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Prince Friedrich of Prussia, third son, denied artist turned war-hero turned suicidal, stood beneath the gilded corners of the Danbury ballroom, watching the swirl of silks and lace with a detachment more suited to a battlefield than a ball.
He had once thought such rooms might hold magic - beauty, music, conversations that stirred the soul. But he had been younger then, romantic, foolish, and still clinging to the idea that humanity was a beautiful thing and that people might value art and beauty.
How naive.
His family had scoffed at his desire to pursue the arts. Painting was a pastime. Music, a hobby. A prince had no business wasting his time with colour palettes or sonatas. But the army? War and battle? March into the thick of cannon smoke and bloodied men? That, they had encouraged. Applauded. And when he started going into the fight head-on, with no care whether he lived or died and ended up winning battle after battle, they had been even more thrilled.
It was only then that he had understood how sheltered he truly was. Somewhere between the overwhelming sight of the enemy troops and lying in the mud, trapped underneath his dead horse, a stab wound across his ribs and shrapnel from a nearby explosion embedded in his skin, Friedrich had to admit, if only to himself, that joining the army and the war might have been an overreaction at being denied his pursuit of the arts.
He had only done it as a protest. They wouldn’t allow him the art that he felt he needed to live, so he would go to where people died instead. He was met with a gross reality that even war had been painted with a glossy, honourable, glorious varnish. The truth was miserable, inhumane and disheartening. It was horrifying.
And he was a dramatic idiot; he agreed with his father. But in the end, it got him what he wanted. Their approval of whatever he wanted to do, as long as it wasn’t trying to kill himself on or off the battlefield.
Let him paint, let him sketch, let him sculpt whatever he liked. So long as he didn’t fling himself back into the jaws of war.
And so they sent him to England. To convalesce. To study. And, of course, to marry.
That last part - his mother’s hushed plea, his older brother’s stern order - was the only thing his aunt, Queen Charlotte, had heard, and she was going at it with almost comedic enthusiasm. She had ignored the art entirely and focused on the potential for a match. Since his arrival, Friedrich had been marched from ball to tea to picnic to promenade, introduced to every barely marriageable debutante within reach.
Daphne Bridgerton, the Diamond of the Season, had become the Queen’s pet project. A lovely girl, to be fair. Classical features, polished manners, impeccably trained in the art of being perfectly uninteresting. Friedrich had nothing against her, precisely. She simply left him cold.
He was two weeks into his stay, and already he was half-mad with it. He hadn’t almost died on a battlefield for nothing! It was too much. He refused to entertain this indignity for a moment longer. He came to London to learn Art, and that was exactly what he was going to do; his Aunt, favourite or not, would have to deal with it.
His fingers itched for charcoal, his eyes for shadow and movement, and truth. Instead, he was given ruffles and giggles and women who blinked at him as dolls brought to life.
And, as if summoned by his own revolting thoughts, Lady Cowper and her daughter were moving through the crowd like sharks scenting blood.
Friedrich cursed under his breath and turned sharply toward the back of the room, ducking behind a florid bouquet and slipping into one of the quieter hallways.
Another young man also stood there, half in shadow, hands shoved in his coat pockets and expression wry, as he peered into the ballroom and the other end of the hallway.
“Running from the Cowpers as well?” He asked, startling the stranger. “They cornered me near the punch bowl two nights ago. I only escaped by pretending my aunt was calling me.”
“You’re lucky. I once faked a nosebleed. It backfired horribly. My mother sent a physician, and I spent a month being checked because he couldn’t find anything.” They shared a quiet laugh. “Benedict Bridgerton,” the man replied, shaking it with a relaxed grip. “Middle son. Mostly harmless.”
“I’m Friedrich,” he said, offering his hand. "Technically a prince. But don't hold that against me."
They stood for a moment in companionable silence, the muffled music and laughter from the ballroom pressing faintly against the walls. Then an opening door sent both of them scrambling down the hallway for a place to hide, giggling like boys up to mischief.
And just like that, a friendship, forged in the fire of shared social misery, was forged.
The Bridgerton library was surprisingly quiet and tolerably removed from the ton's usual chaos, even if Friedrich had to sneak in to avoid the Lady of the House and the resident Diamond of the Season. And that grey, drizzly Wednesday, it felt like a small corner of sanctuary.
