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Chapter Text

En Passant: A special pawn capture that can occur immediately after an opponent's pawn moves two squares forward from its starting position.

Anthony Bridgerton stood in the well-lit library of his family’s country estate, midnight steadily approaching as he readied himself. Firelight flickered against the spines of books he had never bothered to read before, either too young to care, too busy with more pleasure pursuits or too busy to have leisure time. It was of no consequence, however. He hadn’t come here for enlightenment. He had come for retribution.

He flexed his gloved hand, curling it around the edge of the windowsill as he stared out at the garden lit up by torches and busy with animated conversations. He could almost hear the distant hum of laughter and music from the ballroom, through the thick wall of the room. His mother’s Hearts and Flowers Ball, named with such saccharine optimism it made his teeth ache. Only in the privacy of his own mind did Anthony dare to admit that he had always hated this event. Even before tragedy struck, even when his father was still alive, his parents would dance through the night with stars and hearts in their eyes. His siblings would sigh and watch lovingly, while he always felt like it was all too much. Too much sweet, too much hassle, too much opportunity for mayhem.

There was no way romantic love could do that, could be all that. His father’s death and his mother’s catatonia after it only cemented his scepticism. After all, he loved his family, yes, and he would always love them but his sacrifices weren’t led by love, but by his duty. His honour.

Tonight, however, he was grateful for the distraction the ball offered. It was the perfect cover for a trap.

His trap.

He glanced at the clock. Half past eleven.

She should be on her way.

Of that, he had no doubt.

Penelope Featherington was many things. Skittish, overlooked, soft-spoken. But she was also curious. Too curious for her own good. And clever. Sharp in a way that had gone unnoticed for far too long. Then she carved out her own path, her own power, and had started using that wit against the ton, her attention as keen as a gardener surveying his orchard. She decided who went where what stayed and what had to go, who werebeautiful flowers and deserved centre stage and who was weed and needed to be extinguished. Amidst society, she remained the unfortunately dressed, third daughter of a disgraced Baron. But in private, she’d become Lady Whistledown, the anonymous terror of Mayfair. And now, quite unfortunately for her, his prey for the night.

He inhaled deeply and let the breath out through his nose, loosening his shoulders and glancing at the door.

He wasn't nervous. He had planned every moment of this. He had stacked the deck in his favour, made sure she had the illusion of choice without truly giving it to her, carefully constructed the narrative they’d sell, the deal they would make and ensured that the fallout of this meeting would become gossip and spread like fire on dry paper the moment they were discovered. The doors had been rigged not to open from the inside. The footman stationed discreetly to raise the alarm after the appropriate amount of time had passed. Just to make sure they would be caught, he made sure his mother and Lady Danbury would soon come looking for him.

Her absence would, unfortunately, not be noticed, he knew that. That was what she had used to accomplish all that she had, but it didn’t matter. For there would be no denying what happened inside the library once the doors were open and they were caught. She would no longer be invisible then. She’d no longer be able to slip away into the night, certain that she would not be missed and that her absence would not be noticed.

All that was missing was Penelope. Sweet, sharp Penelope, who had no idea that she was about to become a Viscountess.

The irony of the situation was not lost on him.

She had thought herself so clever, hadn’t she? Publishing that first column...

Anthony Bridgerton is a Rake.

A rake (lower-case) is youthful and immature. He flaunts his exploits, behaves with utmost idiocy, and thinks himself dangerous to women.

A Rake (upper-case) knows he is dangerous to women…

It had irked him to be mentioned so, but it had barely made a dent in his prospects. If anything, it had only fuelled the rumours that he was a man of dangerous charm. The hypocritical ton loved a rake — so long as he danced well and didn’t ruin their daughters. And his fellow men smirked and teased, their fleeting and fickle respect raising at the title. A Capital R-Rake.

But then she'd gone further. The second article had pulled no punches, had made no back handed compliments. It had been direct, sharp and it had drawn blood.

It seems to this author, dear reader, very strange indeed that this courtship continues to happen, as the suitor offers his hand to one woman while he’s eyes remain locked to another.

It rather seems that both women have cause to be deeply offended and this author would not blame either of them if they decided to abandon this most persistent, but unsuitable wooer to someone with a better attention span. Especially, since not even the shine of the brightest jewel of the season seems to be enough to draw his eyes away from a much more questionable and surprising stone.

Our distracted gentleman does not seem to know his own heart. Or could it be that his he has another compass on his endeavour on the Mart, forever stuck pointing him toward duty, even while his affections and desires are clear for all to see?

Is the dream of a flower covered house enough to ignore the alarming stares directed away, but so close? Especially with so many other eyes firmly glued to her? Or will this unfocused suitor with a wondering eye be left in the dust missing his bride and his distraction?

He had read it once.

Then again.

Then seven more times, rage mounting like smoke in his chest. While she named no names, there was no mistaking who she was referring to. The allusion of the Diamond was enough for even the most dulled wits to realise that the article was about his courtship and call him out for his behaviour. Next thing he knew, Edwina was withdrawing from their courtship, claiming not to want to be caught between his duty and his heart, while half the matrons of the ton watched and whispered behind their fans. Lady Danbury and Lady Mary had made it clear that they would no longer champion of his distracted attentions towards their ward and daughter and Kate Sharma had all but danced on his social demise.

And the worst part? She wasn’t wrong.

That was what insulted him most. She had seen him. Truly seen him. And laid him bare for all the world to dissect. Hindsight showed that she had laid plenty of warnings for him as well, but distracted as he was, self-assured of his own desirability and success as he was, he hadn’t even realised until it was too late. Until she had to choose and she always chose the wronged party. The less powerful one.

Men, after all, have plenty of choice and no true fear of consequence. Tis not ideal, but ladies beware of your hearts and of your reputations. You need to safeguard it and care for it like a dragon hoards it’s gold, because you alone will bear the consequences should you choose someone who does not respect you enough to respect the fragility of your standing.

