As a cisgender, white, bisexual second son of a viscount, and as a gentleman landowner of multiple estates on the unceded ancestral homeland of the Celts and Saxons, I don’t see race. Of late, many of my acquaintances have expressed very great wonder at this. I set down my lived experience here in the hopes that it may serve as an example.
On the eve of the 1815 season, I attended my mama’s masquerade ball at Bridgerton House. Even as I entered the ballroom, members of the Ton recognized me, despite my attempts at concealment—I am taller than my brothers and exceedingly well built, and also I wasn’t wearing a costume and my mask was small.
A young lady curtseyed to me and said she had heard I was a devotee of Thomas Lawrence, a great master of portraiture who had recently exhibited at the Royal Academy.
“Oh, you like Lawrence?” I said. “Name three of his group compositions.” The lady gaped at me.
“I thought not,” I said, chuckling and moving towards the table piled high with sweetmeats.
