Viscount Bridgerton の小説・ストーリー

he said. “What do you mean you can’t do this?” She asked “This union. The whole arrangement” he stated. “It seems wrong.” Victoria’s flawlessly formed eyebrows raised. “Wrong?” she inquired. “You’re telling me it’s wrong that you’re engaged to a woman from a respectable family?” “Yes,” he said firmly. “Bridget is not who you believe her to be.” Victoria sighed. “And who specifically do you think she is Carson?” She asked “She is a woman who spends her nights in clubs, who drinks excessively and who doesn’t care about anything serious.” He said.

It is easier to call them Tado I and II. — It is an honor to meet Baroness Vanilla in person. — A Viscount, a Duke, and a Baroness are sitting next to me. To tell you the truth, I didn't expect you to have trained in mud and dust with such important people. Well, my partner was the Crown Prince. What life have I been leading these past years? Will I start to look angry and have a long beard like the other nobles?

"Don't mind him. He's upset that Christopher made a decision based on his heart rather than a business spreadsheet. He'll come around eventually." Eleanor guided me through the ballroom, introducing me to various family members and business associates. Most were polite, if reserved, their curiosity barely concealed behind practiced social smiles. I answered their questions with as much grace as I could muster, aware of Christopher's steady presence beside me the entire time. Then I saw her. Victoria Ashford stood near the bar, stunning in a blood-red gown that clung to every curve. Her blonde hair fell in perfect waves down her back, and her smile was sharp as a knife as she watched us appro

She stopped at the window, pulling back the heavy velvet curtain to look down at the courtyard. Guests were beginning to arrive—the elite of the city, titans of industry, and socialites whose opinions were as sharp as needles. Near the fountain, she spotted Marcus Thorne. His suit was impeccably tailored, his posture commanding as he shook hands with a senator. He looked up, catching her eye, and gave a slow, measured nod. There was something in his expression—not quite a smile, not quite a smirk—that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

"I said, His Highness is free before nine." "Damn you, Abby! I've told you I don't want to meet any lord or duke or whoever with the title." Edvard scowled. He had plenty of noble fathers who wanted to play matchmaker, matchmaking their daughters and him. Like they were selling their daughters. "Lord Silverstone doesn't have any daughter, Your Highness." Said Abigail calmly. Twenty years being Edvard's personal assistant, she knew him inside out. She didn't hesitate to make physical contact, like she did earlier, forcing him back to sit. But she never left the honorific behind whenever she talked to him.

The way his eyes met mine through the mirror sometimes looked like he recognized me. I really needed to find out his name and send it to Blake. Something about this man felt strange. “We’re here, sir,” the driver announced. Oh, thank God. My ears had suffered enough. I pushed the door open and stepped out. The bridal store looked magnificent from the outside alone. Huge glass doors stood proudly against white marble walls decorated with gold designs around the entrance. Everything looked expensive. The driver quickly rushed to open the door for Cassie. “Took you long enough,” she sighed dramatically.

"That probably wouldn't be so easy to prove. It didn't take Mr. Wessex long to discover that there was no Viscount Sydney." A strange expression crossed his face, amusement mixed with exasperation, and he seemed to have a silent struggle over whether or not to tell her something. Finally his mouth twisted, and he let out a long breath. "Wessex is wrong. There is a viscount Sydney. At least, there is a legitimate heir to that title." Torcia looked at him suspiciously. "Who is he? And if what you say is true, why didn't he come to claim his title and property?"

"Mi' Lady, we have an emergency." The Viscountess straightens her spine and looks towards her men. "Speak" "The Viscount is home." His eyes are wide. "And he is not well. He says he was attacked by a dragon."

“Who gave you the love potions?” A garrote around the neck was an iron-clad guarantee of truth. The viscount grunted, farted, and came clean. Of course, it had been Abigail’s doing. For the sake of variety, the viscount wasn’t her relative, but a shirttail cousin of Ruthina’s husband, and he had readily agreed to a short marriage. His task had been to court Carlie, and after my marriage, arrange an accident for her, with the queen’s help.