Like a tigress in the jungle, she stood watching over her kingdom. Unsee by all until it was too late, her attack swift, brutal and precise. And he was her chosen prey this time.

For weeks he had stewed in the humiliation, plotting to throttle Lady Whistledown. To hunt her and put her in her place. He wouldn’t discard her. Of course not. It would be a waste to silence such a loud, strong voice. He would have her in his hand, for him to do as he pleased.

But the fates or perhaps karma gave him another option.

He had followed the trail with a doggedness to put the best of the Bow Street Runners to absolute shame. Whistledown’s printing schedule. The delivery routes. Eloise’s half-baked theories and discoveries. And at the end of it all, like the final, ridiculous twist in a bad melodrama, had stood Penelope Featherington, hidden by shadows and linen, slipping into the print shop in a modest, but well-fitted blue dress, a cloak, an Irish accent and enough sass and gumption his blood seemed to boil in his veins.

That moment had changed everything.

He had expected almost anyone but her.

The second he saw her — saw the curve of her neck above the collar, the wild curl of her braided hair, the determined set of her chin, the frankly sinful shape hidden beneath the simple cut of that maid’s uniform — he’d known precisely what he was going to do.

He was going to make her his.

Not out of revenge. Or, at least, not only that. There was, after all, a poetic justice in it.

But no, he would have her. Compromise her, trap her, claim her. Marry her. But not only because she had made a fool of him. Because he wanted her.

And wasn’t that the greatest scandal of all?

Seeing her leave the printer’s shop had shifted his reality, his perspective. He had seen her and now, he could not look away. So he’d begun watching her then. Closely. Too closely. Noting how she tucked her lips in when she was trying not to laugh, how her eyes glowed when she discovered a new secret, how she slipped away from crowds just before they grew too loud, how her eyes always seemed to be cataloguing the world like a ledger, how she walked both like a ghost and like she owned the place. She was so careful. So composed. So regal.

So very unaware that he was looking at her. That someone finally saw her.

And when he caught her smiling, truly smiling, at something Eloise had said — a smile that transformed her, in his eyes, from forgettable to utterly, maddeningly captivating — he had known. He didn’t just want revenge. He didn’t just want recompense.

He wanted to possess her. All of her.

He wanted to own that smile.

He wanted to completely ruin her.

Anthony turned from the window, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt, his heart steady, his eyes alert. The library stretched before him, a stage set for his game. The chairs were angled just so. The fire lit to cast a golden, soft glow around the room. His cravat loosened to suggest a man caught in the wild thrall of longing, not strategy.

He was ready. Every move had been accounted for. Every consequence tallied.

She would be his by dawn.

And then, there it was.

The soft click of the doorknob.

His spine straightened. The air shifted. The world narrowed.

She was here.

He drew in a long, steady breath, settling the last of his resolve into place like a cowl upon his shoulders. 

The hunt was about to begin. And he was ready for his prey.

This clever, biting, radiant creature was his for the taking.

Let her come. Let her rage and fight and try to outwit him.

He was rather looking forward to the challenge.

Chapter Text

A ‘howler’ is often used instead of a chess blunder. Both a howler and a blunder mean almost the same thing, which is a significant tactical error on the part of one chess player that proves very costly in the course of the game.

The door opened with barely a whisper.

Not a creak. Not a bang. A whisper. A soft, barely there sound, as if even the house itself knew it was bearing witness to something important, something treacherous.

Penelope Featherington stepped inside.

Anthony did not move, at first. Taking a moment to simply watch her.

She had not dressed for seduction. Of course she hadn’t. Penelope Featherington never dressed for seduction — her mother’s eyewatering, blasphemous taste made certain of that. But tonight, in a gown of blush pink that was almost becoming, with her hair drawn half-up in curls that had begun to loosen with the heat and activity of the ballroom, she looked soft. Becoming. Curious. And far, far too tempting for a girl who had no idea her future was being rewritten before her very eyes.

Her eyes met his.

And something inside him paused.

Because she knew.

Not everything. Not yet. But she knew this wasn’t a chance meeting. She knew something was amiss. It was subtle, but it was there. In the deliberate way she shut the door behind her, in the faint arch of her brow as she surveyed the room like a general entering contested territory, her eyes sharp and weary but unafraid.

“Oh, Lord Bridgerton,” she said, with polite surprise that was quite convincing. “I didn’t expect you to be here.”

She was lying.

Oh, she was very good.

He offered a smile, smooth as silk.

“Did you not?”

“I received word that a book I had requested was found and put aside for me,” she said, tilting her head, tone airy. “The library seemed the logical place to search for it.”

Anthony allowed a moment of silence to stretch between them. He enjoyed watching her squirm. Except, damn her , she didn’t.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t blush.

Instead, she folded her hands before her and gazed at him like he was interrupting her evening and holding her up.

Delicious .

“I confess,” he said, stepping closer, “I had hoped you might find your way here.”

She didn’t move.

“Is that so?” she replied, tone curious and bright. “Can I be of some assistance to you, my Lord?”

“Indeed.” He clasped his hands behind his back, adopting the air of a man making conversation over tea, not cohersing and compromising a young lady. “You see, I’ve recently come into possession of a rather… intriguing piece of information.”

Still, she didn’t flinch.

But her chin lifted a fraction. Her spine straightened. Her eyes lost their innocent, clueless glint.

“I find,” she said slowly, ever so carefully “that people with intriguing information often misinterpret what they think they know.”

“Oh, I’m not so easily misled.” He took another step toward her, closing the distance. The library suddenly felt smaller. More intimate. Still she gave him no opening, no true sign of recognition. She didn’t shy away from him, her stare calm and patient in a way that frazzled him. He expected a reaction. He was counting on her being affected. “I know who you are, Penelope.” He gambled. It didn’t truly matter in the end. He still had her where he wanted.

