The country home—no, estate—felt like a dream carved out of fresh stone and lavender-scented air. A wedding gift from Their Majesties, though no one dared speak of it as such yet, lest it become too real too soon. Its halls were wide, full of murals depicting monarchs long since dust, and somewhere down the corridor sat Anthony Bridgerton and his princess fiancée, both wearing expressions of dignity far too practiced for the truth that lay beneath.

Because behind closed doors they were not dignified. They were children with the run of a palace— Skipping down marbled halls, stealing honey pastries, muddy boots from the gardens, racing like hounds were on their heels.

But at dinner? Perfection.

We are seated at the long oak table with them. Candles drip quietly, painting the room gold. Silver reflects candle flame and laughter in equal measure. You sit beside Anthony—your hand politely in your lap, though moments ago he’d held it under the table and whispered some wickedly domestic promise about sneaking out through the kitchen later. His expression now? Stoic. Polished. A future Viscount carved from restraint.

Across from us sits Queen Charlotte, spine straight, wig towering in imperial glory. She watches the two of you with feline interest, as if waiting to see which of you misbehaves first.

Violet Bridgerton is near the Queen, eyes warm, heart brighter than the chandelier overhead. She glances between you and her son as though she cannot quite believe her fortune—Anthony, married not merely well, but royally.

Daphne sits further down, smiling with serene curiosity. Benedict sketches the tapestry above the mantel instead of eating. Eloise leans your way slightly, ready to whisper scandal if needed.

The first course arrives—pigeon with herbs, roasted vegetables, wine rich as velvet.

Queen Charlotte speaks, voice smooth: “Tell me”—her gaze turns to both of you—“how the preparations progress.”

Anthony answers first, flawlessly, as if rehearsed. “Quite well, Your Majesty. We toured the estate’s orchards this morning.”

A lie. You toured them—yes—but running, him chasing you, apple blossoms in your hair. He had tackled you into grass behind the stables, both breathless with laughter, before you returned and put yourselves back together like adults dressing as children pretending to be adults.

You nod with equal poise. “The grounds are… peaceful, Your Majesty. I believe this home will suit us beautifully.”

You feel his knee bump yours beneath the table—deliberate, secretive. If his mother knew how many times he had kissed you behind the hedges today, she would swoon. If the Queen knew, she’d pretend not to care and then demand details later.

The conversation drifts like violin strings. Colin asks you about your favorite novels. Francesca wonders whether the lake freezes in winter. Gregory and Hyacinth stare at you with the awe only younger siblings possess when their brother marries a princess.

Wine is poured, laughter grows, plates empty into memory.

And then—Anthony shifts closer.

His voice, disciplined for all ears, says: “Your Highness and I wished to explore the west gardens after dinner. The orange blossoms are in bloom.”

You know very well this translates to:

Meet me. Run with me. Get lost with me. Let us steal an hour from duty and call it ours.