Chapter Text
The first coherent thought Carina had was not about the rolling motion, or where she was, or how she had gotten there, or even the stench of shit. It was: Jesus fucking Christ, what is under my fingernails?
Black grime. Actual dirt.
Her hands—these hands that had never, not once in more than twenty years, harbored so much as a coffee stain—looked like she had been digging graves. She stared at them, and something cold crawled up her spine because these weren't her hands. Same shape, maybe, but wrong. The small scar on her left thumb from that beaker incident in her second year—gone. The faint burn mark on her index finger from an unfortunate encounter with a Bunsen burner—vanished. These hands were smooth, unmarked by years of late nights in sterile laboratories.
A memory hit her like a physical blow: an explosion, the searing heat, the taste of copper and smoke. The feeling of everything just... stopping.
She had died. She had definitely died.
And now she was… where?
"Princesa."
A voice pulled her back to the moment.
A woman knelt beside her narrow bunk—and something strange happened. The face was unfamiliar, yet her mind whispered Isabel with a certainty that made no sense.
She had warm, olive-toned skin and striking dark eyes framed by thick brows. Her dark brown hair fell in soft waves around her face, pinned back but with tendrils escaping in the humid sea air. There was something captivating about her features—strong cheekbones, a defined jawline, and naturally full lips that were currently pressed together with worry. She was undeniably beautiful, but it was the genuine concern etched across her face that caught Carina's attention, worry that felt... personal.
She was real. Solid, breathing, present. Not some fever dream her dying brain had conjured.
What the fuck.
"You're awake," the woman—Isabel—said, relief flooding her voice. "I was terrified—the fever lasted three days. You kept speaking in your sleep, saying the strangest things—"
"Water." The word scraped out of Carina's throat, then she immediately wanted to kick herself. She sounded like a dying animal, and the voice coming out of her mouth was wrong too—same cadence, same tone, but clearer somehow. More musical. With an accent that rolled naturally off her tongue even though it shouldn't have.
Isabel's face crumpled with relief. "Of course, Sua Alteza. Right away."
Sua Alteza. Your Highness.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
Isabel turned to a basin on a small table, and Carina watched in growing horror as she dipped a cup into water that looked... questionable. Gray. Possibly moving. From a wooden bucket that could've been harboring enough bacteria to start its own civilization.
"No." Carina's voice sharpened, then she caught herself. "I mean—sorry, could you boil it first? Please? I just—" Jesus, don't start lecturing about bacteria.
"Of course, Carina." Isabel sprang into action with practiced efficiency. No judgment in her expression, only the weary patience of someone who had had this conversation before. "I'll have the cook boil fresh water immediately."
Well. At least her name was her name. Small fucking mercies.
Carina filed it away. A puzzle for future Carina, assuming future Carina didn't have a complete psychotic break first.
As Isabel bustled out, Carina forced herself to look. Really look.
The ship—because she was definitely on a ship, judging by the rolling motion and the fact that everything smelled like maritime death—creaked and groaned around her.
Her brain kicked in automatically. Contaminated water supply, poor ventilation, communal living spaces, dear God is that mold? Then crashed into the bigger problem.
She’d died.
She definitely died in that lab explosion, the burning sensation in her lungs, the feeling of everything just... stopping. And now she was where? On a ship that probably predated the invention of soap?
Having a complete mental breakdown would’ve been totally reasonable right then, except Isabel was coming back, and those worried brown eyes were watching her like she might disappear again, and—focus, Carina. Water first, existential crisis later.
She forced herself to really look around the cabin. The walls were paneled in mahogany that gleamed despite faint salt stains at the corners. Heavy velvet drapes framed a small, round porthole. A crystal oil lamp swayed overhead, casting shifting shadows over gilded carvings.
It was beautiful. Expensive. The kind of luxury that screams wealth and power.
Her gaze settled on a heavy rosewood writing desk bolted to the floor. On its surface sat an inkpot sealed with red wax and a quill resting atop a blotter embossed with a familiar crest—five blue shields surrounded by castles, topped with a golden crown.
She knew that symbol.
She knew that symbol from her history classes—the Portuguese royal coat of arms.
But there was something else, something deeper that made her chest flutter with... pride? Belonging? She couldn't tell where her knowledge ended and this strange new familiarity began.
She stared at it, and something between a laugh and a scream built in her chest.
She was Brazilian. Had been Brazilian. Whatever.
The point was, she had grown up learning about the colonial period, about Portuguese exploitation, about how her country had eventually gained independence. And now she was supposed to be Portuguese royalty?
But there hadn't been—never—a Princess Carina in the history books.
What the fuck.
She tried to sit up gracefully—because apparently this body knew how—but her legs tangled in the sheets and she nearly face-planted into the washbasin. Her spine straightened automatically, her head tilted just so, like she had been trained for this life she had never lived. It was unsettling as hell.
When Isabel returned with steaming water, she wasn't alone.
She carried a ceramic cup, careful and steady. Behind her, a tall man followed with a heavy-glazed pitcher hugged close to his chest.
He was young, perhaps in his early thirties, with rich brown skin and striking brown eyes that seemed almost golden in the lamplight. His hair was dark and tightly curled, cropped close to his head. There was something quietly handsome about his features—strong jawline, well-defined cheekbones—but he carried himself with careful restraint.
He didn't meet Carina's eyes—just moved like water poured down a familiar path, with the quiet confidence of someone long practiced at being unseen. His skin was the color of burnt sugar and sea-wind, and he smelled faintly of ash and salt.
Her mind whispered Manuel, the same way it had told her about Isabel.
“Thank you, Manuel.”
He stopped, looked at her with a line of worry between his eyebrows. "Always, princesa."
Isabel placed the cup in Carina’s hands. The cup felt right to hold, though she’d never touched it before.
"Better?" Isabel settled beside the bunk, and there was something in her manner—comfortable intimacy, practiced care—that made warmth bloom unexpectedly in Carina's chest.
"Much." She wrapped her fingers around the cup's warmth. "Isabel... this voyage." The words came carefully, testing. "Remind me where we're bound?"
"Portsmouth, princesa. Then overland to London." Isabel paused, studying Carina's face carefully. "You don't remember? The arrangements your father made?"
Father. The word landed strangely. Her actual father had been an engineer, more comfortable with machines than people. This father was apparently royal and powerful enough to ship his daughter across oceans like particularly valuable cargo.
"Remind me." She spoke carefully, trying not to sound like someone who had never heard any of this before. "The fever left things rather... fuzzy."
Isabel's expression softened with understanding. "To Lady Danbury's care in London. She'll oversee your introduction to English society." She paused, then added gently, "There's been talk of receiving you at the Bridgerton household."
And just like that, the bottom fell out of reality. Again.
Carina stared. Her face stayed still, but inside—full tilt panic.
She gave Isabel a tight, practiced nod.
But her brain was screaming.
The Bridgertons? As in—Netflix, corsets, steamy string quartets, and Jonathan Bailey’s cheekbones?
She remembered bingeing it during thesis hell, mocking the costumes, the melodrama, the pastel fantasy of it all.
And now she’s apparently been cast into it?
"The Bridgertons," she managed, her voice carefully neutral.
Isabel brightened. “Lady Danbury speaks highly of them. The eldest daughter married the Duke of Hastings last season. Quite the success. There’s also Miss Eloise—sharp wit, curious mind. I suspect you’d get on.”
Last season.
Which meant this was 1814, and somewhere in London there's a man who—does he dance and sing as well as Jonathan Bailey? I should ask—her brain supplied unhelpfully.
No. Focus.
This was insane. This was actually, genuinely, certifiably insane.
"How long until we reach Portsmouth?"
"A few days, perhaps a week, depending on weather and winds." Isabel moved to the porthole, checking the sky. "Are you feeling well enough to take some air on deck? The cabin's been quite close these past days."
Close. That was one diplomatic way to describe the olfactory assault masquerading as atmosphere in there. Everything smelled of unwashed bodies, stale food, tar, and what she desperately hoped was seawater but suspected might have been something far worse.
The thought of stepping out into whatever passed for fresh air on that vessel was simultaneously appealing and terrifying. What if someone expected her to know things? What if she said something that gave her away?
"Perhaps in a while. I'm still feeling rather..." Completely fucking lost. "...delicate from the fever."
"Of course." Isabel's hand hovered near Carina's forehead, then pulled back. "Perhaps some broth? You haven't eaten properly in days."
The thought of consuming anything prepared in this ship's kitchens made her stomach clench. She'd seen enough documentaries about maritime hygiene to know that 'ship's biscuit' had often been more wildlife habitat than food. But she needed to eat something, and her body was clearly weakened from whatever dramatic soul-swapping experience had brought her there.
"Something light. And please ensure the water is… boiled. Thoroughly.”
Isabel didn't blink. "Naturally. I'll speak to the cook."
Either the princess had been a germaphobe, or Isabel was just that unflappable. Carina made a mental note to be grateful either way.
After Isabel left, Carina sat with the magnitude of her situation. She was a Portuguese princess in 1814, on a ship bound for England, about to be fostered by a Lady—and surrounded by a family she already knew too much about, without ever having met them.
She had no idea how or why this had happened, no idea how to return to her own time—if that's even possible—and no choice but to play along with a role she's entirely unprepared for.
This wasn't some isekai anime bullshit—this was her life now, apparently, and she didn't even get cool magic powers, just the privilege of representing the historical oppressors of her actual people while trying not to die of dysentery.
The practical part of her mind—the scientist who’d spent years solving complex problems with limited resources—tried to assert itself. She needed information. She needed to understand the princess's life, her relationships, and her expected role in English society.
And above all, she needed to survive this without losing her mind completely.
She tested her theory about muscle memory by standing slowly, paying attention to how her body moved. There was natural grace to her posture she had never possessed, automatic spine straightening that spoke of years of deportment lessons. Her feet knew how to navigate the ship's rolling deck, adjusting balance without conscious thought.
It's unsettling and fascinating. She's inhabiting a body trained for a life she'd never lived, carrying muscle memories of experiences belonging to someone else entirely.
Her reflection in the small wall mirror showed a face that was hers, but not. Same bone structure, same dark chestnut wavy hair, but without the small acne scars that had dotted her jawline since adolescence. Her skin had a pale quality she had never had, unmarked by years under the Brazilian sun.
It’s like looking at herself through an Instagram filter designed by someone with entirely different life experiences.
When Isabel returned with a bowl of something that actually smelled promising—like chicken broth, assuming the chicken hadn't been dead for an indeterminate amount of time—Carina accepted it gratefully.
"Eat slowly," Isabel settled the bowl in her hands with practiced care. "Your stomach has been quite unsettled. The cook used fresh herbs—mint and ginger from our stores."
Carina took a cautious sip. It's hot, savory, and mercifully free of obvious chunks that might have achieved sentience. Her stomach accepted it gratefully, though she made a mental note to start observing which crew members looked healthiest and try to figure out what they had been eating.
A comfortable silence stretched between them until Isabel broke it, voice gentle. "Lady Danbury was quite pleased to receive your mother's letter, you know. They've corresponded before, through diplomatic circles. She even mentioned you once—said you had a 'spirited pen' and a 'difficult mind.' Which I took as compliments."
That pulled a faint huff of amusement from Carina, but her brain was already processing the implications.
"Have they mentioned any particular expectations for my visit?"
Isabel's expression became diplomatic in the way that suggested uncomfortable truths ahead. "You are of marriageable age, naturally. And your connections make you a valuable prospect. I believe they see your fostering as mutually beneficial—they provide you with English education and social connections, and your presence elevates their own standing."
"A political arrangement, then."
"All high-society arrangements are political in nature, princesa. But that doesn't mean they can't also be warm, or even affectionate."
Carina slowly worked through the broth, trying to process this information.
She wasn't simply a displaced person trying to survive in the past; she was a diplomatic pawn in international relations, with expectations and responsibilities she didn't understand. And somehow, she needed to navigate all of this without revealing that she was actually a 21st-century Brazilian biochemist.
Merda. She's so fucked.
"Isabel," she said finally, "have I seemed different since the fever?"
Isabel's careful composure cracked slightly. She studied Carina's face with the intensity of someone looking for familiar landmarks in changed terrain.
"Perhaps a little," Isabel admitted finally. "Your voice, sometimes—there's a different cadence to it. Different words. And your eyes..." She shook her head. "But you're still you, where it matters most. Still my stubborn, brilliant princess."
My. The possessive sent warmth through Carina's chest, along with impressions she couldn't quite name. Loyalty. Affection. Something deeper that her scattered memories couldn't quite reach.
"I feel different. As if the fever burned away some part of me and left… someone else behind. My memories are a little blurred."
"Perhaps it did." Isabel reached out and briefly touched Carina's hand—a comfort gesture that felt both foreign and strangely natural. "But, Carina, you're still the stubborn, eccentric, surprisingly kind woman I've known. The rest... we'll figure out as we go."
The ship creaked and groaned around them, carrying them steadily toward England and toward a future Carina couldn't begin to predict. But sitting there with Isabel, accepting her quiet loyalty and gentle care, she felt something that might have been hope.
She might not have known how to be a Regency princess, but she knew how to adapt, learn, survive. And apparently, she wouldn't have to do it alone.
Even if everything smelled like it'd been marinating in questionable substances for weeks.
Even if she had no idea how to navigate Regency England's intricate social codes without making a complete fool of herself or accidentally starting an international incident.
She had Isabel, she had a body that appeared healthy despite its recent trials, and she had a mind equipped with knowledge that could prove useful if she's clever about applying it. Plus, she has the distinct advantage of knowing the playing field—or at least, one version of it.
It wasn't much to build a new life on, but it was a start.
And for now, that would have to be enough.
The water in her cup had gone cold. Outside the porthole, the Atlantic stretched endlessly—like her reflection had—toward something that wasn't quite hers, but might become it.
But the cabin felt less foreign now, less threatening. Maybe because she was no longer facing it entirely alone, or maybe because she was beginning to accept the impossible reality of her situation.
Whatever this new existence brought, she would meet it with wits intact and eyes wide open.
Even if she had to hold her breath while doing it.
Actually, no. She was definitely going to have to breathe eventually. And when she did, it was going to smell like the inside of a gym sock that had died and gone to hell.
But she'd survive it.
She's Brazilian—she’d always find a way.
Notes:
EDIT: 15/08/25
Chapter Text
The smell of England during the Regency Era was certainly… unique.
Not the romantic, misty countryside of period dramas, but the actual assault on her senses that is Portsmouth in 1814—coal smoke thick enough to chew, the rot of fish and seaweed, unwashed bodies pressed together in damp wool, and underneath it all, the persistent stench of human waste that permeated everything.
Netflix lied. Who knew.
She stood at the ship's rail, watching the harbor approach through gray morning light, and tried not to gag. Her lungs, already protesting the foreign air, shrunk in rebellion. It's like breathing through a dirty sock that's been marinated in eau de medieval toilet.
"Princesa." Isabel appeared at her elbow with a heavy woolen cloak. "We must prepare you for disembarkation."
Right. Showtime. Time to convince an entire country that she totally knew how to princess and definitely hadn't just woken up in someone else's body like the world's most inconvenient fairy tale.
Isabel transformed her into what a princess should look like upon arriving in another country. The process involved approximately seventeen layers of fabric and enough whalebone to construct a small boat.
"Can you walk in this?" Isabel asked, adjusting the fall of Carina's traveling dress.
Carina took a tentative step and nearly toppled over. The combination of slippers, floor-length skirts, corset and the sea balance created a nightmare that defied everything she knew about human locomotion, but muscle memory was a miracle worker.
"This is fucking insane," she muttered, then caught herself. "I mean—yes, of course."
Isabel's expression suggested she understood more than she was letting on.
The gangplank might as well have been a tightrope stretched over the fires of hell, monitored by a panel of judges scoring her performance on grace, dignity, and likelihood of face-planting in front of foreign dignitaries.
Carina gripped the rope railing with white knuckles, placing each step with the careful precision of someone defusing a bomb. One wrong move and she would either tumble into the harbor or flat onto her face in front of what appeared to be a full diplomatic delegation—uniformed officers, a few severe-looking ladies in weather-beaten finery, and the inevitable overpresence of gold braid.
Don't trip. Don't swear. Don't do anything that screams 'I have no idea how to be a person in this time and age.'
She made it to solid ground without incident, though her legs wobbled like jelly and her lungs staged a full revolt against the air quality.
"Your Royal Highness." The man in navy blue stepped forward with a very deep bow. "I am Sir Reginald Worthington, at your service. Her Majesty has charged me with ensuring your safe passage to London."
Sir Reginald Worthington. Of course that was his name. She was half-expecting him to adjust his monocle and comment on the weather whilst sipping brandy from a hip flask. Carina executed what she hoped was an appropriate curtsy, so she tilted her head just so and sent him a demure smile to shift his focus from her poor form.
"Sir Worthington. I am... grateful for Her Majesty's consideration."
His pale eyes studied her with the intensity of someone conducting an inspection. She had the distinct feeling she was being cataloged, evaluated, and possibly found wanting.
"Indeed. Lady Danbury awaits your arrival with great anticipation." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Shall we proceed? The journey to London is considerable, and we've lost time with the morning fog."
The Captain began polite small talk as they walked. "Tell me, Your Highness," Worthington said without looking at her, "how do you find England thus far?"
Smelly, damp, and like a fucking health code violation. "Quite... atmospheric. Different from Rio, naturally."
"Naturally. And your health? I understand you suffered some illness during the voyage."
"Much improved, thank you. Though I confess the sea air has left me... displaced."
"Well, I hope your time in England helps you heal completely, Your Highness." He answered while helping her into the carriage.
The hours blurred together in a haze of jolting wheels and cramped limbs. Every bump in the road—and there were many —sent shockwaves through Carina's already abused spine. It was like being inside a paint can that someone was shaking vigorously while screaming about the glory of the British Empire.
The windows were small and high, offering glimpses of a countryside that looked nothing like tourist brochures. Instead, it was all muddy fields, gray skies, and the occasional huddle of buildings that might charitably be called a village if you squinted and had very low standards.