She blinked, in response. Just once. Her lips parted and she tilted her head in confusion. But when she spoke, her voice was velvet over thorns.

“Do you?” she asked softly. “And who, pray, am I?”

He grinned, all teeth.

“Lady Whistledown.”

For the briefest moment, her expression blanked. The pause lasted no more than a second. But it was enough.

He saw it, her slip. The very first crack in her carefully composed mask. He geared himself up for the final move. For the kill.

But then she laughed.

It wasn’t a girlish giggle. It wasn’t nervous. It was dark, rich, and utterly dismissive.

“Viscount,” she said with a sigh, “I’m afraid this goes beyond even your usual arrogance. To accuse of such with no hesitancy, not a stutter on your words, not a faint blush on your cheeks? Beyond pale, my lord. Do you truly think I — a young lady with no freedom, no income, and no station — could possibly be the ton’s most notorious writer?”

He said nothing. Just looked at her.

“I am Penelope Featherington,” she continued, voice rising. “Wallflower. Laughingstock. I write letters to my cousins and keep my opinions to myself.”

Another crack. That sounded far too much like Whistledown’s ruthless observations.

“Ah, but you don’t, do you?” he said softly. “Not always.”

Her mouth clamped shut.

He moved again, closer now. Just two steps away. Enough to see the soft thrum of her pulse in her delicate throat.

“I followed you, Penelope,” he murmured. “To the print shop. I saw you deliver the manuscript. In your charming little servant’s disguise, with your endearing Irish accent. So clever.”

She drew in a sharp breath, colour rising in her cheeks.

He smiled.

“And what do you want from me, my Lord?” She was glaring, but expression remained stoned, her eyes full of calculation. “Are you here to threaten me?”

“You cost me Edwina Sharma. You mocked my name in print. But all is not lost.” He leaned in, voice dipping low. “Because you’re going to make it up to me.”

“And how am I to do that?”

“By becoming my wife.”

The silence that followed was volcanic.

And then—

“You… absolute bastard.”

“Oh, I can guarantee I am very much legitimate.” He smiled, unbothered. “And I have been called worse.”

“You want me to marry you for what? To save your reputation? Your pride?”

“To protect you,” he replied smoothly, his voice full of mock concern “from the Queen. From ruin. I have no desire to see you exiled or—”

“Oh, do shut up,” she snapped, stepping toward him, her full, rosy lips twisted in displeasure and it seemed like he was finally seeing her true face. And he very much liked what it looked like. “Don’t dress this up as chivalry. You want to own me. You want to leash the tongue that lashed at you.”

He blinked, taking in the full view of her true form.

God, she was glorious.

“I won’t marry you,” she spat. “No one would believe this match. No one should believe this match.”

“Oh, but they will.” He tilted his head. “After all, you wrote that I was in love with someone unsuitable. Someone close. Who else but the best friend of my sister? A girl I’ve known for years. One who’s always been conveniently invisible, completely overlooked?”

“I will not be the bandage to your failed ability to act rationally.” Ouch . “Your love is now free from the constrains you put in place by your own stubbornness and stupidity. Go punish her with your hand in marriage.”

“For someone so smart, you have a lot to learn still, my lady. My love, as you call, is no more than lust mixed with hate. I have no reason to love whom you speak of. I do not know her. And if I want a passionate tumble in the sheets, I can find it elsewhere, for much less trouble what she is worth.”

Her mouth opened. Then closed.

“You being revealed as the object of my affections, you put the light of a forbidden love to our story. My sister has made no secret that she has no interest in marriage. How was I to know that you are of a different mind? Of course that, the moment the knowledge reached me, I would vy for your hand. It will all be very romantic. You, my dear, painted the perfect picture for us,” he said softly. “Now let’s give it a frame and hang it on a wall.”

“You’re unhinged.”

“Regardless, I still intend to be a husband before long.” He shrugged.

She stared at him for a long, tense moment, taking it all in, studying him. Anthony fought back a triumphant smile, already tasting the win on his tongue. She would be his to do as he pleased.

And then she smiled.

It was a small smile. Almost sweet.

A smile that made him feek uneasy.

Because Penelope Featherington — Lady Whistledown — was not panicked.

She was planning.

“Very well,” she said, voice calm and laced with something venomously pleasant. “Let’s talk terms.”

Chapter Text

One of the fancier terms of chess, a ‘gambit’ is a technical move that a player engages in to gain the upper hand over the opponent. A ‘gambit’ involves sacrificing one or more minor chess pieces to lead an attacking onslaught on the rival’s king.

Generally, when a chess game reaches a point when it starts to get stagnant, chess players resort to gambits to bring new life back to the game and make new openings for furthering an attack on the rival.

Anthony blinked.

“Terms?”

“You didn’t think I’d simply curtsy and accept, did you?” she asked, stepping past him, as if he was nothing, sitting in front of the fireplace, surveying the room like she owned it. “If you plan to chain me to your side in the eyes of the law, the least you could do is show me the courtesy of negotiation.”

His jaw ticked. “Penelope—”

“You are determined to have me. You gave me no say in that because you think this marriage will magically solve your problems. Very well then.” She turned to face him, tucking her hands in front of her. “Knowing what you know, did you truly expect me to meekly fall in line, lower my head and follow your lead blindly?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” The dryness in his tone earned him a sharp look.

“Don’t smirk at me, my lord. You may be holding the Queen in one hand, but I hold the ton in the other. Can you arrange a meeting with the Queen to expose me and prove my identity to her fast enough? Do not believe for a second you have all the power here, Viscount. You may hold a trump but I can disappear before you are even ready to leave this estate, but not before I completely ruin you. You want Lady Whistledown to work for you? Very well. You had better learn to work with me.”

