare little thing whose button eye had been replaced with one from an old cardigan years ago. Gregory smiled to himself, reaching out to straighten the bear’s floppy arm.

The shower cut off, followed by the squeak of the taps and the faint sound of Lucy padding around inside. Gregory sat down on the edge of the bed, kicked off his shoes, and leaned back on his hands.

She came out a moment later - hair damp, cheeks pink from the steam, humming the last line of Love Story.
She stopped mid-step when she saw him.

“Gregory!” she gasped, clutching the towel a little tighter. “What are you doing here?”

He gave her his most innocent look; which only made him look guiltier.
“I missed you,” he said, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

“Your mother will kill you,” she replied, though the corners of her mouth twitched.

“We don’t have to tell her,” he said, lowering his voice. “I’ll sneak back to my room first thing. Before anyone’s even awake.”

She hesitated. She should send him away - the tradition, the superstition, the bad-luck nonsense. But Lucy wasn’t especially superstitious, and truthfully, she had missed him. The last few days had been a blur of people and preparations and questions about seating charts and buffet preferences. She hadn’t had a quiet minute alone with him in what felt like forever.

And tomorrow, by this time, she’d be Mrs Bridgerton.
It didn’t feel real yet. Maybe a few hours together would help it sink in.

“Okay then,” she said softly, smiling now.

Gregory’s grin widened. He leaned back on his elbows and watched as she picked up her pyjamas.
“What?” she asked, catching his expression.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, trying not to look too pleased with himself.

“Gregory…” Her tone was warning.

He hesitated — then smirked. “It’s just… I do think they’re bigger.”

Her eyes narrowed instantly. “Excuse me?”

He put his hands up in mock surrender, laughter already bubbling out. “I meant— your— you said pregnancy— they—”

“I can change my mind, you know,” she interrupted sharply, though her lips twitched.

“You won’t,” he said, too smugly for his own good.

Lucy shook her head but couldn’t hide the small laugh that escaped her. She tugged her pyjama top over her head, muttering something about “idiotic Bridgertons” under her breath, and Gregory reached forward just as she sat down beside him.

“Come here,” he murmured, tugging her gently until she toppled against his chest. She went willingly, curling into his arms as he pressed a kiss to her temple.

For a moment, there was no sound except the soft hum of the air conditioner and the faint crash of waves outside.
Lucy exhaled and Gregory tightened his arm around her waist as she let her head fall on to his shoulder.

“You ready for tomorrow?” he asked quietly.

She smiled against his chest. “As long as you remember the rings.”

He chuckled. “Colin’s in charge of those. So blame him.”

She laughed — a soft, tired sound — and he thought there was no better way to spend his last night as a bachelor than right there, holding the woman who was about to make him the luckiest man alive.

True to his word, Gregory was gone when she woke up - though the the pillow beside her still had the indent of his head and his lingering smell suggested he hadn’t been gone long. For a moment, she allowed herself to just lie there, heart warm, before the chaos descended.

By nine o’clock, the hotel corridors were alive with noise. Doors opening and slamming. Hairdryers whirring. Children shouting. Someone yelling for someone else to “find the safety pins now.”

Lucy had been placed on Penny duty as everyone else got ready, which she didn’t mind in the slightest. At six weeks old, her tiny niece was warm, sleepy, perfectly snuggly, and blissfully unaware of the frenzy happening around her. Dressed in a peach onesie that made her look like a little sunset, Penny gurgled contentedly in Lucy’s arms as Eloise ran in circles trying to wrangle children into outfits.

“Violet, shoes on. Miles, you cannot bring the dinosaur. Yes, I know he’s your best friend, but he doesn’t have a ticket for the boat,” Eloise called, sounding more irritated by the minute.

“You’re very calm for someone getting married in… five hours,” Eloise said eventually, pausing long enough to raise an eyebrow at Lucy, who was rocking Penny in the pram.

“Because if I stop being calm, I’ll panic,” Lucy said with a small, wry smile.

They were the first to reach the dock, the air still soft with morning warmth. The boat bobbed lightly against the pier, ribbons tied to its railings for decoration, and the sea sparkled in that impossibly cinematic way that made Lucy’s breath catch.

Anthony and Kate arrived next, of course;  Anthony carrying three bags (none of which, Lucy was sure, belonged to him) and Kate holding the garment bag containing the dress.

“I see now why you chose this place,” Anthony said, taking a long look at the island across the glittering water. It rose from the sea like something out of a painting - whitewashed buildings, terracotta roofs, bursts of bougainvillea tumbling over stone walls.

