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Violet pines . It is unbecoming of her, at her advanced age. She has been a widow for so long , and for years all she dreamed of was Edmund. It has been easy to allow herself to slide into being a mother, into being her late husband’s dutiful wife, and further and further away from herself. It’s been a long time since she’s simply been a woman, a girl, something other than her roles and responsibilities both to society and her family. She has so rarely been able to want .
These days it begins to feel like it is all she does. She holds her children and is seen in society in all the right ways, and she navigates one potentially disastrous season after another. She loves her family, and she loves being the Viscountess, and for all that she now wants so strongly something more, she loves her life. But sometimes her hands shake and her cheeks redden, and she longs for something that she thought had died within her with Edmund.
He’d been her best friend, once, in a time before . And maybe that is where the peculiarities start. She is herself, fully, with Agatha, in a way that is foreign to her in her current life. She does not play a role, does not need to, can reach out and have Agatha catch her. Agatha is her best friend. She catches her eye across a room and gets her usual expression of incredulous disdain, her exasperation, and knows that it is an expression meant for her, that is meant to make her smile. Her children don’t have their father but they do have Lady Danbury, who has the Queen’s ear and no qualms about using it to help Violet’s family. Lady Danbury, who is an upstanding widow who has clearly never considered remarrying, and Agatha, who is Violet’s dearest friend.
She’s sure it would be enough to confuse anyone, as she watches Agatha take Benedict for a turn around the floor. He is avoiding marriage just as Anthony had before him, and Violet no longer feels the need to hurry him along. He is a man, and the second son besides. If he wants to concentrate on his artistic endeavours there is no need for her to push him. There will be plenty of grandchildren either way, that she is now sure of.
They are comfortable, the two of them. Their positions are sure and steady, however the children try to knock them off course. Widows are afforded a place within society that leaves them somewhat free from the whims of men, and their children guarantee that they won’t have to return to worry about their futures. Now, with her children slowly flying the nest, with even Eloise, the daughter she has had the most reason to worry about, suddenly submitting to at least some of the calls of society, she simply has less on her plate. Less to think about. More time. Time that she doesn’t know what to do with, as she sleeps less and relaxes more and has increasingly fewer things to cluck over.
But then, well. Agatha’s brother makes his intentions clear, and Agatha gives her blessing. She is used to Lady Danbury being giving and magnanimous. She does not think she enjoys being given away by her, not when there is something just lingering, edging just out of sight. She cannot meet her thoughts directly, does not understand them, does not know the context for them. . It is easy, with Marcus, to fall back into a routine she had once known well. She does not think that she wants that routine any longer, does not want this to be courting, to lead to marriage, to take on any of the same traits as something that she increasingly thinks was only ever meant to be for Edmund. She is Edmund’s wife, still, and she will be no one else’s.
A part of her thinks, perhaps, this is just revenge. A brother given in return for a father. The more time that passes she thinks that perhaps that is how Agatha thinks of it also, that there is something like an apology within her actions. She doesn’t want an apology, and she doesn’t really want revenge, either. She had loved her mother. She also understands how some may not have, that she could be spiteful and prideful and petty at times. At one time Agatha had meant something to her father, but now she only means something to Violet.
Marcus spins her across the floor, and yet the eyes she continues to search out are Agatha’s. She has not danced in so many years, and she enjoys it, enjoys dancing with someone that is not one of her sons at their most gallant, enjoys dancing with someone where it can mean something. And for a time she enjoys the feeling of someone looking at her as a woman, and not just a mother, not just a widow. She is flattered by the attention, in this time where her children are marrying off, as she is trying to find them love matches of their own. And perhaps that is part of the problem - she believes in the love match, not ever that which is easy, and she will never be happy with that for either herself or for her children.
It is quieter in the house, now, than it has been in such a long time. Daphne, Anthony, Colin and Francesca. They are all gone, half of her children have flown the nest, Anthony to India and Francesca to Scotland. Anthony must come back, thankfully, but she worries about Francesca. She worried about her before, so quiet within their raucous family, and she tries to respect her wishes to go someplace quieter, somewhere she can concentrate on the quiet and herself. She finds that she must concentrate on herself also, in the coming months, the off season looming ahead and her most stubborn two the only ones left on the marriage mart. She does not worry for Gregory or Hyacinth the way that she worries for Benedict and Eloise, but her meddling has only ever pushed Eloise further away. And now, well. She understands the power of being a woman that is in a comfortable enough position she does not have to marry unless she very much wants to.
“Lady Danbury!” she smiles, glad to see her, this last day before they all move out to the country. It’s harder, when they’re away from London, to see her as often as she would.