Isabel sat across from her, looking slightly green around the edges too. Between them sat a small basket containing what should have been travel refreshments but looked more like evidence in a food poisoning case—bread already going stale, cheese that smelled like it might argue back, a meat pie of suspiciously pale complexion, and a pewter flask that Carina was seriously tempted to chuck out the window before it finished them both off.
She pulled out her handkerchief—one of several she now kept on her person at all times—and discreetly wiped her hands again three times. The fabric was fine linen, embroidered with her initials— CMHB, which she only knew stood for Carina and Bragança, she needed to investigate more —in blue, almost like an armor against the microscopic horrors she knew were lurking everywhere.
"Princesa," Isabel said quietly, watching the ritual with careful eyes. "The handkerchiefs have multiplied."
Carina's hand stilled. "Have they?"
"Yesterday you asked me to pack six more. And this morning you requested that I carry vinegar for cleaning." Isabel's voice was gentle, observant rather than worried. "You've always been particular about cleanliness, but since..." Isabel considered her words carefully. "You used to insist on boiled water and well-cooked food because you'd read somewhere. Now you... fear things you touch."
The observation hit closer to home than Carina expected. She had been particular before—the princess's travels and interests would explain fastidiousness about hygiene. But now she was operating on a level of germ theory that wouldn't be understood for decades.
"Perhaps it made me realize how fragile health can be," she said carefully. She didn’t add everything makes me anxious and the only thing I can control in this awful situation is how I can keep myself clean enough not to die. Again.
Isabel nodded, accepting this. "It was frightening, watching you burn with fever for three days. Seeing you hallucinating, saying words that made no sense." She paused and her voice trembled. "I thought I might lose you."
The admission carried weight—not of a servant's concern, but something deeper. Personal. Carina found herself studying Isabel's face, noting the genuine fear that lingered in her expression.
"You won't lose me," she said softly, then immediately wanted to knock herself for promising something she had no control over. "But I may need some... accommodations for my anxiety."
"What kind of accommodations?"
Carina took a breath and prepared to sound like the most high-maintenance princess in European history. "Daily bathing, if possible. Fresh linens frequently changed. My food prepared with extra care—boiled water, clean surfaces, and washed hands." She paused, expecting judgment, but Isabel nodded. "I know it sounds excessive—"
"It sounds careful." Isabel interrupted gently. "And if careful keeps you well, then we'll be as careful as you need."
Without warning, Isabel slid across the carriage to sit beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched through layers of wool and silk. The gesture was natural, familiar—as if they'd done this countless times before.
"When we reach Lady Danbury's house," Isabel continued, taking Carina's hands in hers, "I'll speak with the housekeeper. We'll establish your requirements as... Portuguese customs. Practices that must be respected."
Portuguese customs. That's actually brilliant. Cultural differences were the perfect excuse for any number of weird modern habits.
The warmth of Isabel's hands was startling after so much careful distance. Carina realized she'd been holding herself apart from physical contact, afraid of contamination, disease, or just general 19th-century grossness. But Isabel's touch was steady, grounding.
"You don't find it odd?"
"I find it practical." Isabel's smile was soft but determined. "You've studied medicine, botany, natural philosophy and so much more. If you choose to value certain things more carefully, that's wisdom, not madness."
The reframing shifted something in Carina's chest. She wasn't crazy.
"The kitchen staff—"
"Will follow instructions without question if I present them correctly." Isabel squeezed her hands gently. "You're a princess, Carina. You're expected to have particular requirements. We'll make sure those requirements happen."
Through the carriage window, Carina watched England roll by in all its muddy, pre-industrial glory. But with Isabel's steady presence beside her, the world became slightly less threatening.
"Isabel," she said quietly. "Thank you."
"Always, princesa." Isabel didn’t let go of her hands. "You should try to rest. We have hours yet before London."
"I'm fine," Carina lied, then immediately contradicted herself by wiping her hands again with the embroidered linen. One, two, three times. Perfectly normal behavior. Nothing to see here.
Isabel's eyebrows rose slightly—not with psychological insight, but with the practical concern of someone whose job it was to keep her charge healthy and presentable.
"You've barely recovered from the fever, it has been two days," she said matter-of-factly. "And you've eaten nothing since we left the ship. At least close your eyes for a while."
She reached into her traveling bag and produced a small vial of lavender oil, dampening the corner of a clean cloth with it. "Here. This will help with the motion and the... atmosphere."
The gesture was purely practical—a maid tending to her mistress's comfort during difficult travel. She adjusted the traveling blanket around Carina's shoulders with brisk efficiency. "Now rest. I'll wake you when we reach the city."
The lavender did help, and the steady rocking of the carriage, while uncomfortable, had a hypnotic quality. Carina let her eyes drift closed, trusting Isabel to watch over the journey while she conserved her strength for whatever awaited in London.
She woke to Isabel's gentle touch on her shoulder and the sound of chaos filtering through the carriage windows.
London announced itself as a full-scale biological assault on every sense she possessed. First came the smell, a complex bouquet of coal smoke, human waste, rotting organic matter, industrial processes that definitely violated several laws of physics, and what might have been dead fish or might have been something worse. Then the noise: a constant background roar of voices, wheels, animals, and machinery that sounded like the world's worst orchestra having a very public breakdown.
It was like waking up inside a construction site that was also somehow a sewer that was also on fire.
The carriage slowed as they entered the city proper, and Carina pressed her face to the window in horrified fascination. This was her first glimpse of London in 1814, and it was... educational.
This was a living, breathing, steaming mass of humanity crammed together in conditions that made her skin crawl and her sensibilities weep.
Open sewers ran down the middle of the streets. Open. Sewers. Like, just right there, flowing merrily along with everyone's business on full display while pedestrians navigated around them like this was perfectly normal. Children in rags darted between carriage wheels like reckless pigeons with a death wish and apparently no adult supervision whatsoever. The air was thick with coal smoke—so thick she could barely make out buildings a block away, and every breath felt like licking the inside of a chimney that had been used to burn particularly toxic garbage.
How did anyone survive to adulthood? The question hammered through her skull as she watched a woman casually dump a chamber pot from a second-story window, its contents splashing close to a group of passersby who didn't even flinch.
And then—like stepping into another world—they turned onto a broader street, and everything changed. Gas lamps stood sentry along neat walkways. The buildings were taller here, elegant, their brick facades freshly scrubbed and smug about it. Even the air seemed clearer, though that might just have been her desperation talking.
"Mayfair," Captain Worthington said, noting her attention. "Lady Danbury's neighborhood. Rather more civilized than the working districts."
Civilized. The word sounded like a cruel joke when she'd witnessed conditions that would violate every health code ever written. But she forced herself to nod politely, to look appropriately impressed by the neat townhouses and well-dressed pedestrians.
The carriage stopped in front of a townhouse that spoke of wealth and taste—four stories of honey-colored stone, windows gleaming despite the city's atmospheric assault, with a front door painted glossy black and flanked by gas lamps that actually appeared to be functional.
While they waited for servants to handle their luggage, Carina caught sight of her reflection in the carriage window. She looked pale, travel-worn, but appropriately royal. What she didn't look like was a woman who had witnessed the kind of public health catastrophe that killed millions.
She was going to have to learn to hide that horror. Fast.
Lady Danbury was waiting in her front parlor like a general receiving intelligence reports.
She was smaller than Carina expected, but presence made up for any lack of physical stature. Sharp dark eyes, silver hair arranged with military precision, and the kind of posture that spoke of a lifetime spent making people do exactly what she wanted them to do.
"Your Highness." Lady Danbury rose from her chair with fluid grace, offering a curtsy that's perfectly calibrated—respectful but not subservient. "Welcome to London."
"Lady Danbury." Carina mirrored the curtsy, hyperaware that every movement was being evaluated by someone who could probably teach masterclasses in social warfare. "I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality."
"Nonsense. The pleasure is entirely mine." Lady Danbury's smile was warm, but her eyes remained sharp. "Please, sit. You must be exhausted from your journey."
The parlor was elegant but comfortable—leather-bound books, rich fabrics, and enough personal touches to suggest this was a space for living, not just impressing visitors. Carina lowered herself into a chair with what she hoped was appropriate grace and didn't accidentally reveal her complete lack of proper deportment training.
"Tea?" Lady Danbury didn’t wait for an answer before ringing a small bell. "I find it quite restorative after traveling."
"Actually," Carina said before she could stop herself, "might I have coffee instead?" She paused, realizing how that might sound. "I developed quite a taste for it during my time in America. If it's not too much trouble."
Lady Danbury's eyebrows rose slightly. "Coffee? How... continental of you. Yes, I believe we can manage that. Though I must warn you, it's still rather exotic here. Tea is our national obsession."
A servant appeared with practiced efficiency. Lady Danbury dismissed her with a wave.
"Have Cook prepare coffee for Her Highness. The good beans from our private stores. And ensure the water is properly boiled—I understand you are quite particular about such things."
There it was again. Carina's pulse quickened. "I appreciate attention to proper preparation, yes."
"Your mother's letters mentioned your... interest in hygiene practices since your travels. The physicians in Philadelphia were quite impressed with your questions about disease transmission, I'm told." Lady Danbury's tone was conversational, but her gaze was penetrating. "Particularly your theories about contaminated water."
What the fuck?
"I found their observations about cleanliness and health outcomes... compelling," Carina said carefully.
"Indeed. Which is why I took the liberty of having your rooms prepared according to your specifications. Fresh linens boiled in lye soap, surfaces cleaned with vinegar, and arrangements made for daily baths with heated water." Lady Danbury's smile sharpened. "I do hope that meets with your approval."
"That's... remarkably thoughtful." And slightly terrifying that she's this well-informed about my neuroses.
The coffee arrived in delicate porcelain, dark and aromatic. Carina accepted the cup gratefully, inhaling the familiar scent. It wasn't the espresso she was used to, but it was recognizably coffee, and that felt like a small victory against the tyranny of historical accuracy.
"I must confess, I'm rather curious about... expectations. My father's letters were somewhat vague about the specific nature of my visit and mother only mentioned you."
Lady Danbury's expression sharpened with interest. "Diplomatic language, I'm sure. Men do so hate discussing the practical realities of marriage negotiations."
"Marriage negotiations," Carina repeated carefully. Right. Because I'm a princess and this is 1814 and women are basically high-end livestock with titles.
"My dear girl, you're two and twenty and a Portuguese princess. Even though your mother is British, did you really imagine this was a purely social visit?" Lady Danbury's tone was gentle but matter-of-fact, like she was explaining basic math to a particularly slow child. "Though I must say, recent correspondence suggested you'd developed some rather... modern ideas about matrimony."
There it was again. "Modern in what sense?"
"Your thoughts on companionate marriage, for one. The notion that mutual respect and intellectual compatibility might be as important as political alliance." Lady Danbury poured her coffee with practiced efficiency. "Your reputation for intellectual curiosity has grown considerably during your travels. Paris, Vienna, Americas—quite the education for a young woman."
Carina accepted her cup, relief flooding through her. The princess had been a scholar, a traveler, someone who questioned conventions. That was a foundation she could build on.
Thank God. At least I'm not starting from 'demure princess who knows nothing but needlepoint.'
"I've been fortunate to observe different societies, different ways of organizing life and relationships," she said carefully. "It's made me question some of our... assumptions about how things must be done."
"Questioning assumptions," Lady Danbury mused. "How refreshing. Most young women of your station are content to accept what they're told without examination."
"I find that rather limiting. Surely understanding the world as it is—and as it could be—makes one a more valuable participant in it?"
Lady Danbury's laugh was rich and knowing. "Oh, my dear child. Your mother was quite candid about your... spirited observations. Particularly your thoughts on the barbaric nature of treating women as property to be traded between families. You had some particularly pointed remarks about the expectation that a wife's intellect should be considered secondary to her childbearing capacity."
Jesus Christ. The princess had basically been a proto-feminist in an era when that could get you labeled as dangerously radical. "I may have been... influenced by some ideals of equality."
"Indeed. Which is why Queen Charlotte believes you need careful handling. And why I suspect the next few months will be far more entertaining than anyone anticipates." Lady Danbury rose from her chair with fluid grace. "But that's tomorrow's concern. Tonight, you rest. Tomorrow, we begin your proper introduction to London society."
Later, after she'd been shown to her rooms (elegant, comfortable, and mercifully private) and had a very thorough bath, Carina stood at her bedroom window looking out over Mayfair. Gas lamps were beginning to flicker on while evening approached, casting pools of light on the neat streets below.
Isabel bustled around the room, unpacking trunks and arranging belongings with practiced efficiency. "Lady Danbury is... formidable," she observed quietly.
"That's one word for it." Carina touched the window glass, surprised by how cold it was, then absently wiped her fingers with her handkerchief afterward. "I think she knows something's different about me.”
"And?"
"And I think she finds it amusing rather than threatening. For now." Carina turned from the window. "What do you know about English marriage customs? The actual mechanics of courtship and engagement?"
"Some. Why?"
"Because apparently I need to understand the rules of the game before I can figure out how to change them."
Isabel's smile was small but knowing. "Of course you want to change the rules."
"I'm a Portuguese princess with a head full of foreign ideas and modern notions about everything, Isabel. Changing the rules isn't what I want—it's what I need to do to survive this without going completely insane."
She pulled out her handkerchief again, checking that her hands were clean. The habit had become automatic, almost compulsive. In a world where people thought bathing too frequently was unhealthy and medical treatment involved mercury and leeches, her knowledge felt both like a superpower and a terrible burden.
She looked back out the window at the gaslit streets below, at this alien world she somehow had to navigate without losing herself entirely.
Tomorrow, apparently, the real performance would begin.
But tonight, at least, she had a warm room, clean clothes and water, and the beginnings of a plan.
It wasn't much, but it was a start.
And considering she'd started this adventure by dying, she'd take what she could get.
Notes:
I didn't expect all this interest! I'm happy for it, though.
So, here's chapter 2. I have a few drafted but I need to edit and I'm rewatching season 2 so it all can make a little more sense.EDIT: 15/08/25
Chapter Text
"Princesa," Isabel said, her voice carrying that particular neutral tone that meant brace yourself for terrible news .
They were sitting in Carina's room the morning after her arrival, sunlight streaming through windows that were—mercifully—actually clean. Lady Danbury's household standards were evidently high, but as Isabel explained the realities of food preparation, Carina felt her stomach perform the ever familiar clench of existential dread.
"The Cook is competent," Isabel continued, perching on the edge of a chair with her hands folded in that way that signaled diplomatic phrasing ahead, "but the kitchen operates in ways that would... deeply concern you."
"Just tell me." Carina set down her coffee cup—actual coffee, thank God —and prepared for the worst.
"They use the same cloths for cleaning dishes that they use for wiping hands, without washing them. The cutting boards haven't been properly sanitized in what appears to be decades. And the water..." Isabel paused, clearly searching for the gentlest way to deliver a death sentence. "It comes from a shared well that also services the mews. Where the horses are kept. And their waste is managed."
Of course it fucking did.
Carina closed her eyes and counted to ten in Portuguese, then English, then Spanish for good measure. This was like every food safety nightmare rolled into one historical shitshow. When she opened them, Isabel watched her with that expression of patient concern that suggested preparation for anything from tears to furniture-throwing.
"What did you tell the housekeeper?"
"That Portuguese royalty has particular customs regarding food preparation, developed during your travels in warmer climates where spoilage occurs more rapidly." Isabel's smile carried a hint of satisfaction. "I may have implied that your father would be... deeply displeased if you fell ill due to inadequate care."
"Brilliant." Some of the tension eased from Carina's shoulders. "And they bought it?"
"They accepted that displeasing the Crown would be significantly worse than accommodating your eccentricities." Isabel's tone was matter-of-fact, but there was warmth underneath. "I've arranged for all your water to be boiled, your food prepared on surfaces cleaned with vinegar, and your meals handled by a single cook who will wash her hands between tasks."
The relief was so profound that Carina could have grabbed Isabel and kissed her right there. Instead, she reached for her handkerchief—one of the dozen she now kept strategically placed throughout her rooms—and wiped her hands with practiced efficiency.
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts, and Manuel entered with another coffee service—because apparently Lady Danbury's household had grasped that caffeine was essential to her functioning.
"Good morning, princesa." He set the tray down with careful precision, then straightened into his formal posture. "Lady Danbury has asked me to familiarize you with household routines and neighborhood... navigation."
"Navigation?"
"Where you may walk safely, which streets to avoid, appropriate times for various activities." Manuel's expression was carefully neutral, but she caught the protective undertone. "London can be treacherous for those unfamiliar with its rhythms."
Over the next hour, Manuel provided a masterclass in urban survival circa 1814. Certain areas of Mayfair were safe for a lady's morning constitutional, but only at specific times and with proper escort. Hyde Park had designated hours when respectable people promenaded, and other hours when one simply didn't venture out unless seeking scandal or violence.
"And if you wish to ride?" Manuel asked, noting her interest when he mentioned the park's riding trails.
"I do enjoy riding." The words came naturally, along with memories of horses, balance, the feel of reins in her hands. "Though you know I'm more comfortable with books than bridles."
"There's a stable nearby where Lady Danbury keeps her horses. I can arrange for a suitable mount, whenever you wish."
The offer was tempting—she remembered the freedom of riding, wind and speed and temporary escape from suffocating propriety. But there were more pressing concerns that day.
"Perhaps another day. I believe Lady Danbury mentioned some particular guests I'm to meet today?"
"The Sharma sisters," Isabel supplied. "They arrived from India recently, I'm told. Lady Danbury seems quite fond of them."
"India?" Carina's attention sharpened. She knew exactly who the Sharma sisters were. "How interesting."
“Also,” Manuel interrupted. "Letters arrived on the morning post, princesa. From Rio."
Her heart did something complicated in her chest. Letters. From a family she'd never met but whose faces she sometimes glimpsed in half-remembered dreams.