“It’s beautiful,” Kate agreed softly, adjusting her sunglasses on her head as a warm gust of air tugged at her hair. “Now, let’s get you ready.”

She was in full efficient mode, the way she got when someone else needed looking after.
Lucy smiled — she’d lost count of the times she’d been on the receiving end of that tone since she’d joined the Bridgertons.

Hermione followed close behind, dragging a small suitcase she’d stuffed with everything she thought Lucy might need — makeup brushes, extra hairpins, a handheld mirror, two curling irons (just in case), and emergency chocolate.

“Your survival kit,” Hermione announced, setting the case down on the boat with a dramatic sigh. “Now, if anything goes wrong, we can rebuild you from scratch.”

The room that served as the bridal suite was already a hurricane in progress by the time Lucy stepped inside. The air smelled of  perfume and hairspray; silk robes and makeup bags were strewn across every surface.

“Where’s the veil?” Hermione’s voice rang out from somewhere behind a tower of garment bags.

“In the bathroom, I think,” Daphne replied, balancing a curling iron in one hand and a makeup brush in the other like a woman who could quite literally do anything.

“Now,” Kate announced, clapping her hands, “we have forty minutes until we need to leave. Hyacinth, help with the bouquet. Hermione, you’re on lipstick duty. Lucy, breathe.”

Lucy nodded, doing her best impression of a woman in control, even though inside she was fairly certain her heart had relocated to somewhere near her throat.

Then Violet swept in.

Her mother-in-law had a way of changing a room just by walking into it - serene, elegant, and somehow always carrying a faint scent of lavender and wisdom.

“Oh, my darling,” Violet breathed, pressing a hand to her chest when she saw Lucy standing by the window in her pale blue gown - not white, but perfect against her skin. “You look utterly radiant.”

Lucy felt her eyes sting. “Thank you. I was worried it wouldn’t suit—”

“It’s perfect,” Violet interrupted gently. “It’s just you.” Simple, elegant. More Lucy then anyone could have hoped for.

There was a beat of silence - rare, in any Bridgerton gathering - before Hyacinth sniffled loudly. “Well now I’m crying. Thanks, Mother.”

“Oh no, don’t cry!” Hermione yelped, thrusting a makeup brush at her. “You’ll ruin your concealer!”

“I’m not crying,” Hyacinth said, already dabbing under her eyes.

Kate laughed, setting the straighteners down at last. “Alright, everyone. Let’s get this bride to the chapel.”

Hermione checked her watch. “Two minutes until we have to move. Quick pep talk?”

Violet stepped forward, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle in Lucy’s skirt. “My dear, remember - perfection doesn’t matter today. What matters is joy. And you have that, in abundance.”

Lucy smiled through the lump in her throat. “Thank you.”

Outside, through the open shutters, came the faint sound of string instruments being tuned, Francesca guiding them on the piano. The sea glittered beyond the terrace, the breeze carrying the scent of lemon blossoms.

Kate handed her the bouquet;  pale lilac, white roses, sprigs of olive and the room collectively inhaled.

“Well,” Hermione said softly. “It’s really happening.”

“It is,” Lucy whispered.

If the bridal suite was a hive of elegance and emotion, then the groom’s room was… well, more like a zoo.

Gregory stood in front of the mirror in his open white shirt, trying to remember how to breathe, or, more urgently, how to tie a tie.

“Why is this thing so complicated?” he muttered, twisting the fabric like it was a particularly smug snake.

“You’d think you’d have learned by now,” Benedict said from the sofa, feet up on the coffee table and a mug of coffee in hand, entirely too calm for someone meant to be helping. “You’ve worn one at every sibling’s wedding.”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t the one getting married,” Gregory shot back. “You all had someone else to do it for you. I’m trying not to pass out.”

Anthony appeared from the adjoining room, fully dressed, waistcoat immaculate, looking like he’d stepped straight out of a men’s fashion magazine.

He sighed, took one look at Gregory’s disastrous knot, and said, “Move.”

Gregory didn’t even argue. He stood still as Anthony expertly undid and retied it in thirty seconds flat. Taking the role of father figure once again for his youngest brother.

“Honestly,” Anthony muttered, tugging it into place. “How have you survived adulthood this long?”

“Lucy,” Gregory said immediately. “She keeps me alive.”

“That tracks,” Benedict said, smirking.

From the armchair, Colin was fiddling with the rings, holding them up to the light like a jeweller inspecting diamonds.
“Do not lose those,” Anthony warned.