“You’re bluffing.” Anthony narrowed his eyes.

“Am I?” Her voice dropped. “Or are you yet again underestimating me the way everyone else always has? The same way you always have?”

That hit harder than he expected.

Because the truth was he had underestimated her. For years. As far as he was concerned Penelope Featherington had been like a part of the furniture. A fixture in the Bridgerton home, Eloise’s silent shadow, a girl in lemon dresses who faded into wallpaper and wilted beside her louder companions. He had never looked at her twice, barely spared her a glance. As far as he remembered, he had never even directly addressed her before this very moment.

They had been in the same room together before and had spent time in each other’s vicinity, but every time he heard her voice it was directed at someone else. He didn’t think they had ever had a conversation. He was thankful enough that her presence seemed to balance Eloise’s worst traits and that whenever she was around he didn’t have to hear Colin yammer on to no end about whatever subject caught his mind that day because she was happy to. Though he was thankful for her presence he had always been somewhat frustrated and annoyed with her. With her shyness. With her meekness.

But the woman before him now was not meek. She was steel wrapped in silk. Her weapon of choice dangerously sharp, paired with her deadly technique.

And he wanted her. Desperately.

“Very well,” he said slowly. “What do you demand in exchange for your cooperation in this arrangement?”

She didn’t answer right away. She let the silence stretch, just long enough for his patience to begin to fray. As she studied him, her legs crossed, carefully tucked to the side, her hands on her lap, her head slightly tilted. She was the very picture of propriety. Casual. Controlled. Unmoving like a statue.

“A separate account,” she said at last. “Under my name. Untouchable. For my use only.”

“Why?” He frowned.

“Because I’ve seen what women become when they have nothing of their own,” she said, lifting her gaze to his. “And I refuse to be one of them.”

“Consider it done.” He nodded once.

“No mistresses.” That earned her a smile. 

“I won’t need them.”

“Even if you feel you do. And no brothels either.”

“I have not visited one in years.”

“But you hire whores and take them to your bachelor lodgings. Which you will also get rid of.” She arched a brow and he felt the tips of his ears heat up. “If you expect me to be faithful, you will lead by example.”

It was fair enough, he supposed.

He stepped closer. Close enough now to smell the scent of roses and ink clinging to her skin.

“You’re very good at this,” he murmured.

“Negotiation?” she asked sweetly.

“Resistance.” She laughed again, that dark, rich sound that made something low in his abdomen twist.

“If I were resisting, you’d be flat on your back by now.”

His brow lifted.

“A threat, Lady Whistledown?”

“Your future, Lord Bridgerton,” she answered, her voice a whisper.

They stood at a standstill, staring at one another across the charged space between them. The fire crackled next to her, casting a golden halo into her hair. Her cheeks were lightly from the argument, her chest rising steadily with every breath, and he found himself wondering — distractedly, foolishly — how it would feel to taste that fire directly from her lips.

“You think you’re still in control,” she stated.

“I am in control.” A self-assured smirk grew on his lips, but that was the wrong reaction to have.

“Are you?” She took a step toward him. “Are you sure about that?”

He hesitated. Just slightly.

Her lips curled.

“Oh yes,” she whispered. “I see. You want me. You want me more than you want to win.”

“I always win.”

“Not tonight. And not with me. Get used to it, my Lord.”

He stepped forward, closing the last of the distance between them, looming over her. She met him head-on, completely unaffected by his attempt at intimidation.

“Don’t be so sure,” he bent forward, bringing their faces together, bracing himself against the back of the settee. “You’re not the only one who knows how to manipulate a narrative.”

“If that were true,” she smirked, not giving him an inch “you wouldn’t be here, negotiating with me.”

He stared at her. At this impossible girl with ink on her fingers and fire in her mouth, he was no longer sure who had set the trap and who had walked into it.

God, he wanted her.

He could taste it. Feel it in the blood thundering through his veins. He could kiss her. Now. Take her against the settee, hands tangled in her hair, his lips on her luscious breasts, her dress bunched up—

Control yourself.

He took a breath. Shaky. Shallow. Unwise.

And still. Watching him like she could see every wicked thought he was desperately trying to banish.

She leaned in, just a fraction, just enough to make his control even more unstable, her breath against his face, the taste of her tongue on his lips.

“I want a state as well. A profitable one. On my name.” He nods in agreement, barely listening to her words between her voice chanting a siren song into him and the roaring in his veins.

“Anything else?”

“I am sure I can come up with a few more, but we’ve not enough time to hash out all the details.” She looks way, pointedly glancing at the door and Anthony stands back back, blinking as if he had just woken up from a heavy sleep. There were faint noises, conversation and footsteps nearing the library and he needed to regain control of the situation.

This was the final piece and his hunt would be not only complete but successful, his prey held tightly within his grasp.

“Should we ready the stage, then?” He offered a hand, helping her get up. “Let them see what we need them to see. We will announce our wedding before the night is out.”

“Of course, my Lord. Just a small reminder that I’m sure you will ignore until it’s too late, as per usual.” She turned her back on him and walked toward the wall with the best view from the door - to make sure there were no misunderstandings -, running her fingers along the bindings of books like she was already cataloguing what would be hers. “You may have cast me as the main character of this play of yours, but I have been and still am the one writing the script.”

Anthony Bridgerton stood still, pulse-pounding, trousers uncomfortably tight, and completely at a loss as to whether he had won this encounter or been thoroughly routed.

She was fire. She was whip-smart and stunning and terrifying.

And she was about to be his wife.

He was either the cleverest man in the room—or the biggest fool.

Time would tell.

And time was running out.

Outside the library, the sounds of the ball crept closer.

Distant laughter, the swell of strings, the echo of footsteps in a corridor that would lead straight to them. Anthony could feel it like a vibration in the floorboards. The moment was upon them.