"Thank you, Manuel." She accepted the letters with hands that trembled slightly, hoping he didn't notice. The paper felt expensive beneath her fingers, heavy and cream-colored, with seals she recognized without understanding why.
The first letter bore her father's seal—Dom José de Bragança, a name that sat strangely in her mind like borrowed clothes that almost fit. She broke the wax carefully, the script was formal, slanted, elegant—like the man himself, she thought, though she didn't remember how she knew that.
His words surprised her.
Not in content—he wrote of diplomacy, alliances, and her upcoming obligations—but in approach. Where another father might pen careful platitudes about duty, he declared "We did not raise you to be agreeable. We raised you to think and to choose." Where protocol would demand measured praise, he admitted that when he wanted to understand foreign treaties or the mood of nations, he still reached for her—not as a chess piece, but as his daughter.
The second letter was easier. Tomás's handwriting galloped across the page, uneven and impatient. No titles, no pretense. Just her little brother—earnest, and clearly bored out of his mind.
Carina smiled before she realized she was doing it. It ached, in a good way.
The third letter carried a subtler scent—rosewater and old ink. Her mother's seal was delicate, feminine, pressed in pale blue wax.
She hesitated before opening it.
Her mother's handwriting was as meticulous as her father's, but more delicate. Every curve was measured, the spacing impeccable. It read like a practiced script—every word graceful, every sentence balanced. It was the letter of a woman who had spent her life being watched.
But beneath the poise, there was something else.
May this letter remind you that no matter the customs or expectations, your family stands beside you, steadfast and unwavering.
Carina folded the letter slowly, smoothing the creases with careful fingers.
"Difficult news, princesa?" Isabel asked gently, noticing her expression.
"Not difficult. Just... complex." Carina held up Tomás's letter. "My brother wants to know if I've seen any pirates."
Isabel's smile was warm. "And have you?"
"Only the legal kind, I suspect." Carina set the letters aside carefully. "I should respond, but I'm not sure what to say. How do you write to people you still only half remember?"
"Carefully," Isabel suggested. "And honestly, where you can be."
Several hours later, properly corseted and arranged into something resembling a Lady, Carina waited in the morning room while Lady Danbury received her guests. The sounds of conversation drifted through the slightly open door, and she found herself moving closer despite knowing it was poor form.
Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back, and she desperately needed intel about what she's walking into.
"Lady Mary! Oh, how delightful it is to see you. After all these years."
“Allow me to introduce to you my youngest, Edwina.”
There's a response in a voice she didn't recognize, then Lady Danbury continued: "Though, I was expecting another?"
Carina moved closer to the door. Through the crack, she could see into the drawing room where Lady Danbury stood with two women—a beautiful older woman who must have been Mary Sharma, and a younger one of extraordinary beauty who could only have been Edwina.
"Yes. My eldest," Mary said with an apologetic smile. "Kate."
"Well, she did get off the ship with you last night, did she not?" Lady Danbury's tone suggested she wasn't entirely pleased.
Before Lady Danbury could respond, there’s a commotion at the front door—footsteps, a cheerful bark, and then a woman's voice, clear and slightly breathless.
“Apologies, I hope I did not keep you waiting long."
A moment later, a young woman appeared in the drawing room doorway, slightly windblown but composed. She was striking—intelligent dark eyes, glossy black hair that had been slightly mussed by the wind, and confident.
Simone Ashley was so pretty.
And if she had just returned from a morning "walk", it meant her encounter with Anthony had already happened.
Oh, this was going to be interesting.
"There you are, dearest," Mary said with evident relief. "My eldest, Lady Danbury. Miss Kate Sharma."
Kate stepped forward and offered a curtsy. "Lady Danbury. Thank you so much for your hospitality. I apologize for my tardiness—The gardens here are so lovely. After such a lengthy journey, I found that I wanted some freshness and morning air."
"Indeed." Lady Danbury's tone was dry, but Carina caught a hint of amusement in her expression. "Well, now that we are all arrived—"
“There is also Newton.”
“I beg your pardon?” Lady Danbury's voice was confused.
That was when Carina realized this was her cue. She stepped into the drawing room with what she hoped was appropriate timing and royal composure.
"Lady Danbury," she said, offering a slight curtsy. "I hope I'm not interrupting."
All three women turned to her, and Carina got her first proper look at the Sharma family. Mary had the kind of faded elegance that spoke of someone who had once been a great beauty and had aged gracefully. Edwina was luminous in the way that stopped conversations—the kind of classical beauty that the ton would immediately recognize and covet. But it was Kate who held Carina's attention. There was something about her posture, a barely contained energy that suggested she was still processing whatever had happened during her morning walk.
"Your Highness," Lady Danbury recovered quickly, "perfect timing. Mrs. Mary Sharma, Miss Edwina Sharma, Miss Kate Sharma, may I present Her Royal Highness, Princess Carina de Bragança. Ladies, the Princess has just arrived from Rio and will be joining us for the season."
All three women dropped into curtsies, though Kate's had a slight stiffness to it that suggested her mind was elsewhere. Carina responded with a carefully curtsy of her own.
"Lady Sharma, Miss Edwina, Miss Kate," she said warmly. "I'm delighted to meet you all. I understand we're all newcomers to London society in our own ways. Perhaps we can navigate its mysteries together."
"You're very kind, Your Highness," Mary replied with genuine warmth. "Though I suspect your experience will be rather different from ours."
"Please, call me Carina. And why do you say that?"
"You're Portuguese royalty, fostered by Lady Danbury," Edwina explained with a sweet smile. "We're... English women who've spent most of our lives in India, with limited connections and no particular fortune. The ton's reception of us is likely to be rather different."
The honesty was refreshing, and exactly what Carina had hoped for. But she noticed Kate's slight frown, as if she was only half-listening to the conversation.
"I think you may find my reception less welcoming than you imagine," Carina said. "Foreign royalty can be as exotic—and therefore as suspect—as colonial experience." She glanced at Lady Danbury, who's watching the exchange with sharp attention. "Perhaps our different experiences as outsiders will be… complementary."
"Complementary how?" Kate asked, her attention finally focusing fully on the conversation.
"Well, you understand England from a perspective I never could. I understand court politics from a position you've never needed to navigate. Between us, we might piece together the full picture of how power actually moves in this society."
Taking into account that all she knew from court politics was from books, movies and Game of Thrones, she certainly knew more than them.
She watched Kate's expression shift from polite attention to genuine interest. This was a woman who thought strategically, who understood that knowledge was power and power was survival.
"You speak as if society is a system to be analyzed rather than simply... inhabited," Kate observed.
"Isn't it?" Carina accepted a cup of coffee from the tea service Lady Danbury had arranged. "Every social structure has rules, patterns, points of influence and vulnerability. Understanding how it works seems rather essential to functioning within it successfully."
"Or changing it," Kate said quietly, and there was something in her voice that suggested she was thinking about more than just social theory.
The words hung in the air between them, loaded with possibility. Lady Danbury tried to be neutral, but her expression suggested amusement rather than concern.
"Changing it?" Edwina asked, curiosity evident in her voice.
"Perhaps 'changing' is too strong a word," Carina said carefully. "But surely there are... inefficiencies in any system that could be improved upon, given sufficient understanding and careful application of pressure in the right places."
Kate's smile was small but knowing. "Inefficiencies. Such as?"
"The tendency to waste half the population's intellectual capacity by restricting women's education and participation in meaningful endeavors." The words came out more boldly than she’d intended, but the interest in Kate's expression encouraged her to continue. "The assumption that birth circumstances should matter more than character or ability in determining social position. The resistance to new ideas simply because they're new, rather than because they lack merit."
Wow, I really went full feminist manifesto there. But Kate looks like she's about to high-five me, so maybe it's working.
"Careful, Your Highness," Lady Danbury interjected with dry amusement. "Such observations could be considered rather... revolutionary."
"Could they?" Carina met her gaze directly. "I would have thought them simply... observant."
Kate laughed—the first genuine expression of pleasure she had shown since entering the room.
The conversation flowed more easily after that. They discussed books—Kate and Edwina were both remarkably well-read, and their perspectives on literature and philosophy, shaped by years in India, complemented Carina's European education beautifully. They compared notes on travel, on the challenges of adapting to new societies, on the peculiarities of English social customs that all three found variously amusing and frustrating.
But Carina noticed something else as they talked. Kate's energy had a restless quality to it, as if she was still processing something significant. There was a brightness to her eyes that hadn't been there when she had first entered the room, and occasionally she seemed to drift away from the conversation entirely, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
It was during one of these moments that they heard scratching at the drawing room door, followed by an indignant whine.
"Oh!" Edwina jumped up. "That's Newton. I'm so sorry—he must have escaped from the kitchen."
The door opened to reveal a corgi of impressive determination and questionable discipline, who immediately made a beeline for Isabel, who had been quietly attending to the refreshment service from her position near the windows.
"Newton, no—" Kate started, but she's too late.
The dog had already launched himself at Isabel, who dropped into a crouch to accept his attention with obvious delight. Her careful composure dissolved into genuine laughter as Newton attempted to lick every inch of her face while simultaneously trying to climb into her lap.
"I'm so sorry," Kate said, though she was smiling now in a way that transformed her entire face. "He's usually better behaved than this, but he seems to have taken a particular liking to—"
"Isabel," Carina supplied, watching as her normally reserved handmaid dissolved into giggles under Newton's enthusiastic assault. "And apparently the feeling is mutual."
"He's wonderful," Isabel managed between laughs, catching Newton's face between her hands to look into his bright, intelligent eyes. "What a handsome boy you are. Yes, you are."
Newton responded by attempting to climb completely into her lap, despite being entirely too large for such ambitions.
"You're not concerned about..." Kate hesitated, glancing at Carina. "Forgive me, but I know some people of your station consider animals rather... unsanitary."
Carina laughed, reaching down to scratch behind Newton's ears as he settled more comfortably against her. "The opposite, actually. I love dogs—they're way more honest than most people, and infinitely better company."
Newton seemed to sense her genuine affection and responded by pressing his head more firmly into her hand, tail wagging with obvious contentment. "Though I do appreciate regular baths for all concerned parties."
Kate's laugh was surprised and delighted. "Oh, Newton is bathed religiously. Edwina insists on it, despite his protests."
"He smells like roses most of the time," Edwina added with fond exasperation. "Though he does his best to remedy that situation whenever possible."
Newton, as if understanding that he was being discussed, opened one eye to regard Edwina with what could only be described as dignified reproach before closing it again and leaning more heavily into Carina's touch.
Apparently finding her acceptable, Newton settled himself across her feet with the satisfied air of a dog who had claimed new territory.
"Well," Lady Danbury observed with dry amusement, "it appears Newton has declared his approval of our new arrangements."
The warmth of the dog's solid weight against her legs was unexpectedly comforting. Carina reached down cautiously to pat his head, marveling at how soft his fur was, how solid and real his presence felt in this world that still seemed half like a dream.
"He's quite the judge of character, isn't he?" she murmured.
"The finest," Kate agreed, and there was something in her tone that suggested this wasn't entirely a joke. "Newton has yet to be wrong about people."
"Speaking of which," Lady Danbury said, settling back in her chair with obvious satisfaction, "I believe it's time we discussed practical matters. There's to be a ball tomorrow evening—a soireé, really, and your first proper introduction to society."
Carina's pulse quickened. She knew exactly what ball this was, what it would mean for Kate and Edwina's social prospects, and what dramatic events it would set in motion. The question was whether her presence would change any of it.
"A ball," Mary said, her voice carrying a slight tremor of nerves. "So Her Majesty will be in attendance, then?"
"Well, there is no reason for concern, Lady Mary," Lady Danbury replied with characteristic dryness. "You will be with me, after all."
Lady Danbury straightened, her tone becoming brisk and businesslike. "Now, I have made all the arrangements. The pianoforte is tuned, the instructors hired. Dance lessons begin at noon, followed by a short but comprehensive visit from a lovely French tutor I have secured." She gestured imperiously. "Well, stand up. Both of you."
Lady Danbury watched them rise with the satisfied expression of someone whose plans were proceeding exactly as anticipated.
"Exceptional posture. Beautiful smiles. Of course, the age of the elder Miss may raise some concern. Any suitable man will require persuasion, whether we like it or not—as she will already be considered an old maid at the mature age of..."
"Six and twenty, ma'am," Kate interjected smoothly. "But it should truly be of no concern, as I assure you that I am not here to find a husband for myself. I am only here for my sister—who, indeed, stands quite tall and smiles rather exquisitely. Even more so when she speaks French, I always think."
Edwina stepped forward with perfect poise. "I have been studying French since I was ten years old, Lady Danbury. And I am most excited to share my language skills with you and anyone else who wishes to hear them," she replied in flawless French.
And Carina understood . At least she had some knowledge in her brain waiting to be unlocked.
Kate beamed at her younger sister with unmistakable pride. "She is also accomplished in both Latin and Greek—in addition to Marathi and Hindustani, of course. She not only plays the sitar and maruli but pianoforte, too. And as for her dancing, well, it is quite remarkable if I do say so myself. And I do say so, considering it was I who taught my sister the cotillion, the quadrille, and the waltz. Self-taught, naturally. But, as I said, quite remarkable nonetheless."
Carina leaned in, close enough that only Isabel could hear. “I can dance these dances, right?”
“Of course you can, Carina,” Isabel murmured, struggling not to smile.
“And which languages do I speak? You know, in case someone asks.”
“Portuguese and English, obviously. You also speak French and Spanish—and you can read Latin, German, and Greek.”
Carina blinked. “What the fuck.”
“Language, Your Highness!” Isabel gasped, scandalized. It’s honestly adorable.
Kate turned back to Lady Danbury with careful politeness. "I do hope you did not go to too much trouble finding all of those instructors."
"Not at all," Lady Danbury waved a dismissive hand.
"But we were hoping for your assistance with our wardrobe?" Kate continued. "I would like to be certain my sister is only seen in the latest of fashions."
"I have seen to that. You will find new dresses in your rooms."
Lady Danbury's sharp gaze turned to Carina. "Well, then. Carina, I trust your wardrobe is adequate for such an occasion?"
“Isabel’s ensured I’m equipped for any social eventuality,” Carina said, glancing toward her with genuine affection.
Lady Danbury's smile sharpened like a blade. "Excellent. The Sharma ladies are already well-prepared, thanks to their mother's excellent planning." Her eyes glittered with anticipation. "I suspect tomorrow evening will prove most illuminating for everyone involved."
As the afternoon progressed, the conversation turned to more immediate practical concerns—what to expect at various social events, which families were considered allies or enemies, the intricate web of relationships that defined London's high society. But throughout it all, Carina noticed Kate's restless energy, the way her gaze occasionally drifted to the window, the small smile that appeared and disappeared without warning.
As they prepared to part ways for the evening, Kate caught Carina's arm gently.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "For the conversation, for understanding about... well, everything. I haven't had many opportunities to speak with someone who doesn't judge my interests."
"Your interests don't deserve to be judged," Carina replied firmly. "They're yours. That automatically makes them valid."
Kate's smile was warm and genuine, but there was something else in her expression—a kind of anticipation that hadn't been there this morning.
"I think we're gonna be amazing friends," she said.
"Oh, absolutely."
Notes:
EDIT: 15/08/25
Chapter Text
Rio de Janeiro, 15th of March, 1814
My beloved Carina,
The sea’s vast expanse carries not only this letter but the deep affection and pride of your family. Your mother and I have watched with admiration as you have grown into a woman whose intellect and courage surpass the expectations of any court or lineage.
Though Tomás will inherit our family's dukedom, it is you who possess the spirit that guides us all. Your journey—across continents and courts—has prepared you in ways mere birthright never could.
I imagine you walking those English halls with your quick step and quicker eyes, nodding politely while thinking two conversations ahead. I wonder if they realize yet that you are not simply well-bred, but formidable.
Rio is as it ever was—sun-warmed stone, loud mornings, the scent of citrus and salt. Your brother fills the palace with noise. He parrots matters with all the gravity of a boy who has not yet lived enough. I let him talk. But when I want the truth of things—when I want to understand the shape of a foreign treaty or how some things simply work—I still find myself reaching for you.
You always saw the angles others missed. Even as a child, you understood where the winds were turning before the weather changed or asked a million questions to understand everything better.
Carina, I know what is expected of you. So do you. This visit to England is many things: a show of goodwill, a gesture of alliance, and yes, perhaps to a union. I will not insult you by pretending otherwise.
England’s society is a maze of whispers and tradition, but I have faith in your wisdom and wit to chart your own course. Your marriage will be a matter of state and alliance, yes, but also one where your voice and choice matter. You carry the respect of your family—and I promise, whoever you choose will be accepted and supported.
Remember, you are both daughter and diplomat; your power lies not just in name, but in mind and will. Stand tall and speak true.
You are under no obligation to please anyone but yourself. We did not raise you to be agreeable. We raised you to think and to choose.
Whoever you bring to me—should you ever wish to bring anyone—I will welcome them as a son, or not at all, depending on how they look at you when you speak of things that you care.
You are my daughter, but more than that—you are my compass, my counsel, and the echo of every hope I once had for the world.
We await the day you write to us with news of your triumphs and discoveries.
Ever your loving father,
Dom José de Bragança
3rd Duke of Coimbra
Rio de Janeiro, 15th of March, 1814
My dear Carina,
The distance between us is bridged by my thoughts of you, shining with that fierce intelligence and grace only you possess. England will welcome you with all its grandeur and intrigue, but never forget that you carry with you the spirit of both our worlds—Portuguese resolve and English fortitude.
Our family in England watches over you from afar, as they do not reside in London, and Lady Danbury’s guardianship ensures you have a strong protector and guide. This season truly promises unusual excitement this year. I trust you to observe everything and report the most scandalous details—your letters are my only entertainment in this provincial exile your father insists upon calling paradise, he loves this place and so does Tomás.
I am proud of the woman you are becoming, one who challenges the constraints of her time with wisdom and courage. You have always been my sharp-witted, rebellious daughter—never let that flame dim.