“Relax. Penelope made me a checklist,” Colin said. “And a backup checklist in case I lost the first one.”

Gregory paced the room, running his hand through his hair for what had to be the twentieth time. “It’s fine, right? I mean Sophie said Lucy looked calm this morning.”

“Calm?” Benedict said. “She’s marrying you. She’s possibly reconsidering.”

Anthony glared. “Don’t tease him.”

But he was smirking, too.

Colin tossed the ring box lightly and Gregory barely caught it. “Stop doing that!”

“Relax, little brother,” Colin said with a grin. “You’re about to have the best day of your life. Enjoy it.”

“Also,” Benedict added, stretching lazily, “don’t faint. Mum will never let you live it down.”

“I’m not going to faint,” Gregory protested, immediately undoing his top button.

“You’re sweating through your shirt,” Benedict pointed out.

“It’s Greece! Everyone’s sweating!”

Anthony poured himself a glass of water, then handed it over. “Drink this. Breathe. And remember - you’re a Bridgerton. We don’t crumble under pressure.”

“That’s rich,” Benedict muttered. “You cried at your own wedding.”

“I was emotional,” Anthony said with dignity.

“You sobbing into your cravat was emotional, alright,” Colin said.

Gregory laughed, some of the tension loosening in his chest. He looked between his brothers - the three men who had alternately tormented, protected, and loved him for as long as he could remember - and for a moment, it hit him.

He was the last one. The final Bridgerton brother to marry.

“Thanks,” he said quietly. “All of you.”

Anthony clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll do brilliantly.”

“And remember,” Benedict said, winking, “if you mess up your vows, I’ve got money riding on it.”

“Wait, what?”

Anthony groaned. “You didn’t—”

“Of course I did,” Benedict said cheerfully. “It’s a family tradition.”

“Some family,” Gregory muttered, but he was laughing.

Then a knock came at the door — Gareth, head poking in. “Everyone’s waiting, gentlemen.”

Anthony adjusted his cufflinks. “Right then, groomsmen. Let’s get our boy married.”

Gregory took one last look in the mirror. He looked halfway decent and entirely terrified.

“Ready?” Colin asked, clapping him on the back.

“No,” Gregory admitted. “But I’m going anyway.”

“Now that’s the Bridgerton spirit,” Benedict said.

Chapter Text

“That’s going to..” Before Colin could even finish the sentence, the button gave way.

There was a tiny ping followed by a soft clink as the bottom button of Gregory’s shirt shot off, bounced once on the stone floor, and rolled under the nearest chair.

Gregory froze.
Colin blinked.

They both looked down at the now slightly gaping space on Gregory’s shirt front.

“Oh, perfect,” Gregory muttered, horrified. “Just perfect. I didn’t mean to.”

Colin sighed.  “Of course you didn’t. You’ve only been twisting it for twenty minutes like a nervous toddler.”

The ceremony room was already full. The murmur of guests filled the air, a low hum of excitement and whispered speculation. The scent of sea salt drifted through the open terrace doors, mixed with the faint sweetness of flowers tied to the aisle chairs. Lucy would be arriving any minute now.

And Gregory had just destroyed part of his wedding outfit.

“Brilliant. She’s going to walk down the aisle and see this,” Gregory muttered, gesturing helplessly at the damage. “She’s going to think I can’t even manage buttons, and she’s not wrong!”

Colin looked around, then, with the brisk efficiency of a man used to cleaning up Bridgerton messes, he reached forward and tucked Gregory’s shirt firmly back into his trousers, smoothing it down to hide the gap.

“There,” he said, stepping back. “Crisis averted. No one’s going to notice. Except possibly Benedict, and he’ll never let you forget it.”

Gregory’s mouth was dry. He tugged at his collar. “Colin.”

“Mm?”

“What if she doesn’t show up?”

Colin’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”

“I mean, what if she changes her mind?” Gregory’s words came in a rush now. “What if she realises she could do so much better? Or she trips, and it’s a sign, or the universe intervenes and…”

“Gregory.” Colin’s voice was patient, but firm. “Nothing short of a natural disaster is stopping Lucy Abernathy from walking down that aisle. And even then, she’d probably try and reschedule the storm.”

Gregory didn’t look convinced. “I’m an idiot half the time. She’s marrying an idiot.”

“She knows,” Colin said. “She’s fine with it. She loves you anyway. Somehow.”

Gregory exhaled slowly, trying to steady his nerves. His fingers were still fiddling with his cufflink when the music changed.

