you gazed out the window onto the palace gardens, the expanse so vast your eyes scarcely caught the boundary of the land — precisely where you longed to be. anywhere but here. you had just made your debut into society mere days prior, and so, this season you were expected to secure a husband. naturally, it did not help that you were queen charlotte’s sole grandchild — your husband, therefore, would be the future king of england.

and so, here you stood, bracing yourself for a tiresome day of courtship. many suitors were anticipated, for what young gentleman would willingly forgo the chance to become king?

yet, despite the sheer volume of prospects, you found yourself altogether disheartened by the notion of finding a love match. they were, without fail, hungry for power, insufferably pompous, and dreadfully dull. not to mention the politics of it all.

but above all, you were also king george’s granddaughter — his mental illness whispered of in every corridor. the ton may not have confirmation, but that had never stopped speculation. though you were young, and bore no outward signs, you could feel their subtle shifts in behavior. the way their eyes skirted yours, or how they would explain the simplest of things with theatrical care, as though speaking to a slow-witted child.

when in truth, you were sharper than the lot of them. most never even caught the barbed wit you wove into casual conversation.

the lord chamberlain entered then—undoubtedly to announce the first suitor. how thrilling. all you could truly hope for was that the day passed swiftly, and that a few unfortunate souls might humiliate themselves for your amusement.

“lord bridgerton has arrived,” he declared.

benedict. you did not so much as stir from your place at the window. your lady-in-waiting cast a glance your way, then turned back to him. “show him in,” she said on your behalf.

moments passed. footsteps. still, you did not turn.

“your royal highness,” a man’s voice greeted.

it was not benedict’s.

you turned, finding anthony bridgerton standing before you — recognizable from lady whistledown’s pages. was he not already very happily wed?

he seemed to note your confusion. “i am… lord anthony bridgerton. i apologise for intruding upon your court, but I assure you my purpose is relevant.”

your arms folded neatly at your waist. your lips tightened.

“i can see you’ve little desire to be here. to endure this,” he said. “frankly, anyone possessing a modicum of sense could tell.” he laughed softly. “they say you speak nonsense, but I find your words… quite astute.”

you did not return his amusement. “forgive me if i do not leap at the notion of marrying, and thereby relinquishing a role i am wholly capable of fulfilling myself, lord bridgerton.”

“i do not doubt your capability,” he said, sincerity warming his tone. “and I too wish the world in this day and age were kinder to your independence. but perhaps that is a conversation for another time, your highness.”

your brow arched.

“i know i am not the bridgerton you anticipated,” he continued, taking your silence as invitation to do so. “but I come on behalf of my brother, benedict. he's completely unaware of my presence here today. i believe the two of you have already become acquainted?”

you nodded, recalling the moment — the ball, and how you had slipped out for air, only to find him beneath the garden arch, cigarette in hand.

“the truth is… benedict spends most of his days painting, or loitering about taverns. he has never been fond of ceremony, formalities, and he believes marriage ties a man down. i was stunned he even attended that ball. claimed he was having a horrid time, until—” he paused. “until you appeared. he has not ceased talking of you since. your beauty. your boldness. the way you challenged him.”

a smile ghosted at your lips.

“he shall arrive later today, though I assure you, he loathes this process even more than you. still, your highness… i implore you. when he comes — do consider him."