“Violet!” Agatha moves towards her, easy on her feet regardless of the cane, and Violet realises that she will miss her in the coming months. “Does the house feel terribly quiet with Colin and Francesca gone?”
“I’m sure you remember from when your own children flew the nest,” she says as Agatha falls into step beside her. “Gregory and Hyacinth argue enough I can almost pretend everyone is still home.”
“I was never as close to my children as you are to yours,” she reminds her, and Violet inclines her head, fighting a smile as Agatha easily slips her arm through hers. It is normal, when they take a walk. She is not sure when it started giving her butterflies.
“You were very young, when you married,” Violet says delicately, and Agatha nods.
“When are you leaving?” she redirects, and Violet lets her, is glad for it.
“Tomorrow. Yourself?”
“I have yet to decide - the Queen said she might require my presence over the off season to fight off the terrible boredom, and I thought I might visit Clyvedon to see the grandchildren.”
“You know you’re always welcome at Aubrey Hall, should the mood take you,” Violet offers before her brain can catch up with her mouth. She almost regrets it, but when she looks over to Agatha, she’s smiling.
“What a generous offer,” she eyes her for a second, and Violet thinks something like the mischievous air that often follows her dims a little. “You aren’t just hoping I’ll bring my brother along, are you?”
Violet studies her for a long moment. “If I can speak freely-” Agatha nods. “I had not even considered inviting him. But you are my dearest friend, and part of the family. You will be welcome with us at any time, you know that.”
She looks away, and Violet faces ahead. Agatha has never done particularly well with vulnerability, and she won’t push her. “Of course if you are needed by the Queen, then you needn't worry about us - I am sure I can entertain myself.”
“You know I do think some sunshine and games at Aubrey Hall may be just what is needed to round off another successful season,” Agatha smiles, squeezing Violet’s arm.
“It is decided then, you will come when your business here is concluded,” Violet draws them to a stop, smiling. She hates not seeing her for the long dreary months of winter, but at least if she can have Agatha for September the months may not seem so long. “I am sure all of the grandchildren will be along soon enough, which spares you the travel.”
“I am not so old I can’t manage to travel to them,” she says warningly, and Violet just laughs, shaking her head.
“But why bother, if you do not have to?” Agatha’s laugh echoes, and Violet does not care about the eyes on them, not when her grip tightens on her arm and joy crosses her face. She is unabashed in her delight, and Violet feels nothing but pride in having been able to produce that reaction from her.
“I shall leave you to your preparations - it would seem I’ve got several things I’ve got to see to in a much more expedient manner than I was expecting.”
Violet squeezes her hand for a moment as she draws away, smile unfettered and honest. “I shall see you soon.”
---------
Daphne and Simon return to Aubrey Hall only a few days before Lady Danbury herself, and Violet’s heart warms to see their home full of children laughing. Agatha fusses over the grandchildren as though they’re her own, and sometimes Violet almost forgets that Simon is not hers by birth. It feels right, somehow, that these grandchildren should be theirs, that she should have as much claim to them as Violet does herself. Regardless of blood, her brood has always welcomed Agatha.
“My brother has been writing,” Agatha starts, when they are alone with their tea, one afternoon where the others are out making mischief in the grounds and the youngest ones have been settled down for naps. Violet steadily, carefully, puts her cup down on the table. Her eyes do not light up as Agatha would have expected.
“Oh, yes?”
“He does appear to miss your correspondence,” she continues, picking her words carefully. “I had thought, at the end of the season, that the two of you were-” she trails off, eyeing Violet for a long moment.
“Yes, well,” she starts, aiming for light, and something like regret coats her voice regardless. “I had thought so too, but, well,” she also trails off, looking out the window, across the grounds for a long moment.
“I do believe he’s angling for an invitation, but obviously I have left that up to your discretion, as lady of the house.” She eyes Violet’s profile for a long moment, brows drawn together, uncomprehending.
“I just don’t think-” she shakes her head, breathes a shaky laugh. “I do not know how to-” she shrugs, something helpless and confused. “If I can speak freely-” and Agatha nods, like she knew she would. “Courting, and everything that comes with it I… It belongs to Edmund, to me. I am not looking to remarry. I do not want to change my name, or live somewhere else, or worry about my children, even though I know that Anthony will look after them.”
“Have you spoken to Marcus? Explained that it is… companionship you are looking for, nothing more?” Violet almost laughs at her delicate phrasing, and shakes her head.
