Chapter Text
Of course, something as simple as a lunch was never so simple where the Bridgertons were concerned, and the formerly peaceful affair quickly turned into a fully-fledged event to boggle the discerning mind. Anthony, for one, was momentarily awakened out of his Sharma fueled fugue state to refamiliarize himself with such concepts of propriety and gentlemanly manners and comportment — especially when it concerned one Henry James Potter.
“You’re my sister,” he’d said, when Eloise learned that he’d decided to invite himself to her lunch at the Macmillan residence. “One who is falling head over heels for a man you’ve scarcely known a week.”
“I’m not falling in love with him,” Eloise retorted, “and I’ve known about him for seven years. His sister is my best friend. We’re all good friends of our great aunt in Edinburgh.”
Anthony danced around that fact without missing a beat. “All the more reason to get a proper accounting of the man,” he said. “I made the mistake last season of misjudging a man’s character. A mistake I will never be making again.”
“And just what does that mean?” Eloise hadn’t paid much attention to Daphne’s singular season as a debutante. The sum of the story as she knew it was that Daphne was named the Diamond, was courted by some German prince, and then fell in love and married Simon Basset, Duke of Hastings. Nine months later, Auggie Basset was born. Rather like a fairytale, really.
“It means I wish to speak with your duke,” said Anthony. “If we’re to have a repeat of Daphne’s Season but on a shorter timetable then I’d like to be apprised of all the facts before he asks for my permission to propose.”
“We’re not courting!” Eloise hissed, but Anthony hadn’t heard.
None of her other siblings were of any help: Benedict thought the entire situation was hilarious and worthy of a painting; Colin simply threw his hands up in surrender at the whole thing, saying, “There’s no dissuading Anthony when he’s made up his mind.”; Daphne was out on an errand with her husband, so no help there; Francesca offered to play a melody that matched her current emotions — really was that all she learned in Bath?; Gregory wanted to come to the lunch as well because he had more questions for Harry; and Hyacinth was practically vibrating with excitement at the thought of another sister marrying a duke.
“Your wedding will have to be twice as grand!” Hyacinth gushed. “It can be the event of the Season! Or even better, have it at Aubrey Hall! That way we can all attend!”
“If they do get married,” said Francesca, “I’d imagine it would take place at the duke’s country estate. He does have one, yes?”
“No,” Eloise said. “The Potters all live in a hovel and share one bedroom.”
“Really?” Hyacinth asked, looking crestfallen.
“Just wait until they start fussing over the wedding dress,” Gregory said, plopping onto the sofa next to Hyacinth. “Daphne visited the modiste every day for a week.”
“There were the flower arrangements too,” Francesca added.
“Oh, and the food tasting!” Hyacinth said. “That took days.”
“Don’t forget the agony of choosing bridesmaids,” Benedict tittered from behind his sketchbook.
“What’s this about bridesmaids?” Anthony asked as he stepped into the room, because of course that was the one thing he managed to hear. He squinted at them all.
“There is nothing to do about bridesmaids,” Eloise said, standing with a huff. “Nor is there anything about food, flowers, or dresses! Nothing at all. Because you are all horrible and none of you are invited to my wedding.”
The resounding silence that met Eloise had her thinking they’d actually listened to what she said, then the mounting horror stole across her mind as she realized just what she’d said, and she didn’t know quite why she suddenly blushed. “Wait,” she tried. “I did not—”
“So, you do want to marry him?” Anthony said, looking like every assumption he’d made over the past week was proving itself to be right.
“Well—” and what a terrible word choice that proved to be (not only because she had thought of it, in an entirely different circumstance) but for the shriek of excitement Hyacinth let out, the set in Anthony’s eyes, and the chuckles of Benedict.
“Now I need to meet him properly,” he said. “Maybe I can get the both of you to sit for a portrait? Call it a wedding gift.”
“I’m not marrying him,” Eloise said. “We’re not even courting! The thought has never even entered my mind.”
“You’re not very good at lying, El,” Francesca said.