The audience was arriving.

He looked at her. Really looked at her.

Penelope stood at the far end of the room, her back to the wall, illuminated by firelight, her posture composed, her chin tilted in that defiant, confident way that was so unfamiliar but fitted perfect on her cherubic features. Her hands were running through her hair, curls already beginning to fall from their pins as she ruined her updo, her bodice scandalously pulled down, her gloves abandoned somewhere on the shelves.

She looked like she was on the precipice of ruin.

He took a step toward her. She didn’t move, watching his movements with the curiosity and self-assuredness of a cat. He reached her in four strides, not stopping until he crowded her against the wall.

His hand lifted, brushing one of those soft, curling tendrils away from her cheek. Her skin was warm. Her eyes locked with his, with a half-lit gaze.

“Say it,” he murmured.

“Say what?” Her brows rose, just a tick. 

“That you agree to this. That you’ll marry me.”

She paused, just long enough to make him doubt himself. Then—

“I will marry you, Lord Bridgerton,” she said softly, “on the condition that you remember this very moment.”

“Why?” He frowned.

“Because you believe this is your victory.” She smiled— slow and sweet and terrifying. “And I want you to remember exactly the moment you lost.”

Then she reached the last pin holding her hair, her curls cascading down like flames licking her skin.

It fell in waves around her shoulders, thick and molten in the firelight, wild and uncontained. She ran her hands through it, before she tugged at her skirts — nothing so dramatic as to destroy it, but enough to wrinkle the bodice, slip the sleeves of her bodice, exposing the curve of her shoulders, her breasts seeming to struggle to be free from their constrains, the chaos of her appearance spelling intimacy. Her lips reddened as she bit them, eyes gleaming.

“W-what are you doing?” he asked, throat suddenly dry, his hands itching to help her.

“Painting the picture,” she replied, smiling. “Was this not what you planned?”

Her fingers trailed down her skirts, gathering them slightly, just enough to wrinkle the hem and reveal a flash of ankle. She reached for him then, quick and bold, grabbing his lapels and dragging him downward.

And then she kissed him.

It was not tentative. Not chaste.

It was heat and fury and mockery, all rolled into the hard press of her soft lips against his. She moved like she’d studied him. Like she knew how to drive him mad. She tasted sweet and inviting. One of her hands going up, her fingers curling and pulling his hair.

He lost himself instantly.

All thought scattered. Her lips were desire and sin, with an aftertaste of chocolate. Her body fit against his like a secret, like something precious and claimed. He groaned into the kiss, hands gripping her waist, pulling her flush against him as he deepened the kiss without permission, without restraint.

He was gone.

Gone, gone, gone.

Her back hit the wall with a thud. She let out a soft cry and he pressed in. One hand tangled in her loosened hair, the other roamed lower, grasping, craving, anchoring himself to the moment as if this could justify all the sins that had come before.

And then—

The door burst open.

Anthony didn’t hear it at first. Or perhaps he did, but was too far lost in the taste of her lips, the heat of her body, the triumph of having won to truly register that their audience had arrived.

Until she froze.

Her hands, once curled into his lapels, were now flat against his chest.

And then she shoved him away with all her might.

He stumbled back, breath ragged, eyes wild. The cold air between them hit like a slap.

But the real slap came next.

Her palm struck his cheek so hard his head turned. His skin stung, his eyes watered, and in the ringing silence that followed, he heard a sharp gasp.

His face forcibly turned towards the door and saw them.

His mother, face pale with fury.

Daphne, jaw slack with horror.

Simon, brows raised with surprise.

Lady Danbury, cane tapping the floor with barely contained delight mixed with chastisement.

Lady Featherington, clutching her own pearls as though they might preserve Penelope’s virtue by sheer will.

And Benedict. Oh, Benedict, standing like the wrath of God incarnate, fists clenched at his sides.

Anthony opened his mouth. He tried to remember what he had planned, what he had prepared. But he was taken aback by the still-stinging slap.

Penelope had no such affliction.

“How dare you,” she whispered, her voice shaking but strong enough to carry. “How dare you do this to me? Am I supposed to be flattered that you confessed your feelings for me only after being rejected by your first choice?”

The room sucked in a collective breath, but Penelope went as if she wasn’t aware of their audience.

“How dare you, Anthony Bridgerton! To speak words of love and treat me like your mistress, arranging this clandestine meeting under false pretences for what? To proposition to me? To ruin me?” she continued, eyes glistening now — deliberately, beautifully. “I may not be many things, but I have my pride, my lord. And I will not be treated like a shameful secret. By you or anyone.” She turned to leave, a tear tracked down her cheek, and then… then she gasped softly, as though only just now aware they had company. “Oh no.” She stumbled back a step. “Oh, no. No, no, no, no…” She looked around helplessly, big, fat tears running down her cheeks as she got more and more agitated. While Anthony could only watch, his brain moving like molasses.

“Penelope,” His mother breathed, stepping forward in alarm.

“I can’t—” Penelope began, voice high-pitched and breaking, “No! I didn’t know he was here! I didn’t- I didn’t know!”

“Breathe, my darling. You’ll make yourself sick.” His mother reached her hand forward as if she was approaching a feral animal.

“You just asked me to marry you!” she cried suddenly, turning back on Anthony, her voice trembling, face the perfect picture of a woman betrayed. “After you paraded around with Edwina Sharma like I meant nothing! You lured me here! You kissed me! And now — now I’m ruined, and we’ll be forced to marry, and—”

She broke down then, truly sobbing now, falling into Violet’s arms with dramatic precision, finally accepting her embrace.

Lady Featherington looked as though she might swoon herself with all the drama and scandal.

Violet looked torn between comforting Penelope and strangling her son.