The Bridgerton connection should prove beneficial. Violet is everything I was not at her age—domestic, serene, devoted to producing beautiful children. Her eldest daughter's marriage last season was quite romantic, by all accounts. The family appears to value genuine affection over mere convenience, which speaks well of their character.
Choose your friends carefully, darling. London society can be treacherous for young women who think too much and speak too freely. But do not diminish yourself for their comfort—you are worth a dozen empty-headed debutants, regardless of their bloodlines.
Your father sends his love wrapped in botanical specimens, as usual. I send mine wrapped in practical advice: smile often, listen more than you speak, and remember that intelligence deployed subtly is far more effective than intelligence displayed obviously.
May this letter remind you that no matter the customs or expectations, your family stands beside you, steadfast and unwavering.
With all my love, your mother.
Eleanor
Rio de Janeiro, 15th of March, 1814
Sister,
Papai says I must write to you in English for practice, but I think English is stupid and Portuguese is better. But I will try because you are the best sister in the world and I miss you terribly already.
Hope you’re not bossing the English around too much! Papai says I’m the heir and must start my studies, but don’t think that means you can stop telling me what to do when you come back. I’m trying to keep our home in one piece, but it’s not the same without you causing trouble with me.
The new tutor says I have your same dreadful habit of asking too many questions. I told him you said questions are more important than answers, but he didn't seem impressed.
Have you seen any pirates?
Come home soon. Everything here is boring without you.
Tomás
Notes:
Look, Is this family dynamic historically accurate? Absolutely not. Am I gonna fix it? Also no. These are all OCs since they're not on any real family tree, so I'm just having fun with it.
Also, just for curiosity—her father being Duke of Coimbra is actually historically accurate! This dukedom was typically given to sons who weren't the heir. In this case and time period, that would've been Dom João VI, who was already acting as regent for his mother, the Queen, Dona Maria I. So Dom José, Carina's father, gets this title instead.
Also started posting this on Wattpad for the graphics because we all know that's the only appeal. My user is @astrithal_
Chapter Text
Carina stood before the full-length mirror while Isabel worked behind her, fingers flying over the intricate lacings of a corset that managed to be both more restrictive and more revealing than anything she had worn before.
The gown was a deliberate choice—deep crimson silk embroidered with gold thread in patterns that spoke of fashion imagined for warmer countries, cut lower at the bust and waist than the ton typically wore.
"Are you certain about this, princesa?" Isabel's voice carried that careful neutrality that meant I will support you, but please reconsider . "We brought other dresses."
"Absolutely." Carina adjusted the neckline, watching how candlelight caught the gold embroidery. "If I'm going to be presented as an exotic curiosity, I might as well look the part."
The dress transformed her. Gone was any pretense of propriety—this was royalty in all its foreign, unsettling glory. The deep red made her skin glow like warm honey, while gold threading caught the light with every breath.
She looked expensive, untouchable, and vaguely dangerous.
Perfect.
Her hair cascaded in a dark waterfall of glossy waves, styled not in soft ringlets fashionable among English debutantes, but swept into an elaborate updo braided with more gold. At the crown sat a tiara of emeralds.
Isabel fastened a necklace with matching emeralds around her throat—stones the size of quail's eggs that sparkled in the light. "The other ladies typically wear white or pastels."
"Yes, I know." Carina's smile sharpened.
A pause. Then: "Do we have any perfumes that aren't overwhelmingly floral?"
Isabel straightened, thoughtful. "Yes. You made some before we left. They should be ready by now."
Carina stared at her. "Really?"
Isabel lifted one brow. "You labeled them and everything."
"…Huh."
She filed that away under unexpected competence —though, well, wasn't perfume basic chemistry, botanic and creativity? A moment later, Isabel reappeared with a small velvet bag filled with neatly labeled glass vials. Her own handwriting, surprisingly legible.
Apparently, she had been in full overachiever mode the week before departure. At least her biochem degree might actually be useful for something in this century, even if it was to make herself smell good.
She chose one which was sweet and smoky. She smelled cardamom—warm, sharp, a little unexpected and then the vanilla: smooth, not sugary. Sweet like heat, not sugar.
Well, if they were going bold, might as well go all in.
Lady Danbury swept in wearing midnight blue silk and an expression of barely contained delight before Carina could second-guess her choices.
"Oh, my dear girl." Lady Danbury circled her slowly, taking in every detail. "You look absolutely..."
"Scandalous?"
"Magnificent." Lady Danbury's smile turned wicked. "You're going to cause such a delicious uproar. The Queen will be beside herself with pleasure—she's been complaining about how dull the young ladies have become. And the gentlemen—well, men are men no matter which side of the world they're from." Lady Danbury adjusted one of Carina's emerald earrings with what might have been maternal pride. "Either way, you will have their complete attention."
Through the window, Carina could see carriages beginning to arrive—the London ton in all their glittering finery, here to see and be seen, to whisper and scheme and dance the elaborate social choreography that determined who rose and who fell.
"Are you ready?" Lady Danbury asked.
Carina took one last look at herself in the mirror.
The woman staring back was regal, composed, wrapped in the trappings of power she had never asked for but was learning to wield. The gown might have been borrowed from another life—but the eyes were hers. Still sharp. Still certain. The eyes of a woman who had studied through exhaustion, worked ten-hour days, and passed every exam without flinching.
"I'm ready."
Through her bedroom window, Carina could see the last of the carriages arriving—the London ton in all their glittering finery, here to see and be seen, to whisper and scheme and dance the elaborate social choreography that determined who rose and who fell.
Showtime.
The footman opened the door. A hundred pairs of eyes were already waiting, because apparently the London social scene had nothing better to do than gossip about new arrivals.
By the time she reached the threshold of Lady Danbury's conservatory, where the ball was happening, whispers spread like wildfire across the assembled crowd.
Then the announcement rang out: "Her Royal Highness, Infanta Carina Maria Helena de Bragança of Portugal."
Well, at least I know all my names. And it's not as many as Princess Isabel.
The effect was immediate and electric. Conversations stopped mid-sentence. Fans fluttered to a halt. Every head in the room turned toward the grand staircase where Carina stood, poised and perfect in her crimson silk.
She walked slowly, each step calculated while she fought the urge to fidget. The red dress sparkled in the candlelight, the emeralds at her throat catching every flicker.
She wasn't making an entrance—she was claiming her place. She had spent days thinking and browsing her brain for a solution to survive this real life hallucination. She had a title and protection, her parents said so. So she would own it.
When she reached her destination, she curtsied to Queen Charlotte.
"Your Majesty." Her voice carried clearly across the suddenly quiet room.
Queen Charlotte's eyes lit up with unmistakable delight. "Your Highness. How... refreshing to see someone who understands the importance of making a proper impression."
Is that Material Girl playing? A string quartet version? The absurdity of it almost broke her composure, but Carina kept her smile wicked-sweet and practiced.
"I wouldn't dare risk disappointing the generosity of your hospitality, Your Majesty."
The Queen's approval rippled through the crowd like a stone dropped in still water. Suddenly everyone wanted to be introduced, to claim even a moment of the exotic princess's attention.
The Bridgerton family stood near the refreshment tables like a small galaxy, full of gravitational pull of English propriety.
Even from a distance, she could identify them—Violet in lavender silk restraining a fidgeting Eloise. Benedict stood beside their mother, handsome in that effortless way of men born to privilege. And there, dark-haired and commanding even in stillness, Anthony Bridgerton.
She looked him up and down with the thoroughness of someone appraising horseflesh at the market.
The Viscount Bridgerton. Capital-R-Rake.
Well, Jonathan Bailey is just absurdly handsome. It’s so unfair.
The corner of her mouth curved in something that wasn't quite a smile before she deliberately turned away to greet her next introduction.
The crowd parted again—Carina started scanning for her allies. Before she could take a step toward the windows, a familiar cane tapped the polished floor with practiced precision.
"Don't look so hopeful, Your Highness."
Carina stopped, sighed internally, and turned towards the voice.
Lady Danbury stood unmoved. "There's someone you ought to meet."
Lord Bertram Crawley approached like a man who had never smiled for anything other than land acquisition. Late thirties, tall, with the kind of face that probably discussed crop yields over breakfast.
Boring , Carina thought, but maintained a diplomatic smile through Lady Danbury's introduction.
"A pleasure to welcome a representative of Portugal. Or... Brazil?"
"Both. Rio, specifically." She kept her tone light. "That's where the court resides these days."
His disapproval radiated like heat from a coal stove. "A curious arrangement. To move the entire monarchy overseas."
"Yes, well. We found the whole French invasion rather persuasive."
Lady Danbury's cough—possibly a laugh, possibly a warning—provided cover for her escape attempt. But Wexford offered his arm for the waltz, and declining would have caused more scene than she wanted.
Thank God for muscle memory. Whatever princess lessons the original Carina had endured, they saved her from complete humiliation now. Her feet knew exactly where to step, automatically adjusting to his lead.
"You dance adequately," he observed, like he was surprised she could manage basic coordination. "Though I should expect royal households to instill proper discipline."
What followed was a masterclass in condescension disguised as conversation. Climate observations about tropical excesses. Lectures on civilized comportment and the dangers of educating women beyond arts and French. His palm barely warmed against her waist while he pontificated about feminine intellects requiring careful direction.
When he concluded that excessive learning unsettled the feminine temperament, Carina's patience finally snapped.
"How fascinating. You know, I spent a few years studying mathematics, natural philosophy, even some medical texts. I found it quite... settling, actually. Though perhaps you're right—such knowledge does make one rather... difficult to manage."
His face cycled through several interesting colors. The final notes of the waltz sounded like salvation.
Lady Danbury was waiting at the edge of the dance floor with a knowing look and a glass on her hand, which she offered to Carina.
"I loathe you a little right now."
"He's valuable, you know." But Danbury's amusement suggested she enjoyed watching Wexford squirm.
"So is mold, in the right place."
Danbury laughed—actually laughed—and waved her away like a misbehaving niece. "Go find someone who doesn't bore you to death. God knows the room needs more sparks."
Carina didn't need to be told twice.
She turned her gaze back to the crowd, scanning for someone who might actually be worth talking to. After Wexford, she needed someone with a functioning brain and a spine.
Near the windows, Kate Sharma stood apart from the crowd with alert posture—someone perpetually ready to defend or deflect. Edwina glowed in pristine white, surrounded by eager suitors, while Lady Mary hovered with nervous maternal energy.
"Kate." Carina approachef with genuine relief. "You look beautiful."
Kate turned, clearly grateful for the distraction. "Your Highness. You look..." She paused, taking in the red dress and emeralds. "Absolutely stunning. And decidedly not English."
"Thank God for that. And it's Carina."
"Carina. That goes against every etiquette lesson I've ever received."
"Yeah, I love that for us."
Kate's smile turned equally mischievous. "I have a feeling this season is going to be far more interesting than any of us anticipated."
"Oh, I'm counting on it." Carina raised her untouched glass in a mock toast. "To interesting times, Kate Sharma."
"To interesting times, Carina de Bragança."
They were still laughing when the crowd around them began to shift, conversations growing quieter, and Carina realized that someone was approaching. Someone whose presence commanded attention even in silence.
"That's Viscount Bridgerton," Kate observed with obvious disdain. "The season's most eligible bachelor, apparently. I heard him talking outside, he's not looking for love—just a woman with desirable qualities to mother his children. The ladies here keep falling short of his impossibly high standards, apparently."
"Sounds like a real catch," Carina said dryly.
But the ballroom had grown stifling, thick with perfume and perspiration and the weight of too many expectations. She needed air, space to breathe and think and prepare for whatever comes next.
The garden doors whispered open, and cool night air filled her lungs for the first time since entering the ballroom.
Behind her, the music and laughter continued, but here in the moonlit gardens, she could finally let her shoulders drop, let the performance slip.
So she breathed.
It was unsettling to have pure air like this—she was used to fumes from cars and buses, the smell of big cities and more than a million people cluttered together. Here, there were only flowers, grass, and the smell of rain—and, occasionally, unwashed bodies.
The Danbury estate gardens stretched before her in moonlit splendor, all carefully manicured hedgerows and geometric flower beds that spoke of an obsession with controlling nature. Gravel paths wound between towering topiaries shaped into perfect spirals, while climbing roses spilled over stone archways in studied elegance.
It was beautiful in a way only old and luxurious things could be.
Beautiful and suffocating.
How could she do this? She was a scientist, for fuck's sake.
A 21st-century independent woman who had spent years fighting for respect in male-dominated fields, and now she was trapped in the ultimate period drama nightmare—complete with corsets, curtseying, and men who thought women's brains were decorative.
Being stuck in a Netflix adaptation should’ve been fun, except she couldn't fast-forward through the boring parts or rage-quit when the protagonist made stupid decisions. Because she was some kind of protagonist, and apparently her character arc involved actually socializing for political stability and—God have mercy—marriage!
At least her parents' letters had soothed something in her and made her remember a little bit more about them.
She could feel her chest getting tighter, and the damn corset was definitely not helping her impending panic attack. She gripped the stone balustrade, focusing on its coolness against her palms, counting breaths like her therapist had taught her.
"Your Highness."
Shit.
A voice cut through her spiral, reminding her when and where she was. She straightened quickly, hoping whoever it was hadn't caught her mid-breakdown, and forced her breathing to steady.
You are a fucking princess, Carina. Get your shit together.
She took one more steadying breath, slipping back into the role like putting on armor.
She turned, and there he was.
Anthony Bridgerton bowed with grace tinged by stiffness—like he was unaccustomed to acknowledging hierarchical superiors. When he straightened, moonlight caught the sharp angles of his face, all aristocratic severity and barely leashed control. More imposing than any screen could capture, broader through the shoulders, with an intensity that charged the air between them.
He should have at least one flaw. But no.
"Oh, hello. How can I help you...?"
She knew who he was, of course, but making men squirm in her far more important presence had become a new hobby of hers, it appeared.
It was petty, sure, but after years of being talked over in conference rooms by men half as qualified, watching a viscount flounder because she didn't know his name felt like good karma.
"Viscount Bridgerton, Your Highness." His voice was clipped, but she caught something underneath—perhaps irritation. "I apologize for the intrusion. Lady Danbury mentioned you might require... escort back to the ballroom."
That's a lie, and not even a good one.
"How thoughtful of Lady Danbury," Carina said, an accent caught her tone. "Though I must confess, I'm perfectly capable of finding my own way back to a building I can see from here."
Surprise flickered across his expression. Most women would have simpered gratefully at his attention.
"Of course, Your Highness. I merely think..." He paused, reconsidering his words. "You appear to be in some distress."
"Distress?" She tilted her head, genuinely curious. "Were you watching me, Lord Bridgerton?"
The directness of the question clearly caught him off guard. A muscle in his jaw ticked—barely perceptible, but she’d spent enough time learning how to read people's tells to catch it.
"I happen to notice your... abrupt departure from the ballroom."
"Ah." She began to walk slowly along the garden path, forcing him to either follow or risk appearing rude by staying rooted in place. After a moment's hesitation, he fell into step beside her.
"And you thought to yourself, there goes a foreign princess in need of rescue. " Her voice was light, almost amused. "How... gentlemanly of you." She says the word with disgust, anything but kind.
"I think no such thing." A hint of steel entered his voice.
"No? Then what do you think?"
The question hung between them while they walked. She could see him weighing his response, probably trying to determine what would be most diplomatically appropriate. How tedious.
"I think," he said finally, "that you look like a woman who values solitude and might not appreciate unwanted company."
"And yet here you are, providing exactly that."
"Yes." His mouth curves in what might be the ghost of a smile. "I find myself... curious about contradictions."
"Contradictions?"
"A woman who commands a ballroom like that but then flees to the gardens like she can't bear another moment of it."
The observation was too sharp and it made something defensive rise in her chest. "Perhaps I simply prefer fresh air to the suffocating atmosphere of... people."
"Perhaps." He stopped walking, forcing her to turn and face him.
"That’s quite presumptuous of you, Lord Bridgerton." She schooled her features back into composure.
"I've been called worse."
Despite herself, she laughed—a genuine sound that surprised them both. "I'm certain you have. Tell me, do you make a habit of psyc... analyzing every woman you encounter?"
"Only the interesting ones."
The admission hung between them, charged with possibility. That dangerous flutter returned to her chest—nothing to do with corsets, everything to do with how Anthony Bridgerton looked at her like she was a puzzle worth solving rather than a prize to be won.
Dangerous territory.
"I should return," she said without moving. "I'm sure my absence has been noted."
"I'm sure it has." But he didn't step aside, didn't clear the path. Instead, he moved closer—close enough that she smelled his cologne, sandalwood and something darker. "Though I confess, I find your company far more stimulating than anything waiting inside."
"Stimulating?" She arched an eyebrow. "How scandalous. Whatever will people say?"
"That depends entirely on what you give them to talk about, Your Highness."
The challenge in his voice made her pulse quicken. This was flirtation of the most dangerous kind—intelligent, subtle, and entirely mutual. The kind that led to complications she didn’t want.
And yet...
"You know," she said thoughtfully, "I hear the most interesting things about you, Lord Bridgerton."
"All terrible, I'm sure."
"Oh, undoubtedly. They say you're a rake. A scoundrel who breaks hearts and makes mothers lock up their daughters." She stepped closer, close enough to see the way his pupils dilated. "They say you have no interest in marriage, no desire for domestic bliss, no patience for proper young ladies who simper and swoon."
"They say many things." His voice roughened despite his attempt at control.
"Yes, they do." She smiled, slow and dangerous. "Yet they also say you're the most eligible bachelor of the season, intended to find a wife."
Something shuttered in his expression. "Ah. So we come to it."
"Come to what?"
"You're here to audition for the role then, like all the rest."
For a moment, Carina stared at him, incredulous.
Then she threw back her head and laughed—a full-blown cackle that echoed off the garden walls and probably carried all the way back to the ballroom.
"I don't—" Anthony attempted to interfere.
"Oh my God! Are you fucking serious?" she gasped, wiping tears from her eyes. "You followed me out here. You approached me. And now you have the audacity to suggest I'm chasing after you?" She dissolved into fresh peals of laughter. "Jesus , the ego of men never stops to amaze me."
