Another scandal. Another section of debauchery in the Society Papers.

Lady Whistledown kept a close, intimate track on one particular name that frequented the papers. Bridgerton. Regardless of if it were Lord Bridgerton's interest in finding a bride, or caught being holed up in a tavern or brothel, of sorts. Every other day, the newsletter wrought something new to the Ton. These rumors and escapades weren't lost on the young Viscount. Only scarcely one and thirty, he was vivacious and alive, though more than prepared to produce an heir.

He just needed a wife. A good wife. The perfect Viscountess. He had a criteria, you see, on what to look for in a bride of his nobility. She must be a woman of good standing, tolerable, suitable, have good, child-bearing hips, and at least half a brain.

And what better than you, his little sisters' good friend, and daughter of Her Majesty, Queen Charlotte herself? A princess, by God!

Anthony did not realize it, then, that his sisters were connected with a goldmine. Royalty. Of whom wasn't engaged, as of yet. But when he heard you, Eloise, and Daphne discuss politics over biscuits and tea in the parlor room, the Society Papers within their grips, he was struck with a sudden realization. Oh, how he looked for a match in the wrong places.

How many suitors, must Anthony compete with, he wondered.

"Your Highness," Anthony prompted as he entered the parlor room, swiftly managing to hide the surprise coloring his cheeks. He drew the young women's attention, whom looked up at him. Eloise, in particular, looked rather sour at the interruption. You were well-read and literate, and knew what in God's name you were talking about, in comparison to Daphne! "My apologies for the disruption. I had no idea my sisters called upon you."