Eloise didn’t know what to be more offended by; the fact that her entire family had deluded themselves into believing this storybook romance, that none of them seemed to understand the words she was saying, or that her skills at lying had so thoroughly fallen apart when directed at her siblings. Or was it just that Francesca saw through it and thought it’d be funny to offer a witty retort? So, it seemed she did learn something in Bath other than music, which was great, but also bad because Eloise now needed some new dirt on her sister to needle her with whenever she’d get too witty for her own good.
But that was all a problem for later. In the present, Eloise took a deep breath and held up a hand in Benedict’s smiling face, said, “I’m done with you all,” and headed for the door. She had a luncheon to get to and another miscalculation to solve. She’d failed to account for the fact that if Harry was seen to be the sole suitor she actually entertained, naturally people — her own family most of all — would conclude that they were falling maddeningly in love, destined to marry in some grand ceremony with half of Mayfair invited for the show. The solution to this wasn’t forthcoming in the slightest, and Anthony didn’t prove any useful in this regard either.
Her eldest brother’s running commentary about this entire situation continued into the carriage and on the way to the Macmillan residence. Then, by some miracle, he paused and actually looked at her in contemplation. It was almost unnerving, and she was about to say something to fill the silence when he said, “I’m sorry.”
“What?” Eloise was sure this whirlwind of a day had driven her mad, and those words had just added to it. Good Lord, they hadn’t even arrived yet. “I mean, you do have much to apologize for, but what exactly are you saying sorry for right now?”
“I mistook you for Daphne,” Anthony said.
“Ah.” Eloise deflated. “I’m clearly not our sister.”
Anthony rolled his eyes and said, “Not literally. I meant the fact that you’re not a romantic like she is. You don’t dream of your wedding day like she did before her debut, and you don’t enjoy meeting with callers like she did. Your return early was a surprise, especially since you’d implied otherwise, and in my haste to take care of your midseason debut, I mistakenly assumed that you’d be like Daphne, and that I should act like I had during her Season. But you’re not Daphne.”
“I … I’m not Daphne,” Eloise said.
“He’s really not courting you?”
“No, he’s really not.”
Anthony looked annoyed. “Then why are you both acting like it? I need not remind you of your conduct at the Richmond ball. The first and last dance of your debut ball was with him. And the last dance was a waltz! Is that what they were teaching you at your … school?”
“We learned about magic, Anthony,” Eloise said. “A fascinating thing that I’ve been deprived of ever since my arrival.”
Her brother narrowed his eyes and frowned. He knew the basics of magic, but he didn’t know just how much it could do, or what it truly entailed.
“So why carry on with this ruse?” he asked. “Why lie about it all?”
“Because—”
“He’s not been taking any liberties with you?”
“Anthony!” Eloise felt the blush upon her cheeks and cursed her body for not marching lockstep behind her mind. “Nothing has happened between us, nor will it. I debuted because Mama insisted and I couldn’t say no. One season to satisfy her and then I plan on never doing any of this again.”
“And the duke’s part in this?”
“He agreed to help me fend off any other suitor by acting like he’s serious about courting me, which he isn’t actually, but to everyone else it looks like he is.”
Anthony sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “And what does he get out of this arrangement?”
“My help with his research project.”
“Oh, is that it?” Anthony huffed a laugh. “This man all but falls on his sword for you and in exchange all he asks is for you to do the one thing you like the most, reading. Really? Eloise. Do not tell me he has fooled you with this act.”
“What?” Eloise demanded. “After all the explaining I did about how I’m not Daphne, you listen to not a single word I’ve said, then turn around and accuse me of being Daphne?!”
“I am only trying to protect you, Eloise. There was a lot that occurred during Daphne’s Season that you don’t know about. Mistakes that she made that I’ll not have you repeat.”
“I’m not our sister, Harry is not some villain, and you do not need to be my savior.”
“What else am I supposed to do when I see this stranger seducing my sister?”
Eloise gasped. “Seduce? You cannot be serious. This is not a real conversation. You did not just say that. I demand an apology.”
“Eloise—”
“You haven’t even met the man properly and you’re already accusing him of something so dishonorable. Why is that your first instinct? Always seeing the worst in people you don’t know is rather indicative of your own character. And I’m not some helpless damsel in distress like Daphne was, because apparently a lot more happened last year than you all let on—”
“Eloise!” Anthony snapped. “I am your brother, so trust me when I say that it is always best to assume the worst in men before you get to know them well.”