His jaw tightened. "I don't mean—"
"Oh, but you did." She stepped closer, pure predatory amusement replacing flirtation. "Let me clarify something for you, Lord Bridgerton. I am a princess. My father is a prince and a duke and my family held the throne of Portugal for centuries. My marriage will secure trade agreements, political alliances, and enough dowry to fund anything and everything for the next decade."
She circled him slowly, like a cat toying with its prey. "You would gain immeasurably from an association with me. I, on the other hand, would acquire a playboy with commitment issues and a title beneath my own. Which is to say—absolutely nothing valuable. So tell me, which one of us should be auditioning here?"
The question hung in the air between them like a blade. Anthony's carefully controlled expression wavered, uncertainty flickering across his features for the first time since she had known him.
"I..." He started, then stopped, apparently realizing he had no good comeback.
"Exactly." Carina's smile was all teeth and satisfaction. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I've had quite enough fresh air for one evening."
She turned toward the ballroom with regal composure, then paused long enough to glance back over her shoulder.
"Oh, and Lord Bridgerton? Next time you decide to lie to my face, at least make it believable. Lady Danbury knows perfectly well that I don't need an escort."
She didn't wait for his response. The stunned silence behind her was enough.
She left him standing there in the moonlight, but she could feel his gaze following her all the way back to the ballroom doors.
And that, she thought while rejoining the glittering crowd, was either clever or stupid.
Only time would tell which.
Notes:
For those who don’t know, Princess Isabel’s full name was Isabel Cristina Leopoldina Augusta Micaela Gabriela Rafaela Gonzaga de Bragança e Bourbon—which, yes, is a lot of names, and yes, I had to memorize them as a kid. She was a princess and regent of Brazil, best known for signing the Lei Áurea (Golden Law), which officially abolished slavery in Brazil in 1888.
Also, just a heads-up: the next chapter might take a little longer to arrive. I’ve been writing almost every day because I was on vacation, but tomorrow I go back to real life—and by real life, I mean being an adult with two jobs. I’ll still be working on the story, just not as quickly. Thanks so much for reading and sticking with me!
Chapter Text
Carina had been having dreams. Strange dreams.
They came in fragments—sun-warmed memories that belonged to someone else but felt increasingly like her own. The original Carina's life bled through in moments of unguarded sleep, imprints that she couldn't shake.
In the latest one, she walked on a beach with her father, the prince father. Carina's original one—warm and present and hers in ways that made her chest ache when she woke.
He stood tall and elegant, with the same olive-toned skin she recognized from her own reflection, though weathered by the years. His dark hair bore silver streaks at the temples, and when he smiled the resemblance between them was unmistakable. The same sharp intelligence sparkled in his dark eyes, the same stubborn set defined his jaw.
The sand was white and fine between her bare toes, and she could taste salt in the air. Rio, probably. She looked older in this, maybe sixteen, caught between the naivety of adolescence and the responsibility of adulthood—and she remembered Portugal's court had gone to Brazil in 1808.
"Carina," he said, putting an arm around her shoulders with the casual affection of a father who still believed he could protect his daughter from the world. "I know you don't want to go, child."
"It's so far away, pai." Her voice—younger, more vulnerable than she'd ever allowed herself to sound in her real life—carried all the petulance of someone who'd never had to hide her feelings behind masks. "And for too long."
"I know." His grip tightened, and she could feel the weight of everything he wasn't saying—the political pressures, the alliance-building, the careful dance of power that required daughters to be moved like chess pieces across continents. "But you, Carina, will be the one to learn from court to court. You love learning, aren't you a little excited?"
And she was. Even in the dream, even through her protests, a spark of curiosity flickered—achingly familiar. The hunger for knowledge, for understanding, for access to ideas and books and conversations that had long since run dry where she was.
"I am. But I'll miss you. And Tomás is only six, still a baby. I wanted more time with him."
Tomás. The name hit her with a rush of fierce, protective love. Her baby brother—gap-toothed grins and earnest questions and the kind of unconditional adoration only a brother could offer. He had their olive skin but their mother's hazel eyes, a combination that made him startlingly beautiful and impossibly young.
"You will come back before going to England, spend a while with family."
"Pai, please…"
"This breaks my heart, carinho." The endearment was honey-sweet, weighted with a father's love and pragmatism. "I want you to have the world, and I know that if you stay, you will be angry. There is not much more we can teach you here."
"I will miss you, pai. You and mama are the only ones who believe in me."
"Your intelligence will be your power—learn to wield it. In the end, you will spend a season in London and… society is tougher there, even if you have more freedom."
Freedom. The word carried weight, promise and warning combined. England would offer opportunities that Portugal couldn't—access to ideas, to scientific advancement, to a society that might value intellect alongside birth. But it would also demand sacrifices she wasn't yet old enough to understand.
"But I don't want to get married!"
"And you don't have to," her father said, and even in the dream she could hear the careful qualification that would follow. "But the Queen asked for you from your mother's family, so you will be going. And if you meet someone…"
"Ew, men."
Her father's laugh was warm and indulgent, the sound of a man who remembered being young enough to think love was optional. "Isabel will be with you every step, as your handmaid. She will be by your side, as she always has been."
Isabel. Even in this borrowed memory, the name brought comfort—the promise of loyalty, of friendship, of someone who would help without judgment, of love.
The memory dissolved. Carina scrubbed furiously at her arms with a cloth soaked in lavender and rosemary water, trying to wash away the lingering warmth of affection that belonged to someone else. The dreams were getting more frequent, more vivid—emotional bleeding through the cracks of her already fractured existence.
She was starting to remember.
And she couldn't shake a slight impatience with that younger version of herself—so trusting, so willing to be moved around like a chess piece. At least now she understood the game well enough to play it properly.
The copper bathtub—a luxury she had insisted on having moved to her rooms—steamed with properly boiled water infused with thyme, sage, and a careful blend of more antiseptic herbs she had requested from the apothecary.
Isabel had raised eyebrows at the specific requests: "Marigold, witch hazel, tea tree oil if you can find it—though you might have to call it melaleuca." But she had procured everything without question, because Isabel was a blessing among humans, even atheistic ones.
Could she even call herself an atheist if she’d experienced reincarnation firsthand? Better not give herself even more anxiety.
She sank deeper into the bath, letting the warmth ease the tension from her shoulders.
She missed showers.
Not any showers. The kind where you belt out Queen at full volume, turning the bathroom into your own personal Bohemian Rhapsody.
"Princesa?" Isabel's voice carried from the adjoining chamber. "The modiste has arrived for your appointment."
"Five more minutes," Carina called back, reluctant to leave the soothing water. This was the only time since arriving that she’d felt truly clean—truly safe from the horrors lurking in every surface of the nineteenth -fucking- century.
When she finally emerged, properly dried and dressed in a silk robe, she noticed a new bouquet on her dressing table that hadn't been there before. Isabel must have brought it in while she was bathing.
Three days had passed since Lady Danbury's soirée, and she was still stewing.
Anthony Bridgerton, Viscount and walking statue of aristocratic brooding, had somehow managed to offend her within five minutes of direct conversation. Which wouldn't be so remarkable if it weren't for the fact that she had known him before. Or at least, a version of him she'd watched from a safe distance in her former life: magnetic, dutiful, almost perfect in that fictional, emotionally stunted, slow-burn-love-interest way.
Anthony as a character had been a thing. But as a real human being?
Flawed. Predictably, infuriatingly flawed.
But apparently capable of apologies.
The first bouquet was crisp, symmetrical, and neat. Bound in navy silk and delivered in silence.
Carina glanced at it, unimpressed, and went back to her book. Isabel paused, eyeing the bouquet with narrowing suspicion.
"Hyacinths for sorrow. Tulips for forgiveness. Violets for humility. Someone's groveling."
Carina raised an eyebrow. "You speak fluent flower-y?"
"I’ve always loved flowers," Isabel replied. "A florist I knew used to say a good bouquet could smooth things over—or complicate it."
Carina rolled her eyes. "Hopefully not."
"There is also a note." Said note was brief, handwritten in ink so black it bled slightly at the corners:
Your Highness,
It appears I've a particular gift for saying the wrong thing at precisely the wrong moment. I now find myself in the unenviable position of apologizing to someone far more eloquent than I. Still—I hope this makes a start.
— A. Bridgerton
She tossed it aside with the sort of casual disdain only made possible by intense, focused rereading.
That had been the first one after the soirée.
Since then she had received two more and didn't ask Isabel for translation. She didn't need to.
At least the whole ordeal had been educational—she had learned she could hold her own in Regency-era verbal sparring, and more importantly, that her muscle memory extended to dancing. Waltzes, quadrilles, country dances—her feet had known them all, even if her conscious mind had never learned the steps.
"The modiste is waiting," Isabel reminded her gently.
Madame Delacroix was already waiting in the sitting room with an array of fabric samples that made Carina's modern sensibilities sing—and cry—all at once.
Deep jewel tones, sumptuous textures, and cuts that spoke of Continental influence rather than English.
"Your Highness," Madame Delacroix curtseyed with grace, accent fake as hell. "Lady Danbury mentioned you might require additions to your wardrobe. Something perhaps more... fitted to London society?"
"Actually, I was thinking the opposite." Carina settled into a chair, accepting the coffee Isabel provided. "I want gowns that make it clear I'm not trying to blend in. Maybe a mix of styles, but adapted for English seasons."
The modiste's eyes lit up with professional interest. "Ah, magnifique. You wish to make a statement."
"Several statements, actually." Carina picked up a sample of midnight blue silk shot through with silver threads. "I want the ton to remember exactly who they're dealing with."
Over the next hour, they designed a wardrobe that was politics disguised as fashion. Day dresses in rich colors that complemented her tanned complexion. Evening gowns that toed the line between propriety and provocation.
Carina eyed the bolt of cerulean sarcenet. "I want pockets."
A beat of silence. One apprentice fumbled a pincushion.
"Pockets," Madame Delacroix repeated.
"Deep ones. In every gown. Hidden seams, preferably."
"But the fashion—"
"—is a society fiction we're paid to perpetuate." Carina plucked a swatch of emerald brocade from the pile. "This. With the black lace. And pockets."
Madame Delacroix's laughter rang loud. "Black? Oui, you will look magnifique in black."
She almost asked for some pants, but limits.
After the modiste departed, Carina found herself bored.
No trashy novels to binge. No Instagram. No PhD. No TikTok. No Netflix. Nothing.
The boredom led her to seek out the Sharma sisters, who’d been installed in the east wing of Lady Danbury's sprawling townhouse. She found them in the morning room, where Edwina was arranging calling cards with methodical precision.
"Good morning," Carina said, settling into a chair without waiting for an invitation and took out her handkerchief. "How is the conquest of London society going?"
Edwina looked up with a smile that was equal parts pleased and overwhelmed. "Quite well, I think? Though I'm not entirely certain I understand all the rules yet."
"There are no rules," Kate interjected from where she sat reading by the window. "Only preferences disguised as moral imperatives."
Carina laughed. "Exactly. Show me the damage."
Edwina spread the cards across the table like tarot readings. "Lord Lumley called yesterday—he appeared earnest, though he spent most of the visit discussing his mother's health. Mr. Henghway brought poetry, which was lovely, except it was all about shepherdesses and I've never seen a sheep. And Lord Kent brought flowers and asked if I might favor him with a song at the next soirée."
"And what did you tell him?"
"That I would be delighted, of course." Edwina's smile faltered slightly. "Though I'm beginning to wonder if being delightful is rather... exhausting."
The admission was so honest, so quietly vulnerable, that Carina felt something protective stir in her chest. She knew how this story was supposed to end: Kate with Anthony and a hurt Edwina with a foreign husband.
Edwina would not be hurt. Not on her watch.
"You know," Carina said carefully, "you're allowed to have preferences. Even about suitors." She watched Edwina's uncertain expression and felt that familiar urge to shout just choose different if you are unhappy .
"Am I?" Edwina's voice was small. "Because everyone keeps telling me how fortunate I am to have so many options, and I am grateful, truly. But sometimes I wonder if any of them actually see me, or what they think I represent."
Kate's head snapped up from her book, and Carina caught the flash of fierce protectiveness in her expression.
"Tell me about Lord Kent," Carina said. "What did you think of him?"
"He appeared kind. And when he smiled, it reached his eyes, which I've learned isn't always the case." Edwina considered this seriously. "He asked about my travels, about what I missed most about India. Most of the others only want to know if I find England superior."
"And do you?"
"Different. Not superior—different." Edwina's honesty was refreshing. "I miss the colors, the sounds, the way spices smell in the morning air. But I love the gardens here, the way everything is so green it almost hurts to look at."
"I know what you mean."
Edwina's eyes brightened with genuine curiosity. "What about you? You've traveled so extensively—what do you miss most about your homeland?"
Carina felt that familiar flutter of panic, but pushed through it. She could do this—blend truth with historical fiction, the Rio she knew with the Rio that existed now.
"The light," she said, and found that was entirely honest. "It's different in Brazil. Brighter, somehow. Makes everything look like it's sparkling."
"You speak of it like poetry," Edwina said softly.
"It's hard not to." Carina's voice warmed despite herself. "Though Rio still overwhelms sometimes. I was born in Lisbon and spent my early childhood there before the court's exile. Portugal is beautiful, but in a quieter way. Rio is..." She paused, thinking of both the historical Rio and the Rio she knew and visited. "Magnificent. But it's also... a lot. The heat, the noise, everyone trying to recreate things in a place that refuses to be anything but itself."
Kate had set down her book entirely now, drawn in despite herself.
"What I miss, though," Carina continued, "are the sounds. The city in the morning—church bells, but then you've got all these other voices mixed in. Portuguese, obviously, but also languages I never learned. The markets are insane. Everyone is shouting, haggling, and somehow it all works together like some mad symphony." She caught herself before mentioning anything too modern. "Plus the coffee. Dear God, the smell of coffee roasting. Makes everything else bearable."
"It sounds magnificent," Edwina breathed.
"It is. But it's also complicated." Carina shrugged. "You've got all these nobles trying to recreate what they left behind, but in a place that's nothing like home. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it's like trying to force a square block into a round hole. We're all homesick for different versions of home."
"Like here," Kate observed quietly. "Your customs are trying to fit into English society."
Carina shot her a look. "Something like that."
"Do you speak Portuguese at home?" Edwina asked. "I imagine it sounds lovely."
"Portuguese, yes, but also—" Carina thought about the Portuguese she grew up with, the contemporary Brazilian Portuguese mixed with indigenous and African influences. "The Portuguese of the court is quite formal, but in the markets, with the servants, it's more...musical. Softer. And there are words borrowed from the native languages that describe things English doesn't have words for."
"Such as?"
Carina thought carefully. "Saudade," she said finally. "It means... longing, but deeper than that. It's the feeling of missing something or someone, knowing it exists but being unable to touch it. The sweet sadness of remembering something perfect."
Both sisters went quiet at that, and Carina realized she might have said more than she intended.
"Is that what you feel now?" Edwina asked gently. "For Brazil?"
"Among other things," Carina admitted, then forced a lighter tone. "And I definitely miss the spices—the food here could use some."
Carina wanted to pat herself on the back. At least her history lessons were going to be useful for something.
They talked for another hour about everything and nothing—books they'd read, places they'd been, the peculiar customs they'd observed in various corners of the world. Edwina had a keen eye for detail and a gentle wit that emerged once she stopped trying to be perfectly agreeable.
Carina was beginning to understand why Kate was so fiercely protective of her younger sister. Edwina wasn't beautiful—she was genuinely good, in a way that made you want to shield her from a world designed to exploit such goodness.
A scratch at the door interrupted their conversation, followed by an indignant whine that could only belong to one creature.
"Newton," Kate sighed, but she was smiling. "How does he always know where to find us?"
The door opened to reveal Isabel, looking slightly harried, with Newton pressed against her legs like a furry shadow.
"I'm so sorry," Isabel said, though she was clearly fighting laughter. "He escaped from the kitchen and came straight here. I think he's developed an attachment."
Newton, as if to prove her point, immediately trotted over to Isabel and planted himself firmly across her feet, tail wagging with obvious satisfaction.
"He's decided you belong to him," Edwina observed with delight. "Newton has strong opinions about people."
Carina watched Isabel's face soften as she looked down at the corgi, something tender and unguarded in her expression. It was the same look she'd worn when she thought Carina wasn't paying attention—protective, fond, utterly without pretense.
"What kind of opinions?" Carina asked, watching the way Isabel's fingers moved through Newton's fur with natural gentleness.
"He loves children, tolerates most adults, and actively dislikes anyone who speaks too loudly or moves too quickly," Kate explained. "He also has an uncanny ability to judge character. I've never known him to be wrong about people."
Isabel looked down at Newton, who gazed back at her with obvious adoration. "Well, I'm honored by his approval."
"You should be," Edwina said seriously. "Newton's friendship is not given lightly."
"Isabel is the best," Carina said quietly, catching Isabel's eye. "And I've learned to trust your judgment about people too."
A flush of warmth crossed Isabel's features—pleased, surprised, and something that made Carina's chest tight. Isabel had always been careful to maintain proper behavior in public, but here, with Newton sprawled across her feet and her hair slightly mussed from chasing him through the house, she looked younger.
"Even when I'm being dragged through Lady Danbury's house by a determined corgi?" Isabel asked, and there was something almost playful in her voice.
"Especially then," Carina replied, and meant it. "You should see yourself—you look happy instead of worried about me."
Isabel laughed, a real laugh that crinkled her eyes. "Can you blame me?"
That afternoon brought the ritual of the fashionable promenade through Hyde Park, which Carina approached with the same enthusiasm she had reserved for blood exams.
But Lady Danbury insisted it was essential for maintaining social visibility, so Carina found herself properly gloved and bonneted, as well as Isabel, walking the prescribed routes while navigating a minefield of social expectations together.
The park was crowded with the usual suspects—young ladies in pastels accompanied by watchful mamas, gentlemen on horseback cutting elegant figures.
