Chapter Text
If Violet Bridgerton had a fault—and most people would insist that she had only a handful—it was that she occasionally wanted things a little too much and maybe that she was a hopeless romantic. At present, she wanted one thing more than anything else in the world: for Penelope Featherington to become her daughter.
Not just in spirit. Not just by long-standing invitation to every family gathering, and certainly not just because of the alarming frequency with which she appeared at tea.
No, she meant in name. In ink. On paper. Legally. Violet wanted Penelope to be the mother of her grandchildren.
She has longed for that since the day that tiny, sweet little girl came into her life.
And for the longest time, she’d believed this dream was entirely within reach. All the signs had pointed directly to Colin and Penelope—every last one of them, if one paid attention, which Violet always did. Ever since that ill-fated day when Penelope’s devilishly yellow head covering sent him directly into the mud, the two had been hopelessly, charmingly entangled.
But no. Of course not. Because Colin—sweet, stupid, beautifully oblivious Colin—had decided, in a moment of pure, youthful idiocy, to pursue Marina Thompson .
Marina. With her perfectly symmetrical face and the personality of a boiled parsnip.
It had been nothing more than childish flirtation, a parade of superficial affections that lacked the substance he could have had with Penelope. A partnership, Violet thought bitterly. A marriage of minds, of equals. Of two people who actually liked each other, they are friends for God’s sake.
But no. The fool went and got himself engaged.
Bloody Fool…
If Violet were to rank her children—and of course, she never would, except in moments like this—Colin had plummeted straight to the bottom. He had once vied for the top, poor boy.
And yet, there he was. Engaged. Not to Penelope Featherington, but to Marina fucking Thompson.
The mere fact of it kept Violet up at night, pacing in her nightgown, muttering to herself like a madwoman.
But if Colin was out—and he was —then what, pray tell, was to become of her dream?
Gregory? Too young.
Anthony? Ha! That was a joke best left unspoken.
Which left…
Benedict.
Hmm…
Benedict could work.
He was charming. He was clever. He was artistic, sensitive, and just enough of a rake to keep things interesting. Violet knew that he was lurking around, trying to find his place – a purpose, maybe. Penelope could help him with that. She would encourage him to paint. Penelope would ground him. She would benefit as well; he would bring out her wild streak. She desperately needs to open up. For Christ's sake, they are both artistic souls. It could work. It could truly work.
There was, of course, one rather significant obstacle.
Benedict Bridgerton had no intention of marrying. Not now, not next year, not even if the Queen herself threatens to exile him if he does not choose a wife.
Unless— unless —he were forced to by a way greater horror when the queen of England. By Eloise. By Hyacinth. Even Francesca. Even the idea that he might ruin their best friend. They would haunt him like hellhounds. It would be truly terrifying.
And that, Violet thought with a sly, perfectly unladylike grin, was where her plan began.