“I will not marry him,” Penelope wept, shaking her head. “I will not. I will not be sentenced to a lifetime of being an embarrassment to him. Of enduring his contempt. He already made it clear I was never good enough for him, and now — now I am to be shackled into such a relationship? He set me up! I will not!”

Anthony opened his mouth again.

Nothing came out.

Because she had taken his scandal and twisted it, bent it, rewritten it until it served her — and the maddening thing was, she’d had the ink ready before he even realised there was a story being created. And she had done it by carefully weaving the truth into the narrative she wanted.

He had planned for them to be caught. Had ensured someone would come for them, and that witnesses would see. But in his plan, he was the man swept up in passion for a mysterious muse. A rake reformed. A lover so enraptured, that he was completely overcome with affection.

But Penelope…

Penelope had painted him as a cad.

And she had proof.

The ton already believed him a licentious rake, toying with the emotions of two young ladies, thanks to Whistledown’s own pen. And now, he was proven to be exactly that: a powerful man compromising a younger, vulnerable woman who was practically family.

And she?

She was the ruined innocent. The blameless, broken-hearted girl caught in a trap she had clearly not set. Who was refusing his proposal despite knowing what it would cost her.

He was not the hero of this tale.

He was the villain.

And as he looked at her — crying quietly into Violet’s shoulder, shaking with sobs — he finally realised what she had meant and the truth behind her words before she kissed him.

He was not in control.

Not even a little.

She had played the role to perfection, every tear, every hiccup and sob perfectly placed on her carefully constructed sentence. And now, he — who had built his entire identity on control — stood dumbfounded, completely useless in the centre of the scene he had arranged, with no idea what his next line was supposed to be.

She had won.

She had painted the picture he had chosen, but with her palette, her brush, and her composition.

And she looked beautiful doing it.

Anthony’s jaw tightened.

He didn’t know whether he wanted to drag her into another room and ravish her within an inch of her plotting life, or fall to his knees and beg her to never use that terrifying, brilliant mind against him again, for her to point it at his rivals and enemies instead.

He suspected she’d do both anyway.

He stared at his mother - her words of chastisement and rebuke washing over him in his surprise and bewilderment -. His eyes wandered to the group's furious, judging, glaring family members behind her. Back at Penelope — still weeping, still shaking, still performing the role of a lifetime.

And then—

She peeked over Violet’s shoulder.

And she smiled.

Not wide. Not cruel.

But victorious.

Triumphant.

A smirk just for him. The unspoken message loud and clear.

“You got what you wanted. But you have no idea what you just signed up for.”

She had played her part flawlessly.

She had taken this situation, the odds stacked against her and turned it around majestically. And he, Anthony Bridgerton — viscount, rake, trap-layer extraordinaire — had been well and truly outmatched. He had just stood there, watching his carefully laid plans fall perfectly into place and crumble around him, at the same time.

“He will do right by you, Penelope. He will see what a gem you are and he will treat you as you deserve. I’ll personally see to that.” Violet glared at him, but Anthony remained insensible to her, his ears hot with embarrassment, at the same time that desire filled his body.

He was going to marry Lady Whistledown.

And God help him—

He could not bloody wait.

Chapter Text

A type of checkmate, a ‘smothered mate,’ takes place when an enemy king is barred from making an escape when faced with a mate by its own pieces.

Alternative Title: Brotherly Love (and Threats of Violence)

The door closed with a soft click that somehow echoed like a cannon blast.

Anthony didn’t move.

He could still smell her perfume in the air — black pepper, roses, jasmine, and cashmere — a perfect blend of sweet and fresh with a dash of darkness that perfectly reflected how she appeared innocent and sweet while simultaneously setting fire to his entire reputation.

Well played, my dear, he thought grimly, eyes still on the empty doorway. Round one goes to you.

He hadn’t missed her parting glance. That quiet, satisfied little smile. The one that said how in way over his head he was in this relationship. That he had no idea what to expect.

And she was right.

He didn’t.

Behind him, a chair creaked.

Benedict sat there, legs apart, arms resting on his knees, staring at him with a look that could curdle cream. Simon stood just behind, shifting uncomfortably, hands twitching on his sides as if trying to figure out whether he should intervene or not.

“So,” Benedict said, very softly, “why is our sister’s best friend sobbing into our mother’s shoulder while you look like you’ve just been kicked in the head by a horse?”

“I can explain.” Anthony exhaled.

“Oh, can you?” Benedict’s tone was deceptively mild. “Can you really?” Simon coughed, getting their attention. “Simon,” Benedict said without turning his head before the duke could speak. “I swear to God, if you say anything that starts with ‘Now, now’ or ‘Maybe we should take a step back’, I will gut you with your own cravat pin.”

“Now, n— Well, may—” Simon took a step back and raised both hands. “Understood.” Anthony might have laughed had he not been on the receiving end of his calmest brother's thunderous glare.

He decided to walk toward the brandy tray, instead, looking for something to do while he gathered his thoughts and fully processed what had happened. He poured himself a generous glass. Then poured another and handed it silently to Simon, who took it without a word. He didn’t offer Benedict one. He didn’t think his brother would’ve accepted.

“You trapped her,” he said.

“I—”

“Don’t lie to me, Anthony,” he snapped, voice still quiet, but deadly. “You planned this. You lured her in. And then you let everyone walk in on you, so she’d be forced to marry you. I saw it all over your face before you left the ballroom — you prepared this.”

“It’s not what you think.” Anthony’s jaw clenched.

“Oh? I think that you manipulated Penelope into this marriage. That you’ve decided to secure your legacy by compromising the one debutant left who actually believed you still had a soul buried somewhere under all that responsibility, pride and wine.”

“Oh, that is rich coming from you.”

