Chapter Text
The silence in the church was suffocating. It was broken only by the sound of Edwina Sharma’s hurried steps as she fled the altar, her silken skirts rustling against the marble floor. Guests murmured in stunned disbelief, their whispers ricocheting off the grand cathedral walls. Violet Bridgerton’s hand clutched her son’s arm, her grip tightening as though she could keep him from unraveling before the scrutinizing eyes of the Ton.
Anthony Bridgerton stood motionless at the altar, his jaw clenched, his expression unreadable. His heart should have been hammering, his mind reeling from the humiliation of his bride’s abrupt departure. Instead, a strange, eerie calm settled over him—a resignation that this, too, was another failure added to the ledger of his life.
The Queen, seated in her place of honour, pursed her lips. She had orchestrated this match, deeming it suitable not only for Lord Bridgerton but for the future of the Ton itself. And now, in front of the entirety of society, her choice had been undone. This would not do. A decision must be made swiftly.
She stood, drawing the attention of every guest. “This wedding,” she declared, her voice carrying with imperial authority, “will proceed.”
A ripple of shock surged through the assembled guests. Whispers turned to exclamations as Lady Danbury’s sharp gaze flickered toward the Queen, and Lady Bridgerton inhaled sharply beside her son.
“Your Majesty,” Anthony said, his voice measured, deferential. “The bride has left.”
The Queen’s sharp gaze fixed upon him. “And yet a wedding must occur.”
“My Queen, if I may,” Violet interjected carefully. “To proceed under such circumstances—”
“Would be an act of necessity,” Queen Charlotte interrupted. “One that will ensure Lord Bridgerton’s title, his lands, and his position among the peerage remain intact.”
Anthony’s back straightened. He had known marriage to be his duty, a responsibility that outweighed all else, but never had he imagined it would be dictated in such a manner.
The Queen’s gaze swept across the congregation before she turned her attention to the gardens beyond the open cathedral doors. There, amidst the bewildered guests, stood Miss Penelope Featherington, her golden gown a stark contrast to the swirling scandal around her. She was engaged in deep discussion with none other than Mr. Colin Bridgerton, her auburn curls gleaming in the sunlight.
The Queen’s decision was instant. “Miss Penelope Featherington,” she announced, her voice carrying across the gathered aristocracy, “shall be the bride.”
A gasp surged through the assembly. Penelope, mid-sentence with Colin, paled visibly. “Pardon?” she choked out, her voice barely above a whisper.
Colin’s brows shot up. “Your Majesty, I—”
The Queen did not acknowledge his protest. Instead, she lifted a brow in amusement. “Come now, Miss Featherington, do not appear so surprised. You are of marriageable age, are you not?”
Penelope’s fingers clenched the fabric of her gown. “I—Yes, Your Majesty, but—”
“Then it is settled.” The Queen looked to Anthony. “Lord Bridgerton, you shall wed Miss Featherington.”
Anthony turned, his gaze locking onto Penelope’s, assessing. Penelope’s breath caught as she found herself staring into the eyes of the most formidable man in the ton—eyes that held an unreadable storm behind them.
“Mama,” Penelope whispered, seeking support, but Portia Featherington was already stepping forward, her face a portrait of astonishment and avaricious delight.
“What an… unexpected honour,” Portia said, dropping into a curtsy. “Your Majesty, we are humbled beyond words.”
“I imagine you are,” the Queen replied dryly. “Miss Featherington, present yourself.”
Penelope’s feet felt leaden as she walked forward, conscious of every eye upon her. She stopped before the Queen and Anthony, her hands trembling at her sides.
Anthony had yet to say a word, though his expression was no longer unreadable. Instead, it was carefully neutral, as though he was swiftly calculating the ramifications of his new fate.
“Miss Featherington,” he said at last, his voice even. “Are you prepared for this?”
Penelope swallowed. She should protest. She should say that this was madness, that she had no wish to entangle herself in a marriage of obligation. And yet—her mind flashed to Colin, who looked ready to charge forward in defense, and to her mother, whose lips quirked in what could only be described as greedy triumph. She had no choice. No true one, at least.
“Yes,” she said, her voice quieter than she wished. “I am.”
Something flickered in Anthony’s gaze—approval, perhaps, or gratitude that she would not cause a greater spectacle. He turned to the Queen. “Then we shall proceed.”
The Queen nodded in satisfaction. “Very well. We shall reconvene within the hour.”
As the remaining guests were ushered into the gardens, murmuring in disbelief, Penelope felt her legs weaken beneath her. This could not be real. This could not be happening.
Yet, as Anthony Bridgerton offered her his arm, his face unreadable but his presence undeniable, she realized the truth—
She was to be his wife before the sun set.