And everything stopped.

The guests turned in unison toward the open double doors.

Down the aisle came Miles, solemn as a little soldier, holding the rings with great ceremony. Violet followed, scattering flower petals with a bit too much enthusiasm. Hermione came next, graceful and composed, smiling down the aisle.

Then the doorway framed Richard.

And Lucy.

Gregory forgot how to breathe.

The world stopped for a moment, just slightly. He was going to be sick. Definitely sick.

Because there she was - his Lucy - and she was perfect.

Her golden hair was pinned back with a few loose curls brushing her cheeks, and she wasn’t in white. She was in blue. A soft, silvery, sea-glass blue that shimmered every time she moved.

Of course she’d wear something different. He should have known. Kate had told him he’d be surprised, and he’d thought maybe Lucy would finally ditch the glasses for the big day. But no - she was still wearing them, and somehow that made her even more her. Because Lucy without her glasses wasn’t his Lu.

As she reached him, Gregory tugged nervously at his shirt again, suddenly sure the missing button was visible from space.

“Hi,” Lucy whispered, eyes bright and strangely calm.

“I…” he started, his throat too tight to speak. Words tangled. His mind blanked.

And then, softly, the only thing that came out was, “My Lucy.”

Her smile widened - the kind that made his knees feel like jelly.

He took her hand and, before he could think, brought it to his lips. Somewhere in the crowd, one of his nephews made an exaggerated gagging noise, and the room rippled with laughter.

The ceremony itself passed in a blur - warm, full of sunlight and laughter and a few sniffles. Benedict leaned over at one point and whispered, “This is the bit where I object, right?” and got promptly smacked on the arm by their mother.

When the officiant pronounced them husband and wife, Gregory barely waited for the cue before kissing Lucy.

After the meal, Lucy sat back, hands resting on the pale blue silk of her skirt, watching their guests scattered across the round tables. Some were picking politely at dessert, others laughing over wine and crumbs, and a few small Bridgertons were attempting to stack profiteroles into towers.

It was perfect.

Gregory, on the other hand, looked like a man preparing to face execution. He was fiddling with his champagne flute, eyes darting to the front where Colin was very obviously about to stand up.

“I’m about to be publicly humiliated by my brothers,” he muttered.

“Consider it justice,” Lucy teased softly. “You’ve been tormenting them for over twenty years.”

Colin tapped his glass with a fork. The sound rang out sharp and bright, slicing through the laughter until all that remained was a hum of anticipation.

Penelope, sitting beside him with George on her lap, smiled knowingly. She’d read the notes. She knew what was coming.

“Good evening, everyone!” Colin began, voice carrying easily over the chatter. “As the best man, it is my solemn duty to both celebrate my dear brother Gregory… and make him wish he’d chosen literally anyone else. Though, between me, Ant, and Ben, I think we can all see why he went with me.”

A ripple of laughter spread through the tables. Violet covered her smile with a napkin.

Gregory groaned. “Off to a great start,” he muttered under his breath.

“Now, I’ve known Gregory his whole life,” Colin continued, starting to pace in front of the head table like a stand-up comedian preparing for a punchline. “Which means I’ve seen every stage of his idiocy - from eating mud pies at age five, to jumping off the stable roof wearing a cape at eight, to…” He paused dramatically. “Falling hopelessly in love with his nephew’s teacher.”

Lucy’s face turned a love,y shade of pink and Gregory buried his face in his hands. The guests erupted with laughter.

“Oh yes,” Colin said, eyes gleaming. “Alex came home from school one day talking about this wonderful Miss Abernathy. Then once Greg met her - suddenly he couldn’t go to school enough. Impressive for a man who faked half his attendance through secondary school.”

“Liar!” Gregory shot back from his seat.

“We’ve the attendance notes to prove it, little brother,” Anthony chimed in helpfully, earning a glare.

Colin nodded sagely. “He became an extremely dedicated uncle - so dedicated that we were mildly concerned. We decided he might have crossed the line from attentive to… well, stalker.”

The room howled. Even Violet laughed behind her hand. Lucy hid behind her napkin, tears of laughter forming in her eyes.

“But then,” Colin continued, raising his glass toward Lucy, “Miss Abernathy started tutoring Charlie. And somehow, she didn’t run screaming when Gregory appeared.”

“Pity,” Benedict muttered, earning a sharp elbow from Sophie.

Lucy laughed, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.