“I haven’t trapped a girl, a young lady, who’s been a friend, practically family since she was in leading strings. You bragged about your plan to me. You said you had everything in hand and that you would have a bride before the week was out. You had that disgustingly smug look on your face when you walked out of the ballroom. You told me to come look for you in the library if you were not back by midnight, which you knew you wouldn’t be! You told me to bring mother and whoever else was with her along. You made me help you in this abhorrent plan!”

“Alright, let’s just— Let’s all take a moment.” Simon let out a long breath, getting in between them before Benedict lost it completely. “Throwing out accusations will not be beneficial to anyone in this situation.”

Anthony said nothing. Because he had nothing to say. He could not defend himself because none of what Benedict had accused him of was a lie. He had not expected this outcome, he had planned to be chastised for not controlling himself, yes, but not to be painted as the villain of the story. He had underestimated Penelope then and yet again given the staunch support and defence she had garnered from his family members. Two already - and he was certain that, at least two more would join those ranks - had no hesitation turning against him for her.

Benedict pushed Simon away and got as close as he physically could to Anthony, his eyes blackened by the rage he was feeling.

“I don’t care if you’re the head of this family,” he growled. “If you ever — ever — make her cry again, you won’t need to worry about your duels or your damned honour. You’ll have me to answer to.”

“Is this a threat, brother?” Anthony’s brow arched, some of his usual haughty confidence returning.

“It’s a warning,” Benedict replied coolly. “The only one you’ll receive.”

Simon, sensing the crackle of an imminent punch, stepped between them again, one hand on each chest like a very brave or very stupid peacekeeper.

“Right, well,” he said lightly, “this has been delightful. So many feelings. Such brotherly affection. Anyone else thinks perhaps we ought to not murder the groom before the engagement is even announced?” Sensing Benedict’s reluctance, he added. “Think of Penelope. Regardless of how this came to be, she is compromised. She will need to marry.”

“Well, Anthony is not her only option.”

“Would you trap her to you as he did?” That seemed to pierce his rage and Benedict stalked away from them, back towards the chair he had been sitting on. That his brother didn’t reach for the brandy in this situation was extremely telling to him.

Anthony finally took a slow sip of his drink. His lip curled in something that might have been amusement if he wasn’t still staggered by what had just occurred.

“She played me,” he muttered, mostly to himself. Simon raised a brow, surprised.

“You’re just realising this now?” Benedict folded his arms again, still glaring. “She’s smarter than all of us combined. There’s a reason no one will bet against her.”

“She didn’t just play me.” Anthony exhaled through his nose. She rewrote the whole damned story while I was still drafting the first line.”

He looked up, toward the doorway Penelope had exited through as if he might catch one last glimpse of her — and damn it, he half expected her to be standing there again, ready to issue some new clause of their arrangement with her soft voice and sharpened eyes.

“She’s going to destroy me,” he murmured.

“That’s good, then.” Simon chuckled, clinking his glass against Anthony’s, while the Viscount frowned, confused. “You’ll be in love by the time your engagement is announced tonight.”

Anthony didn’t argue.

He just drank.

Chapter Text

‘Passed pawn’ is an expression used to denote a pawn that has escaped enemy pieces on the board and is safely on its way to the farthest square of the board to get promoted.

From the player’s perspective, this is a very favourable position, as the passed pawn most likely reaches the other side of the board to be promoted to an extra higher valued piece.

Intricately linked to the previous term, ‘passed pawn’, a ‘promotion’ in chess means a situation when a pawn crosses all barriers on the board to reach the last square of the board to be promoted.

When a pawn gets promoted, the player handling the same can opt for any of the higher valued chess pieces, be it a queen, a bishop, a knight, or a rook.

Alternative title: Tea and Scandal

A Match Made in Mayhem? Or Was It Always Meant to Be?

It is true that the most enduring love stories are not always the most obvious ones. Some, such as the Duke and Duchess of Hastings are observed, beginning to end, by all of society, who awaits, at the edge of their seats to find out the end. Some are a complete and utter surprise, only seeing the light of day when it is all well and done.

This author, alongside with the cream of the crop, was caught by complete and utter surprise to witness what can only be described as a most impressive conclusion to Viscount Bridgerton’s tempestuous courtship farce.

In the middle of Lady Violet Bridgerton’s annual Hearts and Flowers Ball — an event renowned for its beauty, exclusivity and romance — a most unexpected announcement sent a flurry through the ton.

Viscount Anthony Bridgerton is to wed Miss Penelope Featherington.

One might wonder at such a match. He, London’s handsome, most eligible and infamously elusive rake. She, a quiet wallflower long overlooked and often unfortunately adorned in citrus colours that do little for her complexion.

But as the announcement was made, their gazes met and in that fleeting glance, they were caught in a private moment, so tender, so devastating in its vulnerability, that it would have been a crime to look away.

Their subsequent waltz — soft, sweet and entirely too close for propriety — left no heart untouched or fluttering fans and wagging tongues. There is no denying the love between this unusual, surprising, but in the end, perfectly match couple.

It would seem that this author misjudged them. Perhaps this match, so shocking at first glance, was a secret yearning, waiting to bloom. The word soulmate was said more than once, but I hope you, dear reader, won’t begrudge this author too much for waiting to see.

One thing is certain: love, like ink, often spills in the most unexpected places.

The drawing room at Bridgerton House smelled of honey and lemon cake. Violet Bridgerton poured tea with the precision of a woman plotting either a wedding or a military campaign. Not too many differences in terms of planning, just the outcome.

Across from her, Portia Featherington sat with uncharacteristic calm, her eyes glimmering with barely concealed pride. Between them, lace doilies, eclairs, and marzipan served as temporary peace offerings.

“I must say,” Portia chirped, “I was shocked. But so pleased. To think, my daughter, a Bridgerton!”

Violet offered a tight smile.

“Yes. It is very fortuitous. Penelope is very dear to all of us.”