It was while observing this real-life RPG that Carina spotted a familiar figure walking alone near the Serpentine. Yellow. Brilliant, eye-searing yellow that clashed magnificently with the woman's red hair and made her stand out like a beacon among the sea of pastels.
Penelope Featherington, looking thoroughly miserable. And she just had to talk to her.
Carina detached herself from Lady Danbury's group with practiced ease and approached with her warmest smile.
"Miss Featherington? I don't believe we've been properly introduced. I'm Carina de Bragança."
Penelope's eyes widened in surprise before she dropped into a somewhat startled curtsy. "Your Highness. I... yes, of course. Though I can't imagine why you'd wish to make my acquaintance."
"Well, I am here for connections, am I not?" Carina said matter-of-factly. "Besides, I have excellent taste in people, and you looked like someone who might actually have interesting things to say."
A flush of pleased surprise crossed Penelope's features, though she still looked wary. "That's... kind of you to say."
"You deserve kindness." Carina fell into step beside her, Isabel following at a discreet distance. "Tell me, do you enjoy these fashionable parades as much as you appear to?"
Penelope's laugh was startled and genuine. "Is it that obvious? I was trying to look... appropriately enthusiastic."
"You looked like you were contemplating different ways of escape without causing a scene." Carina grinned. "Which, frankly, makes you the most relatable person I've encountered all afternoon."
"All right, you're not wrong." Her gaze slid sideways, assessing. "I must admit, I didn't expect you to be so… informal."
"Oh, I can do formal." Carina lifted her chin, briefly composing herself into an image of regal perfection. "Miss Featherington. What a delight to encounter you on this most splendid of afternoons."
Penelope gave an undignified snort. Carina dropped the act with a smirk.
She relaxed back into her natural manner. "But let's be honest, that's exhausting, and I don't see the point in pretending unless there's something worth pretending for."
Penelope's smile was becoming more genuine by the moment. "I think I like this version better."
"Good, because it's the only one you're getting." Carina glanced meaningfully at Penelope's gown. "Though I have to ask—is the yellow a personal choice or…?"
Penelope's face fell slightly. "A maternal one. Entirely maternal."
"I thought so. You are so beautiful—that hair is magnificent—but that particular shade..." Carina tilted her head. "It's doing you no favors. Deep jewel tones would be stunning on you. Emerald, sapphire, maybe a rich burgundy."
"You think so?" Penelope's voice was small, hopeful.
"I know so. You should start suggesting that your mother might look spectacular in those colors. Appeal to her vanity—it's a far easier fight to win."
Penelope's eyes lit with mischief. "That's... surprisingly logical."
"Never underestimate the power of a well-placed compliment," Carina said, then added with a smirk, "You should write that down. Or better—publish it."
The slight widening of Penelope's eyes was delicious. Carina felt quite pleased with her own cleverness—subtle enough not to expose anything, clear enough that someone as intelligent as Penelope would catch the hint.
"What an interesting suggestion," Penelope replied carefully.
Carina arched a brow. "Well, if one were to offer social comments, I imagine fashion would be a good place to start."
Penelope smiled, all innocence. "Especially if the commentary were well-observed. And discreetly done, of course."
"Naturally," Carina said, watching her with interest. "One must protect one's anonymity, after all."
Penelope only adjusted her bonnet and said, quite airily, "Some ladies might take offense at being called out by name. But if it's the truth..." She let the implication trail, then added with a sly smile, "Well. I suppose not everyone can handle being spoken of honestly."
They walked a few more paces in silence, a new kind of understanding simmering between them—playful, cautious, edged with the gleam of mutual amusement.
"Miss Featherington," Carina said finally, "I do hope this won't be our last conversation."
"I suspect it won't," Penelope replied, voice light but eyes sharp. "After all, you strike me as the sort who keeps interesting company."
They parted ways with Penelope looking considerably more cheerful, and Carina feeling oddly satisfied. Perhaps she couldn't prevent all the pain this world would inflict on its more vulnerable members, but she could plant a few seeds of rebellion along the way.
Later that afternoon, Carina retreated to Lady Danbury's library with a cup of properly boiled coffee and the desperate need for intellectual stimulation. The room was everything she'd hoped for—floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, comfortable reading chairs, and the kind of quiet that made her brain settle.
She was looking through the bookshelves when she heard familiar scratching at the door.
Newton trotted determinedly into the library, making a beeline for the chair. He turned three precise circles before settling himself across her feet with obvious satisfaction.
"Hello to you too," Carina murmured, reaching down to scratch behind his ears. "Escape from your keepers again?"
At least Newton was straightforward. Dogs always were.
"You know what I miss most?" she said quietly to her canine companion, who opened one eye to regard her with polite attention. "Having access to information. Right information. Half these medical texts are just... wrong. I could have any question answered in seconds, could cross-reference sources, could settle debates instantly."
Newton's tail thumped again, apparently approving of her one-sided conversation.
"I miss being able to carry hundreds of books in a device smaller than my hand. I miss knowing that if I wanted to read something—anything—I could have it immediately." She turned a page in a random book, frowning at a particularly ridiculous theory about the humours. "I miss Wikipedia, Newton. Do you know how tragic that is?"
Instead of anything scientific, her eyes caught on a newer-looking volume on a nearby shelf. Pride and Prejudice . She pulled it down with genuine excitement—this was probably a first edition, practically hot off the press.
"You know what, Newton? Let's try something good for once."
She settled back in her chair and opened to the famous first line. Even knowing it by heart, seeing it in its original context, in the world where it was written, gave her chills.
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.
"Brilliant," she murmured aloud. "Absolutely fucking brilliant."
Newton didn't even blink at her language.
"You know what I love about Jane Austen?" she continued, because talking to Newton was infinitely better than her own thoughts. "She writes about women who think for themselves. Elizabeth Bennet refuses to marry for anything less than love and respect. In a world where women are expected to be ornamental, Austen creates characters who are intelligent, opinionated, and unashamed of either quality."
She turned the page, smiling at Austen's razor-sharp observations about society. "Plus she has zero patience for pretension or stupidity, regardless of social status. She's probably one of the most subversive writers of her generation, and she disguises it as entertainment."
A soft cough from the doorway made her look up. Lady Danbury stood there, eyebrow arched in amusement.
"Talking to the dog about literature, my dear?"
Carina felt heat rise in her cheeks. "He's an excellent listener. And Jane Austen deserves an appreciative audience."
"I'm sure she does." Lady Danbury entered the room properly, settling into a chair across from Carina with the air of someone preparing for an interesting conversation. "Though I couldn't help but notice your... enthusiastic language regarding Miss Austen's work."
"She's incredible," Carina said, her voice warming with genuine admiration. "Sharp, funny, absolutely ruthless in her observations. I've read this probably half a dozen times and I still catch new details."
Lady Danbury's sharp eyes studied her with interest. "You speak of her work with remarkable familiarity. When did you find time to read Miss Austen so thoroughly?"
Shit. "I... had access to her work during my time in some courts. Literature travels, you know?" Not entirely a lie. She realized she was saying too much, but Newton's warm weight across her feet and the familiar comfort of Austen's prose had made her unguarded.
"You have rather modern ideas for someone raised in traditional court circles," Lady Danbury noted.
"I've always believed that knowledge should be available to anyone curious enough to seek it," Carina said carefully. "And I've been fortunate to meet some... unconventional educators."
Lady Danbury's smile was knowing. "Unconventional indeed. Well, I suppose that explains your rather refreshing approach to, well, everything."
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, Carina losing herself in Elizabeth Bennet's wit while Newton dozed contentedly across her feet. But even Austen's brilliance couldn't completely distract her from everything she was missing—her Kindle with its instant access to thousands of books, the ability to highlight passages and make notes, Google Scholar for fact-checking her memories against historical records.
"The isolation of limited information," she murmured, more to herself than to anyone else.
"I beg your pardon?" Lady Danbury looked up.
"Nothing. Just thinking about how much we don't know, and how much we think we know that might be wrong." She gestured at the Austen novel. "At least some people get it right."
Lady Danbury studied her with those sharp eyes. "Indeed. Though I find the young are often remarkably certain about such things."
She relaxed back in the chair, thinking about all the things she knew about the world she was in and what might be wrong.
At least, she had a book to keep her entertained until the Queen's Diamond Ball.
Notes:
My chapters are getting real dialogue-heavy. Well, shucks.
No Anthony in this one—and yeah, I know the flowers and the note might feel a little out of character, but trust me, there’s a reason.
I spent way too much time this week organizing the timeline because this bitch traveled a lot, and it wasn’t some quick 24-hour flight. Nope. We’re talking months stuck on a fucking boat. So yeah, had to sort that mess out and tweak some things for historical accuracy-ish.
And honestly? I was kinda bummed to learn Hamilton was already dead by the year this takes place, because I cannot stop listening to that soundtrack.
Chapter Text
London, 22nd of May 1814
Papai,
Your letter reached me at precisely the moment I needed to read your words, even with the ocean between us.
I don't know if word reached you back home yet but, during my travels, I’ve come to be very sick. Isabel says I spent three days bed-ridden with such a high fever that even baths didn’t help.
The fever left me... changed, somehow. I feel like I've been taken apart and put back together. My memories are rather hazy these days.
Isabel worries, though she tries to hide it. She's a God sent, I don't know what I would do without her.
London is everything and nothing like I expected. By the time this letter arrives, I’ll have been here for nearly a month.
Lady Danbury is exactly the kind of terrifying woman you'd approve of—sharp enough to cut glass and sees right through everyone's nonsense, including mine. She watches and listens and always seems to be thinking three moves ahead.
I've met the Sharma sisters—Kate and Edwina, recently from India. Kate has the kind of mind that cuts straight to the heart of problems, no patience for social nonsense. We spent an afternoon discussing all kinds of matters. Finally, someone who doesn't think my education makes me defective!
About those expectations—I know, pai. I've always known. But I keep thinking about what you wrote, about wanting someone who looks at me properly when I speak about things I care about.
But you raised me right. So I'm thinking, and when I'm ready to choose, I promise it'll be worthy of our family. If I choose someone, it will be someone who sees me the way you do—not as the fragile sex but as someone competent.
I miss our morning talks. I miss having someone who listens to my strange questions and actually wants to hear the answers. Here, unusual questions mark you as eccentric at best, dangerous at worst. I'm learning to be subtle, but it goes against everything you taught me about being direct.
I’m finding my way, even if the magnetic field here feels completely different from home. When I figure out the true north in this place, I'll make you proud. I promise.
Give my love to mom and tell Tomás to keep studying hard.
I miss you and love you.
Your devoted daughter,
Carina
London, 22nd of May, 1814
Mãe,
Lady Danbury is proving to be an extraordinary ally, thank you for sending me to her.
I’ve found actual friends here: the Sharma sisters, Kate and Edwina. Kate thinks like I do,always spotting patterns others miss. We had a wonderfully subversive conversation about society’s inefficiencies, particularly how they systematically waste women’s intelligence. I nearly forgot I was supposed to be polite.
Edwina is everything the ton dreams of—beautiful, accomplished, perfectly mannered—but she's also genuinely kind. They're quite devoted to each other, which tells me much about their character.
Lady Danbury's soirée was my official debut, and I decided to dress like the foreign princess they expect rather than blend into their pastel nightmare. I wore the crimson silk with gold embroidery, the one you protested about.
Queen Charlotte called me refreshing, which I'm taking as approval.
The evening was educational. Met a Lord Crawley who seemed personally offended that I can read. Actually lectured me about how tropical climates damage feminine brains. I mentioned my mathematics and philosophy studies just to watch him turn purple. Worth it.
Your advice about listening more than speaking has been invaluable, though it goes against every fiber of my being. The amount of complete nonsense discussed with utter seriousness could power a ship to Rio and back.
I also had an encounter with the season’s prize bachelor, who made the spectacular error of assuming I was there to compete for his attention: Anthony Bridgerton. I know he is your friend’s son, but I may have explained the difference between royalty and English titles rather forcefully. He seemed… surprised.
I miss having someone who expects me to think rather than just smile prettily. At least I know where I got my intolerance for fools.
I miss you and love you.
Your daughter,
Carina
London, 22nd of May, 1814
Tomás, you little beast,
English is still stupid and Portuguese is better, but I'm writing you the longest English letter ever as revenge for all the times you stole my things.
Unfortunately I did not meet any pirates, but I did meet some English lords who think they're very important.
They're not.
One of them got upset because I know mathematics. Can you believe it? He acted like I'd grown a second head just for being able to count past ten.
I made friends with two sisters who came from India. One of them has a dog named Newton, after our favorite scientist, who immediately decided Isabel was his new favorite person. Smart dog.
I went to a fancy party where I met the Queen of England! She even complimented me.
Keep asking your questions, no matter what anyone says. Questions are sparks—they light up new ideas and help you see things no one else notices. Every time you wonder, explore, or challenge what you think you know, you’re learning in a way that can’t be taught by a book. Curiosity makes you clever, bold, and unstoppable, so never hold back. Even if it feels tricky or confusing, keep asking—there’s always something new to discover. Curiosity is our secret weapon.
I miss causing trouble with you. London has plenty of opportunities for mischief, but it's not nearly as fun without my partner in crime.
Your sister who misses you,
Carina
Notes:
Thank you so much for all your comments, bookmarks, and kudos! The response to this has been incredibly rewarding and inspiring.
I had to think carefully about timing. According to my buddy ChatGPT, a letter in those days from London to Rio could take 2–3 months to arrive. But since this is fiction, I’ve made it take about a month. The first batch of letters from Rio you’ll see are dated two months later, because of the voyage Carina took to London. Timing anything with Regency-era travel sucks.
This chapter wasn’t originally meant to be published. I wrote it mainly to keep track of all the information Carina was sending to her parents through letters, but I thought some of you might enjoy seeing it anyway! Let me know if you’d like to read more letters like these in the future.
Chapter Text
The Queen's Diamond Ball exceeded every expectation Carina had harbored—a spectacle of excess that rendered Lady Danbury's soirée modest by comparison.
Nothing had never prepared her for this.
Buckingham Palace loomed before them in the fading evening light, its massive facade stretching endlessly—golden stone and soaring windows more imposing than any photograph or movie could capture. Carina's brain stuttered to a halt.
Edwina walked beside her, smiling at her obvious awe. "Your first time seeing the palace, Carina?"
"Yeah..." Carina craned her neck to take in the building's full scope. This was Buckingham Palace—breathing, living Buckingham Palace, not some movie set or tourist destination, but the pulsing center of an empire at its height.
Tonight she would walk through those doors as a guest of the Crown, wearing jewelry worth more than most people's houses. The knowledge made her head spin.
"Breathe," Kate murmured, noting her expression.
Her anxiety reached new heights, and thank God her gown had pockets for her handkerchiefs.
Inside, gilded walls, chandeliers the size of carriages, and enough artwork to fill a museum assaulted her senses. She consciously tried to keep her mouth shut while they processed through endless corridors.
Lady Danbury appeared at her side when they approached the ballroom. "Close your mouth, child. You look like a tourist."
"I am one," Carina admitted.
"Well, don't act like it. You represent the Crown of Portugal. Act accordingly."
The ballroom doors opened and Carina's brain stopped—again. If the previous gathering had dazzled, this was surreal. Candlelight refracted through crystal chandeliers, transforming the ballroom into liquid gold while the ton preened like peacocks in full display. Every corner shimmered with impossible splendor.
She followed Lady Danbury inside, behind the Sharma sisters. Kate, statuesque in gold silk. Edwina, radiant in white. Lady Mary beamed with maternal pride while they joined the receiving line.
Carina had chosen a gown of pearl iridescent silk that seemed to belong to both centuries at once. The fabric shifted between white, silver, blue, and lavender with every movement, like light refracting through glass.
The off-shoulder bodice featured the fashionable empire waistline, sitting just beneath her bust and secured with a diamond clasp that caught the candlelight. But where a typical Regency gown might fall in simple, straight lines, this dress bloomed into something more complex—layer upon layer of translucent silk cascading from that high waist. Each tier seemed to float independently, creating depth and movement, scattering sparks of light with every turn.
The sleeves, mere wisps of fabric that barely graced her shoulders, would have scandalized the ton if not for the long gloves that preserved modesty—and what was so erotic about arms?— while hinting at something a touch unconventional beneath.
The skirt moved like liquid starlight, each layer catching and releasing light as she walked, as if the dress itself were alive with an otherworldly luminescence.
It was one of the few light dresses she had commissioned—her skin favored richer tones, after all—but this one appeared to be made for a ball named after diamonds.
She felt otherworldly beautiful, in the way of someone watching herself step out of a story, aware of both the fiction and the fact she was living it.
Hundreds of eyes catalogued every detail of her appearance while she curtsied to Queen Charlotte. They were always watching.
"Your Majesty. What an honor to be received."
"Your Highness. How lovely you look this evening." The Queen's smile was warmer than expected, but her gaze remained appraising. "Walk with me, child."
It was not a request.
They moved through the crowd slowly, the Queen's presence parting the sea of silk and satin like Moses. Carina matched her pace, aware of the weight of the stares following their progress.
"You have caused quite the sensation," the Queen observed, her tone carrying approval. "A woman who speaks her mind and refuses to simper. How refreshing."
"I find simpers terribly inefficient, Your Majesty. All that fluttering and sighing must be exhausting for the face muscles." She smiled mischievously at her.
Queen Charlotte laughed—short, surprised, and thoroughly delighted. "Indeed. Tell me, how do you find English society? Truthfully."
Carina considered her words carefully. "Fascinating. Like an elaborate dance where everyone knows the steps except me, but they're all too polite to mention I've been stepping on toes."
"And yet you manage quite well."
"I am a firm believer in the power of improvisation." Carina glanced at the Queen with a sheepish grin.
"Lady Danbury chose well when she agreed to host you." The Queen's eyes sparkled with what might have been mischief. "She sponsored your mother, and you were going to be present for the season anyway."
Her smile dimmed slightly.
Mother.