Colin’s tone softened, humour fading into something warmer. “All jokes aside, Gregory’s been many things over the years: a brother, a pest, a loyal friend. But I’ve never seen him so steady, so certain, as when he’s with you, Lucy. You’ve made Peter Pan grow up - and that’s no small job. So here’s to the two of you.”

The terrace filled with the clinking of glasses and the hum of cheers. Gregory stood, shaking Colin’s hand before pulling him into a hug.

“You’re an idiot,” he murmured, smiling.

Colin clapped his back. “Takes one to know one.”

When Gregory turned back to the microphone, the laughter quieted again. “Well, I was going to thank Colin for being such a wonderful best man,” he began, “but after that, I might just thank him for ending his speech. I’m not sure what else he could’ve said. Though I do want to thank Pen for censoring it.”

Laughter rippled through the tables again.

Then Gregory looked at Lucy. His grin softened into something small and reverent.

“I did go to a lot of school events,” he admitted, voice quieter now, carrying through the warm evening air. “I may have begged Daphne and Sophie to let me do the pick-ups. Just so I could see the teacher with the world’s brightest smile and the kindest heart—the one who somehow made a seven-year-old and a twenty three-year-old both look forward to Mondays.”

Lucy blinked hard, her hand pressed to her chest.

“I fell in love with her without meaning to,” Gregory continued. “And then I fell deeper on purpose. She makes every day lighter, every moment brighter, and I still can’t quite believe she’s agreed to spend forever with me… even after seeing me at my worst—which, if you’ve lived with me, you’ll know involves losing socks and setting off smoke alarms.”

The crowd laughed softly, fondly.

“So here’s to you, Lucy,” Gregory said, raising his glass. “My favourite teacher. My best friend. My everything. But before we finish, I’ve got one last surprise.”

He nodded to Benedict, who was balancing Scarlett in one arm. “Ben?”

Benedict carefully handed the sleepy baby to Gareth- who immediately froze, holding her like a live grenade - and crossed to the laptop. The screen flickered to life.

The first image appeared: a grainy home video of baby Lucy, her mother laughing softly behind the camera. Then it shifted. Gregory, barely two, on his father’s shoulders, both grinning at the seaside.

The clips alternated - Lucy and her parents, Gregory and his father - growing up side by side. Childhood to adolescence to now. Laughter and memories, moments stitched together by Benedict’s artistry.

By the end, the screen faded to one final image: a hand-drawn picture Benedict had done himself; Lucy and Gregory standing hand in hand, surrounded by all four of their parents, smiling in soft pastel light.

Lucy’s hand flew to her mouth. “I love it,” she whispered, tears spilling freely now.

“I wanted them to be part of today,” Gregory said, voice thick. “Because your parents, my dad—they’ll always be family. They’ll always be with us.”

He squeezed her shoulder and she stood, brushing away tears.

“Now,” Gregory said, glancing out at their guests with a grin tugging back at his mouth, “we’ve got one more thing to say…” but before he could continue, Gareth’s voice rang out; loud, utterly unfiltered, and far too smug.

“You knocked her up, didn’t you?”

The terrace erupted. Half the guests gasped, the other half howled with laughter. Hyacinth smacked Gareth’s arm so hard that his chair wobbled.

“Gareth!” she hissed, cheeks flaming.

Gregory closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose, his mouth twitching despite himself. “Well,” he said dryly, “I think I’d put it a bit nicer than that…”

The laughter only grew louder. Even Anthony was shaking his head, while Benedict was muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, ‘I knew it.’

Gregory slipped an arm around Lucy’s waist, his grin spreading helplessly. “But yes,” he said clearly, raising his voice so it carried over the crowd. “There’ll be a new Bridgerton around Christmas time.”

For a heartbeat, there was silence, then an eruption of cheers.

“Oh, Gregory!” Violet cried, clutching Kate’s hand and dabbing her eyes with a napkin. “Another grandbaby!”

Hyacinth immediately rounded on Gareth again. “You absolute idiot - you stole their thunder!”

“I just saved him from rambling for ten minutes!” Gareth protested, ducking as Hyacinth threw a bread roll at him.

Meanwhile, Eloise beamed, Penny gurgling on her shoulder. “Well, there goes my title as Mum of the Year,” she said, smirking at Lucy.

Lucy’s eyes were wet but shining as Gregory kissed her temple. “That’s one way to announce it,” she murmured against his shoulder.

He laughed softly, still holding her close as cheers swelled again. “Well, we are Bridgertons. Subtlety was never really in the cards.”