“I fear he will be disappointed, and I think I am somewhat disappointed, also. Remarrying would be easier, simpler, but I don’t want to change anything. I don’t want to lose this,” she gestures expansively, includes the house, the grounds, and Agatha herself. “I will be Lady Bridgerton for as long as I am able, and I wish to remain here for the rest of my time on this Earth.” She does not mention how the idea of gaining Agatha as a sister rankles, how it sits strangely upon her. They are family, of course, but something about that does not feel correct to her, as much as she does not have words for it.
“Is that truly all it is? A lacking in wanting to be Lady Anderson?” Agatha questions, and her eyes probe, and Violet almost flushes. She does not know how to explain. She does not know how to put into words everything that spirals within her. She spends her nights in her lonely bed but it is not Marcus that she wants to join her there. She cannot imagine sharing a bed with someone she does not truly love , and she thinks she must not, if she cannot marry him.
“I do not love him,” she murmurs eventually, eyes down. “And I talk often about Edmund having been my one great love, and I do not know if I could settle for anything else,” her eyes are red when they finally meet Agatha’s, and she reaches out her hand for her. Violet takes it easily, like she always does.
“Do you think you could?” she questions, voice soft, and Violet shakes her head, tears threatening. “Not as much as Edmund, but enough?”
Violet’s eyes rake over her face, almost as though she is memorising every part of her. She thinks she might be on the edge of something, some kind of revelation. She cannot imagine what it might be, just knows that when Agatha strokes a thumb across her knuckles something rebels in her stomach. Was this what it had felt like with Edmund? How is this even possible? “I do not know. I do not think so. And I am not willing to invite him here, where I feel so close to my late husband.”
“He asks after you so consistently, I fear he will be much more disappointed by this than he would be learning you do not wish to marry him.” Agatha’s eyes track over her, like she is trying to peel her apart, like she knows there is something else that hovers. Violet does not know how to explain it. Does not know what it is, what she feels. What it is possible for her to feel.
“Perhaps a little more time,” she wobbles somewhere into the middle, just to put Lady Danbury’s searching eyes to rest. “I have only just started to even consider something more than my children.”
Agatha nods decidedly, like some great statement has been made. “Time is what is needed. He will understand that, of course,” her eyes scan over her again, but she settles on another nod. Violet does not think she will truly be put off so easily.
-------
Somehow, in all the commotion of children and grandchildren coming and going, Agatha is still with them when Francesca and Lord Kilmartin make their return. John hasn’t been to Aubrey Hall before, and Violet is surprised when they bring his cousin, Michaela, with them. There is something in the way that Francesca looks at her that she does not understand. In the coming days she tries to make sense of it, of the way that her daughter’s eyes linger, the way that she blushes when it seems that Michaela is just being friendly. She has never seen her quietest daughter so quick to smile, a giggle she’s never heard from her bubbling it’s way to the surface when she does not think their guest has been particularly funny.
“It is strange, is it not, the way that Francesca is with John’s cousin?” she asks Agatha eventually, after it has been nagging at her for over a week. They are alone for tea again, the children embracing the end of September sun.
“I had wondered if you would notice,” Agatha replies, an expression Violet can’t place hovering around her mouth.
“What do you know?” Violet immediately asks, and Agatha gestures for her to lower her voice.
“I don’t know anything,” she murmurs, leaning closer, tea forgotten. “Except that, well, I have seen that expression before.” She pauses, considering for a moment. She knows that Violet can be woefully naive sometimes, almost innocent. She has never listened to the most licentious gossip, and her husband had kept her from being exposed to much of that which would be considered taboo. “What do you think it is?”
“I cannot make head nor tails of it,” Violet admits, her voice as low as Agatha’s. “If she were a Michael, I would understand,” she mutters, shaking her head. “But that is not possible, obviously.”
“And why not?” Agatha asks, and now Violet is sure that expression is something like a laugh waiting to come out.
“Well, they cannot procreate, for one,” Violet almost hisses, and Agatha laughs. Violet blushes, and she is not sure she understands why. She feels woefully unprepared for this conversation.
“And every time you went to bed with Edmund, it was solely for that purpose?” Violet’s blush deepens, and Agatha nods. “It is not usual, perhaps. And it is certainly not accepted, but it is not impossible.”
“But-” she trails off, shakes her head as though to clear it, or fight something off. “Do you think that is why she was so desperate to find a suitable man and get the marriage over with?”
“Perhaps. It would explain why she was so certain she would not find a love match,” Agatha inclines her head, frowning at Violet’s reaction. “Surely you are not angry with her?”
“I- no. No. I do not know what it is I feel, I admit,” her frown deepens. “I think I have a lot to think about,” she murmurs, voice faint.