A fragment of this borrowed life that felt both foreign and somewhat familiar. She remembered long blonde hair, hazel eyes, and gentle hand brushing her hair. "Yes, she's always been... determined when she sets her mind to something. And she would not send me to anyone else."
"A quality she clearly passed on." The Queen paused near the windows, where they could speak with marginally more privacy. "I have written to my nephew, Prince Friedrich. He will arrive in London within the month."
Carina's stomach dropped. "Your Majesty?"
"A young woman of your station and intelligence should have suitable options presented to her. The Prince is accomplished, well-educated, and in need of a bride who can match his intellect."
That sounded like a trap.
She didn't mention her father's words. She had choices. She could refuse, but it wouldn't look favorable to the Queen.
"Of course, Your Majesty. I am... honored by your consideration." And slightly terrified, but she wouldn't mention that part.
"Good, you should be."
Another family's arrival interrupted their conversation, announced with suitable fanfare. The Bridgertons swept into the ballroom like a force of nature—all in varying shades of blue.
"Lady Bridgerton. Miss Bridgerton," Queen Charlotte called out, her attention immediately shifting. "Such a shame your presentation at court was so rudely interrupted."
Eloise Bridgerton stepped forward with all the enthusiasm of someone walking to the gallows. "A shame, indeed."
Carina watched while the second Bridgerton daughter faced the Queen's scrutiny. Where Daphne had glided through society with swan-like grace, Eloise moved with barely contained energy.
"I nearly forgot you were making your debut this season," the Queen continued, her voice carrying a hint of speculation that made Violet Bridgerton's eyes widen with hope. "After your elder sister's triumph—perhaps good fortune might run in the family."
The silence stretched taut like a bowstring. Carina could practically see Violet willing her daughter to say something—anything—appropriate.
"It is a delightful ball, Your Majesty," Eloise finally managed, her voice gaining strength while she continued. "Extremely diamond-y. Though I must admit, I am more of an emerald person myself."
Violet looked mortified, and Carina held her laugh. Then Queen Charlotte threw back her head and cackled with genuine delight.
"Oh. Oh dear. My favorite necklace is one of emeralds. How thoughtful of you to know that!" The Queen's approval was unmistakable while she studied Eloise with renewed interest. "It appears you have indeed come a long way since last year, Miss Bridgerton."
Violet's relief was palpable when she stepped forward. "Your Majesty is too kind."
The Queen's attention turned to Anthony, who had been standing uncomfortably throughout the entire exchange. "And Lord Bridgerton. How good to see you."
Anthony's bow was perfect, but Carina caught something in his expression—a tightness around his eyes that made him appear tense. "Your Majesty."
The Queen's gaze swept over the assembled family with obvious pleasure. "Such a handsome family. I do so enjoy seeing the Bridgerton name continue to grace our gatherings."
While the royal attention moved on, Carina studied the family with interest.
Anthony stood slightly apart from his siblings, his posture that of someone used to carrying an invisible weight. Violet's pride warred with anxiety while she shepherded her brood. And Eloise—brilliant, sharp-tongued Eloise—looked like she'd rather be anywhere else.
"Your Highness," Violet said, approaching her with genuine warmth. "I hope you'll forgive my boldness, but I am friends with your mother, which I’m sure you are aware of. I always received the most delightful correspondence from her."
Carina smiled, filing away another piece of her borrowed history for later. "Mother speaks of you with great affection, Lady Bridgerton. I believe she treasures your friendship deeply."
"Which is why I wonder—might you join us for tea this week? Nothing formal, I assure you. I would love to hear news of Eleanor, and I'm certain my children would enjoy making your acquaintance more... properly." Violet tone was one of genuine interest, though Carina could see her pointed look at Anthony.
"I would be delighted, Lady Bridgerton."
"Your Highness," Anthony said, appearing at her elbow while his mother glared at him. "How good to see you again."
"Lord Bridgerton," she replied carefully, then let her voice warm while she addressed the rest of the family. "And Miss Bridgerton—I'm an emerald person too. It's wonderfully refreshing to hear someone speak their mind."
Eloise's eyes lit up with genuine interest. "Your Highness, I've heard the most fascinating things about you. How unconventional is your approach to... well, everything. I should love to hear your thoughts on—"
"Eloise," Violet interrupted gently but firmly, "perhaps we shouldn't monopolize Her Highness's time."
But Carina found herself genuinely charmed by her enthusiasm. She was always her favorite character, after all.
"We will discuss all you want over tea, Miss Bridgerton. I promise."
Violet looked at her like she would regret saying that.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the Queen announced, her voice carrying easily across the suddenly silent ballroom. "It is my great pleasure to announce this season's diamond—Miss Edwina Sharma."
Carina clapped politely while Brimsley stepped forward to take Edwina's hand, leading her to the Queen. The crowd parted while Edwina glided forward with grace that would make ballerinas weep with envy.
Across the ballroom, Anthony's reaction caught her attention. He was watching Edwina's approach to the throne, his expression... polite. Attentive.
Everyone knew the Viscount was a man on a mission, after all, and that mission was securing England's most eligible bride.
When the Queen's eyes found him with obvious expectation, something shifted in his expression.The Queen beamed with obvious pleasure, anticipating what promised to be the courtship of the season.
"Viscount Bridgerton," Queen Charlotte said with satisfaction. "Have you yet met my new incomparable?"
Anthony bowed respectfully. "I am most grateful for the introduction, Your Majesty. I only hope I shall be afforded the pleasure of a dance."
The Queen nodded for Edwina to accept, and they took their positions.
Carina found herself partnered with a Lord Pemberton—a perfectly pleasant gentleman with thinning hair and an unfortunate tendency to discuss utterly boring affairs. By fate, they were positioned directly adjacent to where Anthony and Edwina took their places for the same dance.
"Your Highness, can I have the honor?" Lord Pemberton beamed while they arranged themselves in the dance formation.
The dance began, and with it came Anthony's systematic evaluation disguised as polite conversation. She knew his line of questioning, of course, remembered watching this at 3 AM and becoming angrier at each question.
Edwina was her friend, and she was going to keep an eye and ear on her. She deserved it.
"I was telling Lord Ashworth about the remarkable improvements we've made to our crop rotation system—"
"How fascinating," Carina replied automatically, her attention drawn to the couple mere feet away.
Anthony was asking Edwina about children. Her response was perfectly pitched—warm but modest. Anthony just nodded.
"—which is why I believe Norfolk sheep are superior to—" Lord Pemberton continued his monologue, oblivious to Carina's wandering attention.
Carina executed a turn around Lord Pemberton while straining to hear Anthony's questions.
They came steadily. Languages, accomplishments, musical abilities. His methodical queries came one after the other, each delivered with the care of a man drafting a market list.
Fascinating. And utterly absurd.
Anthony received each with appropriate interest, though Carina noticed how his gaze would wander between questions, settling on points around the ballroom before returning to Edwina's face.
"—the eastern fields particularly benefited from the new drainage system I implemented last spring—"
"Mm-hmm," Carina murmured to his dance partner while watching Anthony's face. Each of Edwina's answers was clearly hitting the marks on his invisible checklist of desirable viscountess qualities.
She was acing this interview. But there was something else—a glazed quality to his eyes.
Something about the rhythm felt... mechanical. Question, answer, polite acknowledgment. Like a dance within the dance.
What has changed? She remembered this part, he was very much interested in her.
The figures of the dance separated the couples momentarily, giving Lord Pemberton the opportunity to launch into a detailed explanation of soil composition while Carina craned her neck to maintain her surveillance.
When they drew close again, she caught Edwina mentioning her father's death. For the first time, genuine emotion flickered across Anthony's features—shared understanding, perhaps sympathy. Then it passed, replaced by that careful attention from before.
"—which brings me to my theory about limestone's effects on soil alkalinity—" Lord Pemberton's voice faded into background noise while Carina watched the dance conclude.
When the dance ended, Anthony thanked Edwina with perfect courtesy. Nothing in his manner suggested displeasure, yet Carina found herself studying his expression, trying to identify what felt slightly off about the entire interaction.
"Though perhaps you could speak with my sister? It is her blessing you will need if we are to..." Edwina's eyes brightened when she spotted familiar figures approaching. "Oh, there she is now! Kate!"
The change in Anthony was immediate and unmistakable. Whatever polite reserve had characterized his previous demeanor vanished, replaced by something more alert, more present.
When Kate approached, the air around them seemed to crackle with a different kind of energy entirely.
"Lord Bridgerton," Lady Danbury said smoothly. "I see you have met Miss Edwina. And this is—"
"Her sister," Anthony finished, his voice tight.
"Miss Sharma. My lord," Kate replied with arctic politeness.
The stare-off that followed was charged with unspoken tension. Tight smiles and polite looks couldn't disguise the charged atmosphere between them—two people who were clearly at odds.
"The Viscount Bridgerton is a most excellent dancer," Edwina said brightly, oblivious to the undercurrents. "Perhaps I may learn a thing or two from you, my lord—"
"Would you join me in the retiring room, sister?" Kate's interruption was swift and decisive.
Carina exchanged a meaningful look with Lady Danbury, both women recognizing the signs of an intervention that would undoubtedly involve pointed observations about the Viscount's intentions.
While Kate firmly guided Edwina toward the retiring room, Lady Danbury took Carina's elbow with the timing of a woman who missed nothing and planned everything.
"Lord Pemberton, how delightful to see you this evening," Lady Danbury said with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I wonder if you might spare Her Highness? I believe Lord Bridgerton would benefit from some civilized conversation."
While changing partners, Carina discreetly took out a clean handkerchief and cleaned her gloves. She wanted to remove them but God forbid men see her hands.
Anthony bowed and offered his arm, but Carina could sense tension radiating from him like heat from a forge.
"Your Highness," he said with careful formality. "Would you do me the honor?"
His energy felt different now. Sharper somehow, more focused than the polite attention he'd given Edwina.
Interesting.
"I am sure you're loving this," Anthony said while they began the dance.
Carina tilted her head with feigned innocence. "Lord Bridgerton, I don't know what you mean." The sweetness in her voice wouldn't have fooled a child.
"You have a smug face."
She grinned wider. "Yes, I know. It's from my family."
Anthony paused mid-step, blinking. "...What?"
"You know. Genetics." She shrugged—that damned habit she couldn't shake despite Lady Danbury's warnings—and guided him back into the rhythm before he could stumble.
Then she remembered he didn't know about it because it wasn't a thing in 1814. Mendel wasn't even born yet.
Confusion flickered across Anthony’s face, but he said nothing.
They moved through several steps in silence, the tension building between them like the crescendo of the orchestra. Finally, Anthony cleared his throat.
"Did you receive my apologies?"
Carina's eyes sparkled with mischief. "I did. All three of them."
"And why didn't you respond?"
She spun gracefully under his arm before answering. "I am responding now. I don't understand the apologies, though."
"My mother was most appalled with my behavior towards royalty, Your Highness. And towards the daughter of one of her most treasured friends."
"Ah, understood." She let the silence stretch to make him uncomfortable. "Why did you interrogate Lady Edwina?"
The color drained from Anthony's face. "I—I'm sorry?"
"I heard you interrogating her."
“Were you watching me, Your Royal Highness?" He shot her own observations from their last talk against her, damn.
“Of course I was.” Heat bloomed across her cheeks. She hadn't meant to be quite so... blatant about it. But owning it felt better than scrambling for excuses.
Anthony's surprise was genuine, but then something calculating flickered in his expression. A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “...You were?”
This wasn't going according to their usual script and Carina could sense them both scrambling to regain the footing in the conversation, both literally and figuratively.
“I’m curious, though. About the questions. Go on, then. Lay it on me.”
Anthony's jaw worked soundlessly for a moment. "I'm rather afraid."
Carina forced her best "aw shucks" expression and waited. The music swelled around them while other couples swept past, but she kept her focus entirely on the increasingly flustered viscount.
"What are your thoughts on children?"
Carina hesitated—modern Carina, from a time when adoption had been her dream and pregnancy a personal non-starter. But here? In this strange past woven into fiction? "I… I want them." Perhaps one, maybe two.
He eyed her funnily at the sincerity of her tone, drew a steadying breath and straightened his shoulders. "How many languages are you fluent in, Your Highness?"
"Four." Another casual shrug while they danced. "Portuguese, English, French, Spanish. I can read in Latin, German and Greek too."
She knew Italian as well, from before, her Nonna taught her, but she didn't remember anything about Italian history from this time period so she didn't mention it.
Anthony nodded, apparently relieved to be back on familiar ground. "Do you play any instrument? The pianoforte or violin?"
"Yes, I play both." Isabel had told her. She could belt out a tune too—God, she missed karaoke, so she threw another fact at him. “I can sing too.”
They turned again, and she caught sight of his growing confidence. The poor man.
"I see. How's your needlework?"
Carina's smile turned wicked. "Horrible. But I'm great at stabbing with them."
His expression turned flabbergasted; he was completely lost. It was cute. "…How are your numbers?"
"I can count." She watched him squirm. "Extremely well."
"And that's all?"
"Oh, I'm sorry—would you like me to solve a differential equation for you?"
Anthony's steps faltered. "You like calculus?"
The horror in his voice was so profound she had to bite back a laugh. He looked at her though she'd confessed to practicing witchcraft. She could practically see his mind reeling.
"I don't particularly like it, but I can do it," she answered sweetly, letting him guide her through another turn while he processed this information.
"Ladies don't typically..." He trailed off, clearly struggling.
"Don't typically what?" Her tone turned sharper, and she glared at him.
Anthony's mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. She'd broken him, and it was glorious.
"Do you sing?" It was a fair question. Jonathan Bailey sang beautifully, a theatre kid through and through.
That stopped him entirely. He stared at her like she'd grown a second head, nearly causing a collision with another couple.
"I—What?"
"That's disappointing," Carina said while the final notes played and she stepped back into a curtsy. "Well, you should try it... I'll see you, yeah? Bye."
She turned to leave, but Anthony's hand caught her wrist—not roughly, but firmly enough to stop her retreat, then immediately released it.
"Your Highness." His tone was different now—less flustered, more considering. "One more question, if you would."
Despite herself, she paused. "Yes?"
"Why do you care?"
"I beg your pardon?"
Anthony's expression had shifted from bewildered to genuinely curious. "About Miss Sharma. About any of this." He gestured vaguely toward the ballroom. "You've made it quite clear you find the entire process beneath you, yet you've spent considerable energy ensuring I know how ridiculous you think I am."
Carina felt herself falter. "I don't know what you mean."
"I think you do." Anthony's voice was quiet but certain. "I think you care a great deal more than you pretend. The question is why."
She opened her mouth to deflect, but found herself genuinely caught off guard by his shift from bumbling suitor to shrewd observer.
"Perhaps," Anthony continued, "the next time we speak, you might tell me the truth about that instead of performing for my benefit."
Carina stood frozen as he turned and walked away, her breath caught somewhere between her throat and her chest. The phantom pressure of his gloved grip still burning against her wrist through the silk.
Around her, the Queen's ball continued in all its glittering splendor—couples whirling past in perfect formations, laughter echoing, the ton's elaborate social machinery grinding onward without pause.
Carina forced herself to move, accepting a glass of lemonade from a passing servant while her mind churned. She'd expected to feel triumphant after rattling him so thoroughly, but instead a hollow unease had settled in her stomach.
He was right. She did care—about Edwina, about Kate, about people who should have been nothing more than fictional characters in a show she'd binged in another lifetime.
But they were real, and her friends.
And worse, Anthony Bridgerton had seen straight through her carefully constructed performance.
But something else nagged at her about the evening. A sense that pieces weren't falling into place as they should. She'd expected... what, exactly? The memory of watching this before felt strangely disconnected from what she'd actually lived tonight.
She watched Anthony across the ballroom, now in animated conversation with Benedict about something that made them both laugh. In her recollection of watching this scene unfold on her laptop, Anthony had been completely taken with Edwina. Charmed. Increasingly smitten as the dance progressed.
Where was the growing fascination she remembered? The way his eyes had supposedly lingered on Edwina's face? She remembered the sexual tension with Kate that she didn't see as well.
And even more troubling—when had he become so observant about her own behavior?
In the show, Anthony Bridgerton had been too focused on his mission to spare much thought for anyone outside his immediate concerns. Yet tonight he'd dissected her behaviour, leaving her feeling exposed in ways she hadn't anticipated.
The more Carina replayed the evening's events, the more the details felt... shifted.
Like viewing a familiar painting only to discover the artist had moved the figures slightly, changed the lighting, altered the entire composition in ways both subtle and profound.
Across the ballroom, Anthony's gaze found hers through the crowd. For a moment, they simply looked at each other—two people who had somehow managed to surprise themselves as much as each other. Then he inclined his head slightly, a gesture that might have been acknowledgement or challenge, before turning back to his conversation.
Carina's pulse quickened, and she recognized the sensation with a dawning alarm.
This wasn't the satisfied anticipation of watching a familiar story unfold. This was something far more dangerous and unpredictable.
This was the thrill of not knowing with certainty what would happen next.
Notes:
This was the chapter I planned to post this week, yestarday was just a little bonus for you guys.
We finally ended episode one! And it only took eight chapters hahahah *crying*
Apparently this will be a lot longer than I expected. Next chapter we will have Anthony's POV!-
Lady Danbury: Chins up. Smiles on. I'm talking to you, Carina.
Carina: 😶-
Anthony: dancing
Carina's brain: dancing through life starts to play
Carina: do you sing?
Chapter 9: First Glimpse
Chapter Text
The first time Anthony Bridgerton heard of Portugal's princess coming for the British Season was from his mother, well before the social whirlwind began.
They were well settled at Aubrey Hall, mercifully removed from London's relentless social obligations. Anthony had positioned himself at the escritoire in the drawing room, hoping to manage some estate correspondence, though he should have known better than to attempt such work with his family present.
