Chapter Text
The ton had been abuzz for weeks. Whispers flitted through ballrooms and tea parlors alike that Queen Charlotte had grown utterly weary of the season’s endless parade of unmatched ladies and gentlemen. Every soiree, every musicale, every promenade in Hyde Park seemed filled with nothing but gossip about when the Queen would finally put an end to what she deemed “a most pitiful waste of her time.”
Lady Whistledown herself had fanned the flames with her biting quill: Her Majesty, it seems, has lost all patience with our endless games of courtship. One cannot blame her. After all, how many dances must she witness where a gentleman spins a lady around the floor only to abandon her for another the following week? How many dowagers must she endure weeping over daughters left unwed? It appears the Queen has decided to take matters into her own, most regal hands.
The scandal was all anyone could speak of.
At Lady Danbury’s card table, Lady Featherington had fanned herself furiously, her feathers practically vibrating with indignation. “Mark my words, she cannot truly mean it. Pairing us all like chess pieces on a board? Absurd! Imagine being handed off like—like livestock at an auction!”
Lady Danbury let out a laugh sharp enough to slice through the cigar smoke lingering in the air. “Absurd? My dear, what is absurd is how long it takes these fools to make up their minds. Half the men in this room have courted the same woman for three seasons with no intention of marrying her. I, for one, would pay to watch them squirm under Her Majesty’s gaze.”
“Squirm?” Lady Featherington gasped. “You make it sound as though this is some form of entertainment!”
“And is it not?” Lady Danbury’s eyes twinkled with mischief as she laid down her cards. “The drama, the shock, the scandal—it will be the grandest performance the ton has ever seen. I expect Whistledown is salivating as we speak.”
Lady Featherington pressed her lips together until they nearly disappeared. “Easy for you to say. You have no unmarried daughters to foist off. What if the Queen pairs Prudence with some penniless second son? What if Philippa is stuck with one of those dreadful scholars who speaks only of books? Or—heaven forbid—what if Penelope is matched with someone wholly unsuitable?”
Lady Danbury arched a brow, her cane tapping lightly against the carpet. “Better unsuitable than unloved forever, Lady Featherington. And as for your daughters—well, perhaps a touch of royal interference is exactly what they need.”
Lady Featherington sputtered. “Interference? Interference! Why, I have spent years guiding my girls toward advantageous marriages. Years! And now the Queen seeks to undo all my efforts in one evening?”
“My dear,” Lady Danbury said with a sly smile, “if your efforts had borne fruit, the Queen would hardly have reason to step in.”
Gasps and muffled laughter rose from the ladies gathered around the table, though most quickly hid their amusement behind their fans.
Lady Featherington’s cheeks turned a shade to rival her gown. “I’ll have you know, Lady Danbury, that my daughters are highly desirable matches.”
“Of course they are,” Lady Danbury replied smoothly, her tone rich with amusement. “And I am certain Her Majesty will place them exactly where they belong. After all”—she leaned forward, lowering her voice with mock solemnity—“the Queen has always had a rather impeccable sense of irony.”
The Bridgerton drawing room was no different, filled with the crackling tension of a family desperate to know who might be tied to whom. Afternoon light spilled through the tall windows, gilding the chaos of half-read books, scattered embroidery hoops, and Benedict’s carelessly discarded sketches.
“Surely it is but rumor,” Eloise scoffed, pacing with a book in hand as though its pages alone might shield her from such nonsense. “The Queen cannot simply force people into matches. What are we, cattle in a pen?”
Benedict leaned back lazily in his chair, sketchpad balanced on his knee. “You underestimate Her Majesty’s fondness for spectacle. I would not put it past her in the slightest. If she thought it would amuse her, she would march us all to the altar tomorrow.”
“Oh, I do hope it is true!” Hyacinth piped in with a wicked smile, perched cross-legged upon the settee. “Imagine the look on some poor gentleman’s face when he finds himself shackled to Lady Hodgekiss. She does nothing but discuss her poodles.”
“Hyacinth,” Violet warned, though her lips twitched as if holding back amusement.
“Or Lord Middlethorpe,” Hyacinth continued gleefully. “He wheezes every time he dances. Perhaps he will be paired with Eloise.”
Eloise halted mid-step, snapping her book closed with a crack. “If I am, I shall flee to Scotland at once and live out my days in solitude. Better that than enduring a lifetime of watching a man fight for breath after three steps across a ballroom.”
Anthony, predictably, scowled. He stood by the fireplace opposite Colin, arms folded, a pillar of disapproval. “If this ridiculous plan of hers does come to pass, we should all pray she has the sense not to ruin reputations in the process. Forced matches will only end in disaster.”
Colin, who had been leaning against the mantle, raised his brows and grinned, entirely unbothered. “Disaster can be rather entertaining, brother. I, for one, am curious to see who fate—or rather, Her Majesty—decrees suitable for me. It might finally put an end to the endless speculation.”
Eloise rolled her eyes. “Or begin an entirely new wave of it.”
“Pen, what do you think?” Colin asked suddenly, turning toward the quietest figure in the room.
Penelope Featherington, seated demurely beside Eloise with her embroidery in her lap, startled at being addressed. Her hands trembled just enough to prick her finger, though she quickly hid the small wince. “I—I should not think Her Majesty would bother herself with the likes of me.”
“Nonsense,” Colin said, his grin softening into something kinder. “The Queen bothers herself with everyone. That is rather her specialty.”
Penelope ducked her head, hoping the curtain of her hair might shield her pink cheeks. “Perhaps. But I suspect some of us are more easily overlooked than others.”
Colin frowned slightly, tilting his head. “Not by me.”
The room stilled for a beat, Hyacinth’s mischievous smirk faltering as her gaze darted between them.