“Of course. I will leave you to enjoy your tea.” Agatha stands, and she is called back only once she has almost left the room.
“Do you think anyone can feel that way? For a- a woman?” she struggles to even say it, to even look at her. Agatha smiles at her softly in a way that makes her feel cared for.
“I think it can happen to anyone, should they find the right person,” she slips out the door, and Violet stares after her for a long time.
———
For a while, she drops it. Francesca’s behaviour makes sense when she considers Michaela as a Michael. It reminds her of all of her children’s first forays into finding true love. She wants to ask Francesca about it, wants to know if she knows, how she feels, how you can tell. Sometimes she struggles to even look at Agatha, knowing what is possible. That it is possible, that maybe her butterflies had meant something all along. Maybe she is ready to move on from her late husband, and maybe it will be with someone who she already loves. She gets flustered just thinking about it, even as it ruminates in the back of her mind every second of every day. What would that quick mouth feel like under hers? She shakes her head and turns back to her embroidery.
She feels strange, different, in the time that follows. She feels as though she has a secret even though she isn’t fully cognizant of what it is. She now notices and catches herself looking at Agatha’s lips, her hands, and wonders if she always has and had just never noticed, just never had any way to know that she should be conscious of it. She feels flushed and out of sorts, worse than it had been before. Her children have to repeat themselves more than ever, and she’s still sure that she’s letting Gregory do far too much without realising what she is agreeing to. Agatha looks at her in concern, and all she can hope is that she does not ask. She does not know how to explain herself now, how to put into words that there is something that has opened up in front of her eyes.
But, well, now that she’s aware of it, she watches Agatha. She sees things she couldn’t see before - sees how she is always in her space, sees the way that her eyes flicker across her. Agatha, who had befriended her so easily and has never had time for a man in her life, happy with her independence and what she has made of herself. Agatha who had known it was possible, who had been able to recognise it within Francesca. She still leans into Violet’s space with a witty comment, whispering into her ear, she must see the shiver she fights down, the way her cheeks flush. Violet has never been especially good at keeping her feelings a secret, has never really needed to be. She wonders how many millions of things have betrayed her while she did not know what her body wanted. What Agatha might have seen that she was not aware of. She is both embarrassed and yet somehow burns to think that she might have known what Violet has wanted all this time.
“Something is bothering you,” Agatha announces eventually. Violet has been aware of her eyes on her as she made a lacklustre attempt at her embroidery, has been waiting for her to say something . She had been hoping, vainly, that it would not be this.
“No-” she starts, and Agatha’s eyes narrow. “Well, yes, but nothing for you to concern yourself with,” she manages, and her blush spreads, ears burning.
“You’ve been out of sorts since we spoke about Francesca,” her voice is stern, makes it clear she will not argue the point.
“I just- well-” she laughs, too high pitched and nervous. Agatha’s eyebrow climbs higher. “I was just so surprised.”
“You truly did not know a woman could feel that way for another?”
“I did not,” she confirms, voice soft. “There’s rumours, of course, about men-” she trails off, bites her lip. “And of course I know that much of what we’re told, how relations are always framed as solely being for the man’s gain are not true, but I had just never-” she shakes her head.
“Does it bother you? Francesca in particular?”
“No, of course not,” she sighs. “I love my children, even when they are not being particularly socially acceptable. And, well, there’s been plenty of rumours about Benedict. I’m sure he’ll figure out what he wants eventually, and it is not up to me to judge him so long as he is happy.”
“Then what is it?” Agatha asks, taking her hand in her own. She is glad that her face is still red; she can’t help the reaction, now, now that she is aware of what she wants. What she thinks about. Agatha is so close. It would be so easy to explain, and it could do so much damage. She is her very dearest friend. She could not bear it if Agatha were to be made uncomfortable, or if she would not accept her.
Eventually she settles on something that is potentially adjacent to the truth. “It is hard, as a woman, to see all of my children moving forwards into finding love and knowing I have left it behind, is all. Francesca may have found it in a roundabout way, but she is happier than she ever had been under my roof. Of course I am happy to see them return to me, happy to see them happy, full of love and new life and hope, but it can be-“
“Hard, when your garden is blooming as yours is?”
Her blush deepens again, even as she is relieved to hear her go along with it. It is not a complete lie. It is not at all an exhaustive view of the problem. She nods a little helplessly.
Agatha gives her an arch expression, but then she leans in further. It is too close. For one delirious second Violet thinks she’s going to kiss her. “You know you can always garden alone, don’t you?”