Eloise had commandeered the best chair near the window, book in hand but spending more time sighing dramatically than actually reading—no doubt contemplating her looming debut with the enthusiasm one might reserve for a funeral. Francesca sat at the pianoforte, playing something pleasant, Benedict lounged on the settee with characteristic disregard for propriety, consuming what appeared to be his third apple of the afternoon, while Gregory and Hyacinth had claimed the carpet for some elaborate game involving whispered conspiracies and sudden eruptions of laughter.
Anthony stared at the same line of the steward's report for the fourth time, accepting defeat.
"Oh, my word!" His mother exclaimed suddenly, pressing a letter to her chest. "I've just received the most extraordinary news from an old dear friend. Her daughter is to join us for the coming season!"
That got Eloise’s attention. She perked up, delight flickering across her face. “Oh, how wonderful! Someone new to draw all the gentlemen’s tedious attention away from the rest of us.”
"Eloise Bridgerton," Violet began with a warning tone, though she couldn't quite suppress her smile.
Benedict, never one to miss an opportunity to needle his sister, adopted their mother's stern tone. "Yes, Eloise, such unladylike sentiments."
"Oh, do be quiet, Benedict."
Anthony set down his quill with resignation. "Mother, who exactly are we expecting?"
Mother's expression grew soft with memory. "I wonder if you recall my mentioning the Fairfaxes? Perhaps not—you were quite young at the time. Their daughter Eleanor made her debut the very year I presented you to society, Anthony. Lady Danbury was kind enough to sponsor her, and Eleanor and I became very good friends." She glanced at the letter once more. "We have maintained correspondence these many years. She has married into the Portuguese royal family—though not to the heir."
"A princess?" Hyacinth gasped, abandoning her game entirely. "A real princess is coming to London?"
Eloise clapped her hands together with genuine glee. "Perfect! A princess will surely monopolize every drawing room and dance card. Perhaps I can fade into blessed obscurity."
"What's her name?" Benedict asked, looking genuinely curious now.
Violet glanced back at the letter. "Carina."
Carina.
By the time they returned to London, Anthony had all but dismissed the matter of their impending royal visitor entirely from his thoughts.
And why should he not? He had a clear mission for the season: securing the perfect future viscountess. It was time for him to fulfill his duty. He had already begun composing meticulous lists of the young ladies making their debuts, cataloguing their families, connections, and suitability for the role.
A princess would decidedly not grace such lists. The political and economic complications that such an alliance would inevitably entail...
Well, the very notion was absurd. Utterly impractical.
He was a viscount, not a diplomat, and he had no desire to navigate the treacherous waters of international relations for the sake of matrimony.
Thus, he banished all thoughts of it from his mind entirely, reasoning that such matters were better left to diplomats and court intrigue and settled back into his routine.
After a whole afternoon in his solicitor’s office, he followed what he considered the most direct route home, which happened to lead past Lady Danbury’s imposing townhouse, the path efficient and unremarkable, as always.
He was reviewing the afternoon's tedious legal discussions when the commotion ahead caught his attention. A carriage—with elaborate, unfamiliar heraldry emblazoned on the door and clearly foreign footmen—had drawn to a halt before the dowager's steps. The men in distinctive uniforms moved with practiced efficiency, while a small crowd of curious onlookers gathered at a respectful distance.
Anthony found himself slowing his own carriage.
As the door opened, and a hand (ungloved!) appeared—pale and steady despite what must have been an exhausting journey. The woman who followed moved with deliberate care, as though concentrating on each step, yet there was something unmistakably regal in the set of her shoulders.
He leaned slightly forward in his seat.
Her traveling dress was a deep burgundy in a cut unlike that favored by most young ladies, and her dark hair was caught in a half updo. Informal, yet practical after a long journey. Her tanned skin, likely earned from hours in the sun in the Americas, would surely make the drawing-room ladies whisper about “common” girls who didn’t know better than to protect their complexions, but it worked well for her. Too well.
Even from this distance, he could see that she appeared somewhat ashen—the effects of travel, no doubt—but there was nothing fragile about her bearing.
She paused on the carriage steps, one hand still gripping the frame, and surveyed the square with what could only be described as clinical. Not the wide-eyed wonder of a typical debutante seeing London for the first time, but a methodical assessment, as though she were cataloguing information. Her gaze swept from the buildings to the street to the small crowd of onlookers, taking mental notes.
What is she thinking?
Lady Danbury appeared at the top of the steps, and the transformation was immediate. The princess’s careful composure softened into something warmer, a smile that made her travel-worn face curiously inviting.
But even as she moved toward the house, Anthony noticed she maintained that strange carefulness.
Anthony's driver was beginning to look at him strangely for the prolonged halt, so he reluctantly signaled to continue. Still, as his carriage rolled past, he couldn’t help stealing one last look—and a part of him wanted to see more.
By the time Anthony entered the drawing room at Bridgerton House, the afternoon light was beginning to fade. His family had gathered for their customary pre-dinner assembly: Mother at her correspondence, Benedict sprawled in his usual chair with a book, Eloise pacing near the windows with barely contained energy, and the younger ones engaged in some elaborate card game that seemed to involve more arguing than actual play.
"How were your meetings today, Anthony?" Violet inquired without looking up from her writing.
"Tedious, as expected," he replied, moving to the sideboard to pour himself a modest glass of brandy. "Though I did witness some excitement on Grosvenor Square. The Portuguese princess arrived at Lady Danbury's this afternoon."
He delivered this information with casualness, as though commenting on the weather.
The effect was immediate and exactly what he should have anticipated.
Eloise stopped pacing entirely. "You saw her? What did she look like?"
"Regal, I suppose. As one might expect of royalty." Anthony took a careful sip of his brandy, keeping an air of indifference.
"Anthony Bridgerton, that tells us absolutely nothing," his mother said, setting down her pen with evident interest. "Was she tall? Fair? Did she seem... approachable?"
Benedict looked up from his book with a grin. "More importantly, did she seem as eccentric as the rumors suggest?"
"Eccentric?" Eloise's voice carried that particular note of intrigue that Anthony recognized as dangerous.
"Word has it she attended lectures at Harvard," Benedict continued with obvious amusement, "and proved herself quite the formidable debater in academic circles."
"Are you serious?" Eloise's eyes lit up. "I absolutely must speak with her! Imagine the conversations we could have, the topics we could explore..."
Anthony found himself recalling the way she had surveyed the square, that calculating look in her eyes. "She appeared... observant. Intelligent, perhaps. Though I hardly had an opportunity for a detailed examination."
"Observant how?" Eloise pressed, moving closer with the intensity she typically reserved for her most cherished causes.
"She seemed to be taking note of her surroundings rather than simply admiring them. As though she were..." He paused, searching for the right words. "As though she were studying rather than merely looking."
"How fascinating," Violet murmured. "Lady Eleanor always was remarkably sharp. It seems her daughter may have inherited that quality."
"Was she pretty?" Hyacinth called from her position on the carpet, apparently having abandoned her card game in favor of more interesting gossip.
Anthony hesitated. "She was... striking. Not in the conventional manner, perhaps, but certainly memorable."
"Striking how?" Benedict inquired.
"Her bearing, primarily. She carried herself with such confidence." Anthony hesitated, then added quietly, "Though there was something… careful about her movements. As though she were concentrating on each step. Perhaps fatigued from travel."
He realized he was saying more than he had intended and quickly added, "Though as I mentioned, I had only a brief glimpse."
Eloise was studying him with uncomfortably keen interest. "You seem to have formed rather detailed impressions for such a brief encounter."
"Yes, well. One can observe a great deal about a person's character from their deportment," Anthony replied smoothly, though he could feel heat creeping up his neck.
"Indeed," his mother said, and he detected a familiar note of speculation in her voice that made him immediately regret this entire conversation. "I do hope we shall have the opportunity to become properly acquainted with her. We will see her at the soireé, of course, but Lady Danbury has promised to bring her around for tea."
Wonderful. Anthony drained his brandy glass with more haste than was strictly necessary.
"I'm sure that will be... enlightening for all of us," he managed, and fled to his study before anyone could ask him to elaborate further on his entirely too vivid recollections of a woman he had supposedly barely noticed.
The first event of the season was always hosted by Lady Danbury. He was present, of course, with his mother and his siblings sans Colin, who was still traveling.
He was just making an exit from the debutants and mamas who were hoarding him—after his own mother announced he was looking for a wife— when the music faltered.
Anthony barely spared it a glance—until the herald's voice boomed overhead.
"Her Royal Highness, Infanta Carina Maria Helena de Bragança of Portugal.”
He turned toward the doors, if only out of polite obligation. He was curious, of course, after that first glimpse and his mother comments but he had a goal and—
His thoughts crashed to a halt.
The woman descending the stairs moved like she owned every step, every breath of air in the room. Not the practiced glide of debutantes, but something altogether more dangerous—power wrapped in silk with good manners.
The deep red gown moved like liquid fire, cut in a style that was decidedly not British—lower at the bust, tighter at the waist, embroidered with gold thread that caught every flicker of light. Emeralds glittered at her throat, and her dark hair was arranged with braids and curls in a way that somehow managed to be both elegant and vaguely defiant.
Every inch of her radiated heat, like she'd brought the sun with her and wasn't particularly concerned if England could handle it.
She curtsied to the Queen. Just long enough to show respect, not a moment longer. When she spoke, her accent rolled through her English like honey laced with wine.
Queen Charlotte practically purred her approval. Lady Danbury stood nearby wearing an expression Anthony had rarely seen on her face: pride.
Anthony took a slow sip of his drink, studying her over the rim. Around him, the usual chorus of gossip erupted—speculation about dowries, kingdoms, marriage prospects. He ignored it all.
There was something in the way she surveyed the ballroom that made his pulse quicken.
Not the desperate hunting of most marriageable women, but the steady assessment of a new territory.
Her gaze swept the crowd and landed on him.
And held.
Not coy. Not calculating. Bold as brass, she looked him up and down with the thoroughness of someone appraising horseflesh at market.
The Viscount Bridgerton, rake of London, being examined like he was the one on display.
Then—Christ—she had the audacity to arch one eyebrow, as if she'd found him... adequate. Perhaps.
The corner of her mouth curved in something that wasn't quite a smile before she deliberately turned away to greet her next introduction.
Anthony nearly choked on his drink.
No one had looked at him like that since... well, ever.
Anthony lowered his glass, a slow curiosity blooming in his chest.
Oh. This was going to be… inconvenient.
Anthony always prided himself on reading people.
It was a skill honed through years of managing his family, navigating society, and keeping his younger siblings from complete social ruin. He could spot a fortune hunter at fifty paces, identify a marriage-minded mama's strategic positioning, and predict which lady would faint at the sight of blood during a particularly dramatic opera.
So when Princess Carina's composure cracked—just for a moment, but enough for him to notice—and she fled the ballroom with barely controlled desperation, every instinct told him to follow.
Not because she needed rescuing. That much was obvious from watching her command the room earlier like she was born to it, which, he supposed, she quite literally was.
No, he followed because in that brief, unguarded moment, she'd looked... human.
Vulnerable. Real.
And Anthony had always been drawn to puzzles.
The lie about Lady Danbury had slipped out before he could think of something better. Pathetic, really. He'd simply wanted an excuse to approach her, to satisfy this growing curiosity that had been building all evening as he watched her navigate the ballroom with that perfect mask of composure.
What he hadn't expected was for her to see straight through him.
Most women would have giggled, blushed, or found some way to make his attention about their own desirability. She'd simply called him out for his behavior like she was cross-examining a witness.
He should have retreated then.
Should have offered some polite excuse and returned to the ballroom to find a more... manageable conversation partner. Instead, he'd found himself drawn deeper into whatever game they were playing.
Because it had felt like a game, at first. The careful verbal sparring, the way she'd forced him to follow her down the garden path, the underlying current of attraction that charged the air between them.
He'd thought he was holding his own, matching her wit for wit.
She'd laughed—genuine and surprised, such a beautiful sound—and for a moment, he'd thought...
What had he thought? That beneath the royal title and the sharp intelligence, she might be like other women? That his attention would flatter her? That his practiced charm would work its usual magic?
The conversation had shifted then, taken on a different quality. The flirtation had become more pointed, more dangerous. When she'd stepped closer, close enough for him to catch the scent of her perfume—something sweet and smoky—he'd felt that familiar thrill of the hunt.
Her words had been a challenge, an invitation, a test all rolled into one. And like an absolute fool, he'd let his guard down. Let himself enjoy the way she looked at him, the way she matched his banter stroke for stroke. For a few precious moments, he'd forgotten who she was, who he was, and what this conversation actually meant.
Until she'd mentioned marriage.
The words had slipped out before he could stop them: "You're here to audition for the role then, like all the rest."
Even now, the memory of those words made him wince. He'd been so pleased with himself for that observation, thinking he'd gained some insight into her character. How patronizing he must have sounded. How insufferably arrogant.
As they left his mouth, he'd known it was wrong. Knew he'd made a catastrophic error in judgment. But by then, it was too late.
Her laughter still echoed in his ears—not the gentle laugh from before, but something sharp and delighted, a cackle.
"Oh my God! Are you fucking serious?"
The profanity had shocked him almost as much as the realization of what he'd just implied.
That she—a princess of Portugal, royalty—was somehow beneath him. That she would need to prove herself worthy of his attention rather than the reverse.
What followed had been pure humiliation.
He'd tried to salvage something from the wreckage, to find some response that might restore even a fraction of his dignity. But what could he say? Every word out of his mouth would only dig the hole deeper.
When she'd turned to leave—with that perfect composure restored as if she hadn't just delivered the most thorough dressing-down of his entire life—he'd been too stunned to do anything but watch her go.
Standing alone in the moonlit garden, Anthony could only stare at the ballroom doors she'd disappeared through and marvel at the completeness of his humiliation. In the span of a single conversation, he'd managed to insult a princess, reveal himself as both presumptuous and provincial, and demonstrate that all his vaunted charm was useless against someone who actually possessed both intelligence and power.
The worst part wasn't even the humiliation itself—though that stung more than he cared to admit. It was the lingering awareness that she'd been right.
His motives, his assumptions, his pathetic attempt at manipulation.
And underneath it all, threading through the shame and wounded pride, was something else entirely.
Fascination.
Because Princess Carina hadn't just talked him down—she'd done it with such style, such precision, that even in his humiliation, he couldn't help but admire her.
Which, Anthony realized with growing horror, probably made him even more of a fool than she'd already proven him to be.
He straightened his jacket, ran a hand through his hair, and tried to summon some semblance of dignity before returning to face whatever gossip might already be circulating about his extended absence from the ballroom.
The evening, he reflected grimly, had not gone according to plan.
But as he walked back toward the glittering lights and orchestrated laughter, one thought kept circling through his mind:
When was the last time anyone had surprised him like that?
When was the last time anyone had made him feel anything other than bored?
And why, despite everything, was he already wondering when he might see her again?
Later, back at Bridgerton House, Anthony sat slumped in his chair in the drawing room, still nursing his wounded pride along with a generous glass of brandy.
"Good God, Anthony," Benedict said, settling into the opposite chair with his own drink. "You've been brooding since we left the ball. What happened?"
Anthony didn't trust himself to speak. He was still processing the memory of their encounter—her sharp wit, her complete dismissal of his attempts at charm, the way she'd looked at him like he was an amusing but ultimately inconsequential pet.
"Did you at least speak to the princess Mother's been going on about?" Benedict continued. "Princess Carina? She was… Marvelous."
"Yes," Anthony managed. "I spoke to her."
"And?" Benedict leaned forward with interest. "She's magnificent, isn't she? All that intelligence and wit, plus she's beautiful enough to stop traffic. I heard her handle Lord Crawley's advances earlier—absolutely brilliant dismissal. The man didn't know what hit him."
Magnificent was one word for it, if that sharp dismissal hadn’t also been aimed at him.
"You should call on her," Benedict suggested. "You need a wife, she's a princess, it would be the match of the season—"
"She made it abundantly clear that she considers me beneath her notice," Anthony interrupted, the memory still stinging.
Benedict's eyebrows rose. "When exactly did you manage to get yourself dismissed?"
Before Anthony could deflect, their mother appeared in the doorway as if summoned by some sixth sense for impending scandal.
"What did you do?" Violet demanded without preamble.
"Why must you assume I did something?"
"Do not attempt to lie to me, Anthony Bridgerton."
He grimaced. "I may have made a... mistake, Mother."
"Speak clearly."
Anthony glanced around, then slumped on his chair, voice barely above a murmur. "I might have implied that she was there to marry me."
The silence that followed was deafening.
"You what?" Violet's voice was deadly.
"It was a misunderstanding—"
"Anthony." His mother's tone could have frozen the Thames. "Please tell me you did not suggest to the Princess of Portugal that she should be grateful for your attention."
His silence was answer enough.
Benedict let out a low whistle. "Well, that explains why you look like you've been flayed alive."
“I must as well have been.” He murmured.
Violet closed her eyes as if summoning patience from the heavens. "Anthony, that young woman is my friend’s daughter, whose friendship I've cherished for over thirty years."
Anthony felt his stomach drop further.
“She’s also a princess! You didn’t just insult my friend’s child, Anthony. You insulted royalty. Violet’s voice sharpened. "Do you think I relish writing to tell her that my eldest son—the head of this family—treated her daughter with such appalling disrespect?"
"I didn't know—"
"That makes it worse, not better." Her eyes flashed. "You insulted her out of pure arrogance."
Benedict winced visibly. "Mother, surely—"
"No." Violet's tone brooked no argument. "You will apologize, Anthony. Properly. You will grovel enough to demonstrate you understand the gravity of your error. And if she is gracious enough to acknowledge your apology, you will be nothing but respectful in her presence."
She stepped closer, her voice dropping to that dangerous whisper. "I will not risk a friendship I have treasured for decades because you couldn't keep your insufferable pride in check. And I will not risk the reputation of our family."
Anthony sank deeper into his chair, knowing his humiliation was far from over.
Notes:
Writing Anthony is Very Hard. So formal!
It was supposed to be one chapter but then I started writing and couldn't stop. So I decided to divide it. Next chapter we will be in Anthony's head again!
Anthony this entire chapter: this
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