Prince Friedrich sat curled over a sketchbook, one leg tucked beneath him on the chaise. A handful of loose pages of studies lay scattered around him, quick sketches of hands, of shadows, of a stone bust with more character than most of the ton. Across from him, Benedict Bridgerton frowned at his drawing, muttering complaints and curses about a line here or a curve there.
They had fallen into an easy routine in the past week. Shared looks, muttered critiques, assisted escapes and a joint venture in the scandalous artistic scene of London, courtesy of Benedict’s blunder in front of Sir Henry Granville - which Friedrich never failed to bring up whenever the opportunity presented itself. The Bridgerton second son, as it turned out, was clever, amiable and restless, full of unexpected warmth and deep devotion to art. It was easy company. The sort Friedrich rarely found, which made him appreciate it even more.
The door flew open, loud chatter spilling in, breaking the silence. Friedrich startled so hard he nearly dropped his pencil as two young ladies stormed into the room without hesitation, their skirts swishing and voices raised. Eloise Bridgerton strode like a general taking the field, her skirts swishing with the momentum of battle. But behind her was the true surprise. A young woman with bright red hair, round-faced and flushed with excitement, caught up to her taller friend with an exasperated expression and the unmistakable glitter of mischief in her eye.
“You are wrong, and nothing you say will convince me otherwise!”
“Wrong?” Eloise’s voice cracked like a whip. “You are the one trying to claim Romeo and Juliet is a comedy ?”
“That’s the conclusion I’ve come to!” Penelope, eyes flashing and hands animated, marched in at Eloise’s side, utterly unaware of the small audience already in the room. “It has all the markings of one!”
“They die,” Eloise snapped. “I am telling you, you are entirely missing the point—”
“I am not! Just because they die at the end does not make it tragic! They die because of poor communication, a bad plague quarantine, and a friar with questionable judgment!” Penelope argued back. “It’s a series of unfortunate misunderstandings, not noble sacrifice!”
“Dying at the end is the definition of tragedy!”
“No, dying isn't what makes something a tragedy! Otherwise, every sad pamphlet on the battlefield would be Shakespearean! It’s part of the convention, a big part of it, yes, but there are other markers!” Penelope said, breathless. “It’s the absurdity of it, the fact that the adults act like overgrown children and the children are expected to act like saints! If it weren’t for the stabbing and poison at the very end, it would be a comedy!”
“Penelope!”
“I’m just saying, if Juliet had a real friend and a half-decent nurse, none of this would have happened!”
“It’s a tragedy, Penelope. That’s the point!” Eloise's voice echoed down the corridor.
“And I’m saying it’s a farce in iambic pentameter! Everyone dies because of bad timing and worse communication!”
“How can you say that?”
“Very easily! Just look at the facts! Romeo sees a girl once at a party - a party he went to after a different girl, I add - and immediately decides to marry her!”
“Oh, he’s a twit, no argument there,” Eloise huffed. “But Juliet is a symbol of youthful defiance-”
“She’s thirteen,” Penelope countered. “And so was I when I wrote dreadful poetry about your brother that you took delight in criticising me for. That’s not romance. It’s lunacy. ” On the far side of the room, Prince Friedrich turned to Benedict, seeing his friend’s eyebrows raised in amusement, but not surprise. As though he was used to this. “They get married the day after they meet, Eloise!” Penelope tossed a hand toward the ceiling. “Their entire courtship could be written on the back of a calling card! It is my conclusion that he is mocking the very idea of love at first sight.”
“I’m not saying there aren’t farcical moments in there, but it shows boldness!” Eloise cried. “For Juliet to be so decided and go for what she wanted, even if it was a man-!”
“That’s plain stupidity! They’re not bold, they’re hormonal and sleep-deprived!
Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
I do bite my thumb, sir.
Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
Is the law of our side, if I say 'Ay'?
No.
No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir,
but I bite my thumb, sir.
This is about the stupidest reason to start a street brawl ever, if there was ever a clever reason to start one at all!”
“Penelope! Do you actually believe that centuries of people, hundreds, nay thousands, of reenactments are all wrong? Everybody is wrong about this, but you?”
“You believe the same about women’s rights. Why can’t I have a differing belief from the masses? Everybody thinking that women should marry and be happy being wives doesn’t hold you back from decrying the very notion of the idea.”
“That is a completely different situation!”