Violet’s mouth drops open. “Lady Danbury!” she says, scandalised.
“You don’t always need company to… Tend it,” she continues, ignoring Violet’s shock.
“I fear I am not as innocent as you seem to think I am,” Violet says eventually, and is gratified to see the smallest hints of a blush. There’s a reckless part of her that almost wants Agatha to think about what she might do alone in her bed late at night when she can’t sleep. She feels out of control, like she needs to get up and pace, but she also doesn’t know if she can move without doing something stupid. Agatha’s lips curl into a smile, and she’s distantly worried about what she looks like. A flushed, transfixed mess, she’s sure.
“Good to know it hasn’t been that many years since you last experienced pleasure,” her lips curving into that familiar smile. Violet wants to kiss the smile from her mouth. She wants a lot of things, in this frozen moment of time, Agatha leaning in and the last rays of sunlight streaming in through the windows. It is her favourite time of year at Aubrey Hall, and she is glad to share it with Agatha, even as her thoughts whirl and twist in time with the beating of her heart.
“It is not the same though, is it?” she manages, eyes darting down to her lap. She bites her lip and misses the way Agatha’s eyes are drawn to it, considers her next words without looking at her. “It’s not the same as wanting and being wanted, of a warm body next to yours,” she sighs. “It is not the same as love.”
“I thought you had given up on love?” Agatha asks, brow furrowed once again. “I thought you believed you had had your great love and would never have another?”
“Well, yes,” Violet laughs a little, shaking her head. “I don’t think it would be the same, of course, I do not think anyone could replace Edmund. But perhaps I could have something a little closer than I thought,” and when she meets her eyes this time she sees surprise and something else. Her own face betrays wanting so easily, so clearly, Agatha’s eyes widen further.
“Maybe distance does make the heart grow fonder, hmm?”
“What do you mean?” Violet asks, hands fluttering in her lap. She thought, for a moment, that Agatha had realised something, but she’s right here in front of her. Nothing for her to miss.
“Well, it seems to me that your feelings for my dear brother must have blossomed in this time apart, surely?”
Violet is struck with an urge to beat her over the head with her own cane. She does not understand how she cannot see it. And she can’t make herself be the one to say it. “It is not Lord Anderson that I speak of,” she says eventually, voice tight.
Agatha’s eyes sweep across her again, assessing, taking her apart bit by bit. She must see something , because eventually she nods. “No, not him,” she mutters. They stand on a precipice, but Agatha does not quite see enough to push them over it. That is fine, as much as Violet feels as though she is going insane with the wanting of it, the wanting of some form of ending. The room thrums with the knowledge that there is someone . Someone Violet thinks she could love, or may love already. She stares at her hands, and Agatha stares at her.
Eventually, after a long frozen moment, Agatha reaches out and tips her chin up with a gentle finger, so that she can meet her eyes. “If you are not ready or able to tell me who, then that is fine. But you know that I would never judge you,” her voice is uncommonly soft, and Violet’s eyes swim with unshed tears. She is not ready to tell her. She does not know if she will ever be ready to voice her secret thoughts out loud, but she wears it all over her face.
“I do not fear judgement,” Violet says, hyper aware of Agatha’s touch on her chin and her gaze on her face. Her eyes, still, catalogue everything. “I am simply not ready.”
Agatha nods once, firm, and draws back. Violet misses her touch desperately, misses her warmth so close to her. The topic changes back to safer ground, and Violet longs for her even as she sits beside her. There is a fire in her gaze that sometimes she thinks must be only for her, something in the way she leans so close. She is tested again and again, as Agatha laughs, as she grabs her hand, as she touches her so absently but so carefully. She has always been gentle with her, and she has always wanted more.
------
She catches Francesca, eventually. She is roaming the halls one night when she cannot sleep, last up to bed and even now finding herself unable to find rest. The candle flickers ahead of her, but she cups the flame with one hand, noticing light in the distance. She rounds a corner and then draws back. Francesca and Michaela whisper in the dark, closer than two women should be, as close as she and Agatha have whispered. As she watches, Michaela reaches out, cupping Francesca’s face, and when she kisses her Violet turns away, quietly returns to her bedchamber. Her thoughts race, and she cannot help but wonder what it must be like to be John in this situation, she wonders if he knows, if he knew before, when Francesca had seemed so set on him in such a quiet, impersonal kind of way.