“Is that just the company you keep, or rather your entire gender?”
“Do not be smart with me.”
“Oh, so you’d rather I be placid and dumb?”
“Just keep your wits about you,” Anthony said, as the carriage started to slow. “The world is not black and white, truth and untruth. No one is completely pure of heart. Don’t trust someone completely just because they smile and agree with you. Not even if he’s a wizard. Magic doesn’t suddenly make anyone a saint.”
“Harry is more of a gentleman than you’ll ever be,” Eloise said. She didn’t wait for the footman to arrive; she opened the carriage door herself and jumped down. She didn’t care for Anthony’s hissed admonishment. She was too angry to even look at him. How dare he? How dare he!
A footman conducted them through the doors and into a parlor where they might be greeted. The Macmillans weren’t immediately present, but Isabella was, and the minute tenseness in her shoulders told Eloise that her friend could sense the emotions radiating off her even through her plastered-on smile. “Eloise,” she said, kissing her on both cheeks and hugging her. “You look well.”
“I’m perfect,” Eloise said, too quickly, because that was what this day was supposed to be and it clearly wasn’t. “Issy, you know my brother.”
Isabella’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Yes, I do. It’s good to see you again, Lord—”
“Bridgerton!” called a masculine voice, and in walked a broad-shouldered wizard. “And friend. We weren’t expecting you, but the more the merry I’d say. I’m the Baron Macmillan, but please call me Thomas.”
Richard’s older brother was either a good actor or oblivious to the tension. He offered his hand and Anthony shook it, saying, “And I’m the Viscount Bridgerton, but you can call me Anthony.”
Eloise received her own greeting, and then they were all conveyed to the dining room, where the other members of this little luncheon were waiting. The two men stood upon their entry, and while Richard Macmillan wore his usual self-assured arrogance, Eloise noted the moment of concern that flashed across Harry’s face when their eyes met. She tried to make her smile more genuine, but that only made it feel more artificial. His eyes bounced between herself and Anthony, and she could already see the dots being connected.
The lunch that followed was in a word — unproductive. Eloise had imagined it involving a smattering of good food, some light banter with Isabella, a couple barbs traded with Richard, some polite talk with Baron Macmillan, followed by a rigorous discussion about the ongoing research with Harry that would have consumed the rest of her time. That assumption hadn’t accounted for Anthony. As it stood, her brother had invited himself on some misguided notion of paternalism and chivalry, and so it went. The air was stilted, Eloise’s mood was poor, and the conversation was a laborious act of polite interrogation. Harry proved accommodating to the intrusive questions, agreeable with his answers, and adequately dished as well as he received. It very much sounded like they were speaking in circles. Baron Macmillan kept up a steady flow of talk to continue the illusion of a peaceful meal (even if he really was just talking to himself) and Eloise tried not to simmer in her anger.
It had mostly abated by lunch’s end. They retired to a sitting room for some post-lunch tea — a gorgeous room with walls lined with brimming bookshelves and festooned with comfortable furniture. Curiosity got the better of her and she seized a book at random, running her fingers over the aged leather of the tome. It was a collection of prose by Cicero. Richard and Isabella distracted themselves with a game of chess, arguing all the while. Distantly, Baron Macmillan made a show of asking Anthony if he was making his return to Parliament, and Anthony affirmed he was, “until the business of the Season is done and I’ve again sufficient excuse.” He then found himself ensconced in a corner to talk politics, so Eloise sought a seat on the far side of the room, putting as much space between them as physically possible.
Harry soon joined her, sitting at a respectful distance, and perhaps that only fanned the flames in her brother’s narrow mind. “The last time I saw someone with that look in their eyes was at Toulouse,” he said.
“I’d rather not talk about it,” Eloise said. She found herself smiling softly at the genuine understanding in those weathered green eyes of his.
“Very well.” Harry glanced down at the book in her lap and quirked a brow. “Cicero? I must admit that the classics were never my forte at Hogwarts.”
Eloise chuckled. “Didn’t have time for some leisurely reading while on campaign?”
“You’d be surprised by how much time I had,” said Harry, “but no. The war rather preoccupied me. Now this business with Parliament and my apparently growing number of social commitments stemming from it are eating away at my precious free time. I’m finding myself with fewer opportunities to get my hands dirty with our project than I’d like.”