Violet, who had been observing quietly from her chair with her knitting, laid down her needles. “Penelope, my dear, you must not speak of yourself so. You are as deserving of happiness as any lady in this room. Should the Queen attempt this absurd ceremony, I should hope she remembers it.”
Penelope’s throat tightened, her eyes prickling, though she forced a small smile. “You are very kind, Lady Bridgerton.”
“Not kindness,” Violet said firmly. “Truth.”
Colin, still watching her, leaned just slightly closer, his voice pitched low. “See? You cannot argue with my mother. She is always right.”
That earned a small laugh from Penelope—shaky, but real—and Colin beamed at the sound, as though he had accomplished something grand.
Anthony, ever the elder brother, cleared his throat. “Well, truth or not, I still maintain this is folly. The Queen may dictate many things, but marriage—”
“—is rarely dictated by sense at all,” Benedict finished with a smirk, earning himself a sharp look from Anthony and a ripple of stifled laughter from the younger siblings.
Violet shook her head, though her smile lingered. “Whatever happens, we shall weather it as we always do—together. And that includes you as well, Penelope.” She reached out, giving the girl’s hand a gentle squeeze. “Do not forget, you are as much a part of this family as any of my children.”
Penelope’s lips parted, her heart stumbling in her chest. For a moment, surrounded by their warmth, she almost believed it.
When the others had gone, the drawing room felt quieter, though the tension still clung to the air like a storm waiting to break. Eloise flung herself into the seat beside Penelope, folding her legs beneath her like a restless child.
“Do you realize,” Eloise began abruptly, “that in Her Majesty’s infinite mischief, she might very well pair you with one of my brothers?”
Penelope’s head jerked up, eyes wide. “What?”
Eloise shuddered so dramatically her curls bounced. “Imagine it! You, forced to endure Anthony’s lectures until you perish of boredom. Or Benedict, who would make you sit for portraits until you shriveled into dust. Or Colin—” She broke off with a snort. “Good heavens, Colin. You’d never have a moment’s peace with his endless traveling tales.”
Penelope tried to laugh, though it came out thin. “I cannot imagine the Queen would be so cruel.”
“Cruel?” Eloise grinned, leaning closer. “It would be hilarious. I almost want it to happen just to see Anthony’s face.”
Penelope shook her head quickly, her fingers tightening around her embroidery hoop. “I doubt I would be so lucky.”
Eloise froze, her grin faltering as her sharp eyes fixed on her friend. “Lucky?” she repeated, her tone slow, testing. “Penelope Featherington… what exactly do you mean by that?”
Penelope flushed scarlet, ducking her gaze, fumbling for her needle as though it might stitch the words back into silence.
Eloise leaned forward, her eyes narrowing with delight, like a cat spotting a mouse. “Oh, no. Do not hide behind your embroidery, Pen. Out with it. What did you mean by lucky?”
“I only meant,” Penelope said quickly, choosing her words with careful precision, “that the Bridgerton men are far better than most of the gentlemen in the ton. Any girl would be fortunate to be paired with one of them.”
Eloise blinked, then gave a dramatic roll of her eyes. “Ugh, do not tell me you’ve been infected by the rest of them. I cannot set foot in a drawing room without hearing some ninny prattle on about which Bridgerton brother she wishes to snare. ‘Oh, Anthony is so distinguished,’” she mimicked in a high, simpering voice, “‘Benedict is so dashing, Colin so charming.’ It is enough to make one retch.”
Penelope laughed softly, keeping her eyes fixed on her stitches. “You cannot deny it, though. They are considered the very best of gentlemen.”
“Yes, yes,” Eloise said, waving her hand as though brushing away the notion. “But that is only because they have not had to live with them. Anthony lectures as though he were a vicar, Benedict leaves ink stains on every available surface, and Colin—” She gave an exaggerated shudder. “He eats enough pies to feed an army and believes his every story of foreign travel is the first anyone has ever heard of adventure. They are tolerable, I suppose, as brothers. But as husbands? Utterly insufferable.”
Penelope smiled faintly, though she kept her face carefully neutral. “And yet, Eloise, I suspect half the young ladies in London would swoon at the chance to endure such sufferings.”
Eloise let out a scoff so loud it nearly startled Penelope into dropping her hoop. “Then let them swoon! They may claw and simper and bat their lashes until they fall faint upon the ballroom floor for all I care. Better them than me.” She pressed a hand to her chest with mock gravity. “For I shall never surrender myself to such nonsense. Not even under royal decree.”
Penelope bit back a laugh, her needle sliding through the fabric. “You say that now. But what if the Queen truly means to go through with this? Would you defy her?”
Eloise paused, her eyes narrowing as though weighing the thought. Then she sniffed. “Perhaps not defy her outright. But I would find a way to make it insufferable. Can you imagine? Her Majesty would regret the moment she ever thought to bind me to anyone.”
Penelope chuckled, shaking her head. “You will find yourself exiled if you continue to speak so boldly.”
“Exile!” Eloise brightened suddenly, as though the notion were a gift. “What bliss that would be! A life of books, solitude, and freedom. Far preferable to being tied to some man I did not choose.”
Penelope hesitated, her smile faltering. “Not all matches are misery, Eloise.” Her voice softened. “Some are…fortunate.”
Eloise’s expression gentled, her keen gaze flicking to her friend. “You truly think so?”
Penelope lowered her eyes again, the faintest flush rising in her cheeks. “I must. Otherwise, what hope do any of us have?”
For once, Eloise was silent, drumming her fingers idly against the armrest as if turning over her friend’s words. Then, with a sudden sigh, she flopped backward against the cushions. “Well, if the Queen insists on playing matchmaker, let us hope she has better sense than the rest of the ton. Heaven help us all if she does not.”
Penelope’s lips curved faintly, though her heart beat faster at the thought.