It is possible, then. Somehow that is all she can take from it, however distantly she thinks of John’s feelings. It feels like a novelty, two women kissing each other, even though she has been thinking about kissing Agatha for what feels like an eternity now. It is hard, now that she knows what she wants, to completely ignore it. She feels as though her daughter has opened an entire world to her. She thinks of how Agatha had known, and had seemed to harbour no resentment or ill will to the idea. Why is that? She wonders. What does any of the ton really know of Lady Danbury, who has been doing whatever she wants for years now. She smokes and she drinks and she throws the first ball every season because she decided it, so long ago. She has been navigating a society that does not care for her and managing to come out of it exactly how she wants for years. Why should this be any exception? Her mind churns for hours, considering, weighing, wondering. She wonders, the most. What else is in Agatha’s past that she knows nothing of?
She can’t bring herself to ask her in the days that follow, even as the afternoons draw shorter and shorter, as firewood is distributed throughout the hall. They’re drawing closer to the cold months, and still Agatha makes no move to leave them. She sits by her side for every meal, is scathing and witty and a force to be reckoned with as always. Violet has always thought of her as someone who deeply treasures her own space, but she imagines her own country seat must feel empty at the end of the London season. It feels as though she waits for something. Violet hopes she is not waiting for bravery.
“My brother has been asking after you again,” Agatha murmurs over dinner, and Violet sighs. “I am not saying you must invite him here, of course, just perhaps you could write him one letter. Even if it’s a letter that lets him down gently,” she is notably diplomatic in her words and Violet does not know what to say.
“I do not wish to write him,” she says eventually, using the excuse of a mouthful to delay her response. Agatha eyes her for a long moment.
“Do you not know your own mind? Are you not sure what you want?” She asks, and the presence of others, the impossibility of the moment, makes her bold.
“I know what I want,” she says, eyes heavy with meaning. There had been a time where they had held entire conversations in this fashion. She fears what she means now lies too far outside of their usual lexicon.
“Do you want me to tell him? That he should have listened to me when I told him he couldn’t have you?” Agatha’s eyes and words feel like they strip through layers and layers of Violet’s being, of her self control. Her children squabble down the other end of the table, as raucous as they ever are. No one is looking at them, no one is listening. It makes her feel safe, somehow, her children in the background living their lives with no idea of what unfolds at the end of the table.
“You told him that?” she asks, a smile trying to break across her face, her head bowed towards Agatha’s.
“I was tired of him taking things that were mine,” she murmurs, and Violet almost gasps. There is intent in her voice, something that breaks through weeks of stalemate. It is not overt, not as such, although no one has looked at Violet like this for years.
“Then tell him I am yours,” Violet says, eyes searching hers, a faint blush brushing her cheeks. Agatha smiles, but it is almost predatory, it feels like a declaration. Her eyes sweep across her like a touch, and Violet’s blush deepens. Their words are not, as such, inappropriate for the dinner table, but the meaning behind them, the way that Agatha looks at her, oozes sensuality. Violet touches the back of her hand, nothing that they haven’t done before, nothing that her children haven’t seen, and it feels like the beginning of something. “I am yours, if you’ll have me.”
“I have merely been waiting for you to catch up, dear,” she smiles, and Violet laughs, withdrawing her hand. She ducks her head and picks up her knife, but feels Agatha’s eyes burn into her skin, feels her eyes like physical touch. Agatha can still see her blush, can see the way that it spreads from the weight of her gaze, and is honoured to be able to put it there.
Agatha catches her on the way to bed, hand on her arm drawing her behind the others, drawing her into a convenient side corridor. “Did you mean it, at dinner?” she asks, and Violet places her hand over hers.
“I have merely been waiting to find a way to say it,” she says, voice low, eyes darting down to her lips even as she chews on her own.
“Your rooms or mine?” Agatha asks, almost like a challenge, and Violet straightens her back, meets her eyes head on. She had made a decision, at dinner, without even realising it. A decision that was inevitable, she thinks, as she looks down at this imposing woman that has already belonged in her family for the last two years.
“I’ll come to you, I know my way around much better than you do.”
“My staff are discreet,” Agatha says, a decisive nod like she’s not looking up to meet her eyes in a way that makes Violet desperate to kiss her.
“So are mine, heavens knows what they’ve seen with my children over the last few years.” Agatha pulls away with a laugh, and Violet fights the urge to run after her. There is time enough for that.
She paces in her room, as she waits for the hour to grow late enough that she is unlikely to be caught. Sneaking around in her own house, she’d never have expected it - she’s never wanted it, before. Her and Edmund had done almost everything properly - there had been a few kisses, of course, ones they’d managed in secret, but nothing truly untoward. It feels ridiculous, in so many ways, to fear detection when she has done her duty so thoroughly, when her children are almost all grown up, when soon she will no longer even be the Viscountess Bridgerton. Maybe once all of her children have made their way she can retire from society entirely, can retreat to the country permanently where no one will ever find them. She sketches a future so as not to speculate what the next few hours of her life holds.
