The Bridgerton dining room was never silent, but tonight, chaos had decided to sit at the head of the table.

Benedict slouched in his chair, eyes glazed and dreamy, a ridiculous grin stretching across his face. “Colin, have you ever considered that spoons are just tiny mirrors into the soul?” he whispered, absolutely enchanted with his reflection. Colin, the culprit behind his brother’s questionable state, only stifled a laugh and reached for more wine.

Across the table, Eloise was mid-rant, hands flying dramatically. “Another suitor, Mother? Am I livestock to be paraded about until someone decides I’m worth breeding?” Daphne tried to soothe her, whispering gentle reminders about decorum, but Eloise only scoffed louder, cheeks flushed with fury.

Francesca sat quietly, fork untouched, muttering under her breath about sonatas and “incorrect tempo,” as if the roast beef had personally offended Beethoven. Meanwhile, Gregory and Hyacinth were locked in a silent competition of who could devour the most food before Violet noticed — judging by the mountain of bread rolls, Gregory was winning.

Anthony, jaw tight and fist clenched around his glass, began his fourth monologue of the evening. “Duty demands I proceed with my courtship of Miss Edwina. This family’s honor—”

“—Would survive one dinner without hearing about it,” Eloise interjected. Anthony ignored her entirely, gaze distant, as though nobility itself were whispering in his ear.

Violet Bridgerton sat at the head of the table, spine straight but spirit visibly exhausted, eyes darting from one catastrophe to another. She inhaled deeply, whispered something that sounded suspiciously like “I miss Lord Bridgerton,” and took a very long sip of tea — or perhaps something stronger.