“It is not! The only difference here is I can keep calm for long enough to construct and deliver an actual reasoning for my conclusions, instead of going stuttering in anger and going non-verbal the second someone else says something absurd!”
“Wh-?! I don’t! How can you even-? Ugh!”
“My point precisely.”
“Ladies!” Benedict cleared his throat, cutting off whatever the increasingly red Eloise might retort. “Ladies, as delightful as this production is, you have an audience.”
They froze. Four people in one parlour, one of them a prince, and Penelope looked like she might faint.
“I didn’t realise anyone was in here,” she said, trying to shrink back toward the door, as her face tried to match the colour of her hair.
“Please,” Friedrich said, stepping forward, “do not apologise.” Benedict raised an eyebrow, but he ignored it.
“Penelope, allow me to make a proper introduction,” Benedict said, after Friedrich’s pointed look. “This is His Highness Prince Friedrich of Prussia. Friedrich, may I present Miss Penelope Featherington? Dear friend of our entire family, and formidable critic of British literature.”
“Your Highness.” Penelope curtsied, her expression guarded now, the brightness dimmed by her embarrassment. Friedrich stood and bowed low, eyes still fixed on her with quiet intensity.
She was smaller and curvier, whereas most debutantes were painfully narrow. And she was radiant with something far rarer than simple beauty. She was passionate. Her voice was warm and quick, animated not by flirtation or pre-rehearsed wit, but genuine interest. Her hair, a mess riot of red curls, now escaping its pins, as if they were teased and animated by the same vivacity she had reflected in her eyes as she discussed with her young friend.
“Miss Featherington.” He expected the usual flutter, the stammering pleasantries. Instead, she lifted her chin slightly and offered a polite, tight smile, her cheeks still flushed. “You will come out with Miss Eloise, then?” he asked, unsure why the question had left his mouth, especially like that, but it was out now, and he was eager to know the answer either way.
“Oh.” Penelope blinked, while Benedict coughed, and Eloise looked at him full of judgment in her eyes. “No, Your Highness. I was presented earlier this Season.”
“You were?” he asked, surprised. “Forgive me. I do not recall being introduced before now, or ever seeing you at the assemblies.”
“I suspect Her Majesty is not in a rush to introduce anyone to my family.” Her smile shifted, dry and knowing. Friedrich could find no reply to that, not one that would sound appropriate, anyway. There was no bitterness in her tone, only the echo of a well-worn truth, and it caught at him.
She was unexpected. Unvarnished. Sharp in a way that left his thoughts scrambled.
“Yes, yes, yes! We were just finishing our argument,” Eloise said, rising with exaggerated weariness, her eyes clearly questioning his mental well-being. “She was about to admit she was wrong.”
“Excuse me? I was about to admit I was wrong? You have yet to produce a single decent argument to defend your stance, but I was about to- I was about to do no such thing,” Penelope said, the fire reigniting in her eyes as she turned to face her friend.
“I don’t need to defend my point when the text speaks for itself! ‘The fool doth think he is wise, but the wiseman knows himself not to be a fool.’ ” She answered smugly, while Friedrich and Benedict exchanged glances at the obvious misquotation.
“Oh, for the love of all that’s holy, Eloise! You are proving my point! ‘the wiseman knows himself to be a fool.’! If you’re going to use Shakespeare to try and make an argument, at least quote the man accurately.” Before the men could think of anything to say, the argument resumed, just as heated and two young ladies were walking away from the library. The door closed behind them with a soft click, and the room was suddenly too quiet.
Friedrich lowered himself back onto the chaise, still watching the space where she’d stood.
“Well then,” Benedict said, dropping into his chair again. “You get used to them.”
“Oh, I hope not.”
“What?”
“Would it be forward, do you think,” Friedrich asked, slowly, “to call upon her tomorrow?”
“I’m sorry, tomorrow?” Benedict blinked. “Wait, call on whom? Penelope!”
“Yes!”
“I… Well, I suppose not.” Friedrich beamed, eyes still glued to the closed door, as if he expected Penelope to reappear at any moment. Benedict studied the man for a moment, trying to understand how, in the span of less than five minutes, his friend had gone from bemoaning debutants to thinking about calling one. “'God give them wisdom that have it, and those that are Fools, let them use their talents,’ I suppose,” he murmured, shaking his head, but the prince remained unmoved by his tease, his eyes full of hearts facing a now closed door.