When she knocks, Agatha’s voice murmurs “enter”, and her hand shakes as she turns the doorknob. Agatha is sat at a little table in the window, smoking in her robe with her hair down. She is striking against the backdrop of darkness, stars visible against the night sky like they aren’t in London, where the lights gather to chase away the shadows.
“I don’t recall giving you permission to smoke in your rooms,” Violet murmurs, but she sways forward anyway, drawn by the force of her.
“Where else am I going to do it? I hardly want to be in the smoking room with Benedict alone,” her eyes rake across Violet, from her loosely braided hair to the robe over her shift, which she had tied in a rush and gapes half open. She cocks her head to the side, breathes smoke towards the open window. Violet has always liked these things about her, the way that she takes up space, the way she isn’t afraid to do things that may be considered unladylike or unseemly.
“But that is what it’s for,” she says, even as her voice trembles a little and she steps a tiny bit closer. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands, now she is here, regardless of how much she has wanted.
“I thought perhaps a nightcap?” Agatha offers, a decanter of whiskey on the table in front of her. Violet shakes her head without thinking. She knows what she came here for, and so does Agatha, surely. “You have been waiting all of this time,” she acknowledges, and stubs her cigarette out in an ashtray Violet has never seen before. Does she bring her own? she wonders wildly, thoughts bouncing and breath caught as Agatha slowly stands.
She cups Violet’s face in her palm, like she had seen Michaela do once, like Edmund had done to her many times all those years ago, and her eyes burn with want and intention like she hasn’t seen in so long. “Are you sure?” she asks, gentle, kind. She would let Violet leave this room now and she would never use it against her, would never mention it again. Violet knows that somewhere her mother is screaming at her, and she doesn’t care, doesn’t care enough to fight against all this wanting.
“Would you just kiss me?” she says, voice wavering even as she is sure, and Agatha laughs, still smiling as she crowds in close. She tastes like cigarette smoke, and a little like whiskey, and Violet’s arms wrap around her neck easily, forgetting, for a moment, that she is the taller one. Violet kisses her back like she’s been starving, like she’s been waiting for this moment since the first time she woke up and realised she has spent so long in mourning she has forgotten how to be a woman. She presses Agatha towards the bed without even being fully cognizant of it, thoughts shattered, her mind pulled apart by wanting. She wants so much, more than her hand in Agatha’s hair and her taste on her lips. She wants her weight on top of her, she wants to know what she looks like under her shift, she wants wants wants.
When the back of Violet’s knees hit the edge of the bed she realises Agatha has spun them around, and when she pulls back Agatha uses her distraction to slide her robe down her shoulders. “What do you want, darling?” she whispers against Violet’s neck as she trembles against her, pulse hammering against the thin skin under her chin. She pulls at the ribbon at the end of her braid, tangles her fingers through it even though she knows VIolet’s maid will certainly raise an eyebrow in the morning.
“I don’t know, anything, everything,” she says wildly, hand cupping the nape of Agatha’s neck, breath hitching as she bites down gently on pale skin. Agatha pulls at the neckline of her nightgown, follows the curve of it with her mouth, Violet shifting impatiently under her. Her skin burns , and she fears she may not need the buildup.
“Take this off and lie down, then,” Agatha says, stepping back after almost biting a visible mark into the top of Violet’s breast. Violet is so eager as she pulls the soft fabric over her head and climbs into the bed, and Agatha watches her with dark eyes that only seem to express that she has made the correct decision, that she is right where she should be.
She reaches out and Agatha follows, robe discarded, climbing into her lap. She’d never really realised how much smaller she is, how compact Agatha is. She takes up an entire room with her presence, and she is fascinated by the feeling of her here, now, knees tucked on either side of her hips. She exudes presence here, too, as she gives her a wicked smile before she leans forward to kiss her, her weight against her in a way that anchors her and makes her shift against her. She wants so many things she doesn’t quite know how to name, in this context, with this person. Things she barely managed to talk about with her husband, however enthusiastic they had been.
By the time Agatha sucks one of her nipples into her mouth Violet is writhing, gasping, holding onto her for dear life. She feels like she’s about to go down in flames, and she doesn’t know if sex has ever felt this intense before. It has been so long since it was someone else who was in charge of her pleasure, and she is so glad to hand over the reins, even if she wishes she would move a little faster.
“God, please,” she murmurs, and Agatha bites at the skin of her breast, smiling.