“Right, about that.” Eloise leaned on her chair’s armrest, closing the distance unconsciously. “Our inability to communicate incognito and across distances has come up more than once.”
Harry matched her and grinned. “You already have a solution?”
“Of course I do.” She held up Cicero and used his pages as a visual aid as she explained it to Harry. She’d refined the initial idea that she and Isabella had had. “It’s all still theoretical, in truth, but the foundational logic is sound.”
For one long moment, Harry said nothing, his eyes on the pages as he ran a finger along the printed and translated Latin. “It’s brilliant.” He looked up at her with a smile she’d never seen before; it was nothing more than an upward tug of his lip, small and reserved, and Eloise felt as though for a second his entire soul was laid bare to her. It made him look both older and younger than he was.
Then she blinked, the moment had passed, and she was returned to the Macmillan sitting room. Harry set Cicero aside and produced his little notebook. He scribbled out a note, his haste crowding the words to illegibility, and then he flipped several pages and turned the book around to Eloise.
“The current list of ingredients I’m experimenting with,” he said. “Some are less promising than others, but I’ve narrowed down several that I remember being necessary.”
Eloise raked her eyes down the list even as he spoke and was caught on one item in particular. “Pineapple? Does it have any magical properties at all?”
“Apparently. I distinctly remember the taste.”
“You remember the taste,” Eloise said. “You’ve used this potion before?”
“I—” Harry’s jaw snapped shut and he seemed to carry an entire mental conversation with himself before he said, “Used wouldn’t be entirely correct. Rather, I was … accidentally showered in it. A laboratory mishap of epic proportion saw the cauldron explode and its contents spread everywhere, covering everyone present. I was sent elsewhere and I have to assume the others met a similar fate.”
“And you want to recreate it? This sounds all too dangerous.”
“Perhaps, but the original potion was unfinished, and if unlocked, its potential could be revolutionary. It certainly felt like it.”
“Where did it send you?”
Harry chuckled. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Wha—” Eloise scoffed. “Now you have to tell me.”
“You’d think me crazy.”
“I consider every Gryffindor I meet to be a touch mad unless proven otherwise. You’re no exception.”
“Now I don’t know if I even want to tell you,” Harry said. “You might think different of me if I did, and I do like our conversations.”
“So, I’m too much of a friend to tell?” Eloise toyed with the little notebook as she spoke. “I can be very disagreeable if that’ll help.”
“And what if I said I had traveled back in time?”
“By potion?” Eloise laughed. It was only natural. “I’d think the potion would have impaired your senses rather than done the impossible. Everyone knows time travel can only be achieved by a ritual, and even that is debated.”
“Really? Really? And here I thought Ravenclaws prided themselves in pushing beyond the bounds of known magic. I’m surprised you’ve settled for the status quo.”
“I have not,” Eloise said immediately. “I have not! You” — she pointed a finger in his smiling face — “I know what you’re trying to do. You’re framing the issue in a specific way so that I won’t be able to stop myself from trying to figure it out, if only to prove that I was right and they were wrong.”
“They, of course, being the stuffy old Purebloods sitting in their ivory towers and dictating what magic can and can’t do,” Harry supplied.
Eloise smiled. “You, Henry James Potter, are a horrible man and a liar.”
“I am those things,” Harry said, sighing. “But you can’t resist the challenge, can you? Not when I’ve made such progress already and have a decent chance of succeeding.”
“Oh, yes, mister man out of time, so much progress that you come to me for help.”
“How could I not? You scored better marks on your Potions N.E.W.T. than even Issy, and from the time I come from, that’s high praise.”
Eloise rolled her eyes even as the blush rode up her neck and painted her cheeks. “For a duke, you’re quite ridiculous.”
“Life’s too short to be anything but.” Harry accepted his notebook and secreted it away. “I’ll puzzle out your idea with the notebooks. There’s real merit to it. Now look alive, your brother’s coming over.”
There were still a hundred things she needed to say, dozens more she wanted to voice, but for the moment Eloise was content with no words at all, and she spared none for Anthony, for she had greater foes to challenge.