“Mouth or fingers?” she asks, and Violet flushes even darker than she thought possible, gasping as Agatha moves between her legs, spreading her knees.
“I- oh,” her breath hitches as Agatha draws a trail down the inside of her thigh, touch almost too soft as to tickle, but her hips move as though she can draw that hand closer anyway. “Fingers,” she says on an exhale, and Agatha smiles.
“Good girl,” she murmurs, and then she eyes Violet like she’s an entire feast, propped up against the cushions with her legs spread and her cheeks flushed, hand against her mouth. She teases a moment longer, draws it out, and then she moves in close to her, pulls her hand away so she can kiss her as she circles her clit gently. Violet’s hips jerk and she gasps, hands clutching at her back, her sides, pulling at her shift, and Agatha increases her pressure, building a rhythm Violet instantly takes to.
“I’m- I’m close,” she stutters into Agatha’s mouth, and she ignores the part of her that considers drawing back - they’ve got time aplenty for her to tease Violet until she can barely breathe. “Inside,” she almost whimpers, barely audible, and Agatha proceeds carefully, slowly, ignoring the way that Violet’s hips move like she can’t wait. When she crooks her fingers inside her Violet moans loudly enough she’s almost worried that someone will hear. She’s already pulsing around her, heels scrabbling against the bed, and one swipe of her thumb against her clit and she’s coming, Agatha kissing her neck through it.
“Okay?” Agatha asks, when she thinks Violet is capable of speech again. She laughs in return, something incredulous and giddy.
“Oh very much so,” she says, cupping Agatha’s face and simply looking at her in the candlelight for a long moment, before drawing her into a kiss. “Thank you,” she murmurs against her mouth, kissing her just because she can, letting herself get lost in it.
“It was not a hardship,” Agatha smiles, and Violet draws her closer.
“Would you show me what you like?” she asks, eyes sparkling. “I want to touch you.”
“You don’t have to,” she tries, but Violet shakes her head.
“If you would let me, then I would very much like to. I should also like it if you took that nightgown off,” she continues, and Agatha laughs.
“Who am I to deny such a request?” she draws back and straddles her hips again, Violet jostling against the pillows so she is sat up under her. Greedy hands help her pull the loose cotton off and throw it across the room, and there’s a long moment where Violet just looks, and Agatha looks at her in return. She glows in the candlelight, skin burnished by gold, and she reverently smoothes a hand across the soft skin of her thigh.
“I didn’t know, for so long, why you gave me butterflies whenever you touched me,” she murmurs, staring at the contrast of her hands on Agatha’s skin. “I didn’t know that this was possible, that it was something I could want,” she trails her fingertips past Agatha’s hip, across her ribcage, and Agatha shivers. Violet is gentle, exploratory, and Agatha is content to let her be, even if she wants to be touched. She can be patient, and let Violet have this long moment of learning something new about the both of them.
“Show me,” she says again, after she has drank her fill in staring and touching, and Agatha takes her hand in her own to guide it between her legs, guiding her to dip into the source of her wetness to spread it up to her clit. She gasps, and holds onto Violet’s shoulder for support, who looks up at her with awe and something like determination hardening in her eyes. She starts slow, gentle, but when she has the rhythm Agatha draws her hand back, lets her lead, watches Violet watch her hand, so intrigued by the place where their bodies meet.
“Can I-?” Violet asks, her fingers straying towards her entrance, and Agatha shakes her head.
“Not yet,” she replies, breathless, and Violet smiles for having made her that way.
“Later?” she tries, even as she returns to what she was shown.
“If you’re good,” Agatha replies, but the effect is thrown off by the way her breath hitches at Violet’s touch. When she comes she slumps against Violet, kissing the smile that has overtaken her entire face.
“I’ve been so stupid,” Violet mutters later, Agatha curled up against her back.
“How?” she asks, tracing a pattern against her shoulder. Violet turns to face her, joy still clear on her face.
“I honestly could not make sense of why I felt the way I did around you, could not understand why I wanted you closer and closer. We have always been close like I have never been with my other dear friends, and I just didn’t have a way to lend that context within my own head. It took my own daughter to show me it was possible.”
“That is not your fault,” Agatha says easily. “It is not as though we are taught anything about female pleasure before we get sent off to the marriage bed, is it?”
“No, I suppose not,” she murmurs. “As soon as I knew I could, it just seemed obvious that of course I wanted to kiss you, that I had been wanting to.”
Agatha smiles, shrugging a little. “Well kiss me now then, to make up for it.”
Violet laughs, loudly and easily, and leans towards her.