“She always did have a way with people,” Portia sighed. “You know, Penelope was such a shy child. I suppose all that reading had something to do with it. But she has always been such good friends with your daughters. It’s only natural.”

“Mmm,” Violet murmured. “Though I can’t help but wonder how was it that Lady Whistledown didn’t speculate about impropriety.”

“Well, thank heavens Whistledown is romantic at heart.” Portia waved her hand, smirking. “All that nonsense about soulmates and secret affection. She really did us a favour with that.”

“Indeed.” Violet’s eyes twinkled. 

At the hearth, Penelope sat primly, sipping her tea with both hands, cheeks pink, smile soft. She looked every inch the blushing bride-to-be. Not a trace of her usual sharpness. Just an innocent girl caught in a whirlwind of love and lace.

Anthony sat beside her like a man sentenced for life.

He had never known a woman could drink tea with such victorious precision. Every sip, every blink, every breath was a quiet declaration: I won.

Violet turned to her son with a deceptively sweet smile.

“You will treat her well,” she said.

“Yes, Mother.”

“You will behave.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“You will not give cause for your name to appear once again in the sheets, unless in pristine condition and with glowing reviews.” Anthony swallowed. 

“...Yes, Mother.”

“I do worry she may grow bored.” Portia gave a dramatic sigh. "She’s always had such a creative soul. But I’m sure you’ll keep her stimulated.”

Anthony choked on his tea.

Penelope reached out, gently thumping him on the back with a small, serene smile.

“I do look forward to the stimulating parts,” she murmured, only loud enough for him to hear.

His hand tightened around his teacup.

Across the room, Benedict and Colin sat, side by side, one on the edge of a chair, arms folded, the other leaning back in a deceptively laid-back pose, both watching everything. If Anthony so much as shifted his leg too close to Penelope’s, his brothers’ eyes narrowed like a disapproving governess.

Even worse than them, Eloise stood at the window, her back turned but her disdain radiating in visible waves. She had not spoken more than three words to him since the news reached her, and all of them were euphemisms for bodily harm. And those were only after she flew at him with a butter knife in her hand, her face red with fury. It had taken three footmen to pry her away from him and he would never admit it out loud but he was genuinely distressed by the potential harm she could do with the blunt small object.

“You’ve turned my family into a frightening army,” Anthony whispered,  leaning closer to Penelope. 

“No, darling.” She smiled demurely. “ You did that. I simply handed them the ammunition and pointed them to a convenient target.”

Colin growled under his breath.

Benedict made a noise of chastisement.

He gulped.

She sipped her tea.

Chapter Text

A ‘grandmaster’ is a chess player who belongs to the higher echelons of the game’s rankings. G randmasters are brilliant chess  players with very high ratings and regularly fight for the top international honours.

Alternative title: Queen Takes King

The soft morning light spilled through the half open curtains of Bridgerton House, brushing the room with gold. The fire had long since burned to embers, leaving only it’s warmth in the air, thick in the sheets, clinging to skin, wrapping around skin like rich velvet.

Anthony lay sprawled in the bed, arm draped across the pillows, chest rising and falling in a slow, satisfied rhythm. He had never looked less like a viscount. No waistcoat, no cravat. Just bare skin and a slightly dumbstruck, pleased expression that hadn’t quite faded in his sleep.

Penelope was still awake.

She had been for some time.

Not because she was troubled, but because she was calculating. Reflecting. Planning.

She had always known her mind was sharp, her words mighty. But last night, she had discovered something new: her body was powerful too. Every touch, every sigh, every whispered plea from the man who had once thought to trap her, had rewritten the rules between them.

And now?

Now, it was time to test just how far he would let her go.

She moved slowly, silently, crawling over the sheets like a lioness stalking her prey. Silent, deadly and ultimately, victorious. Anthony stirred beneath her, brow furrowing slightly, lashes fluttering.

Then she straddled his hips.

His eyes blinked open.

“Pen?” His voice was sleep-rough and confused. Glorious.

“Good morning, my lord,” she murmured, leaning down to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Did you sleep well?”

“Better than I ever have,” he hummed, a hand sliding up her thigh instinctively.

“Good,” she said, straightening.

She reached between them, guiding him inside of her with no hesitation, no shyness — just deliberate, measured control. Anthony’s eyes widened, his hands flying to her waist.

“Wait— Pen, what are you—”

She sank down on him in one swift, devastating motion.

His jaw dropped, his abdomen rippled, his eyes rolled.

And she didn’t move.

He bucked, but her hands pressed against his navel, steadying him.

“No, no. You don’t get to rush.”

“Penelope—”

“You had your turn last night. Plenty of turns, in fact,” she whispered, rolling her hips just so as to make his breath hitch. “Now it’s mine.”

He stared at her, stunned.

She had never looked more beautiful. Curls loose draping down her back, cheery-red lips parted in a gasp, cheeks flushed with the exertion. She was half-feral, half-regal, and entirely in control of him.

He had wanted to possess her.

But instead?

She owned him.

“You feel so good,” she murmured, slowly lifting herself before sinking back down again, keeping a torturous rhythm. “Too good, really. I might have to keep you like this all morning.”

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, head falling back.

“Blasphemy, my lord, to speak the name in vain,” she teased, dragging her fingertips down his chest. “What would your mother say?”

His hands gripped her hips now, desperate for more movement. But she didn’t give it to him. Not yet.

“Say you were wrong,” she said softly.

“What?” He looked up at her, blinking.

She smiled.

“Say you were wrong,” she repeated, voice low, sultry, her hips grinding down on him at a torturous pace. “Apologize for your scheme. Admit that you thought you could control me, and that instead, I ruined you. That you’ve surrendered to me.”

He stared up at her, chest heaving. His pride warred with his arousal and lost. This was not about phisical strength. He had the advantage in that he had no questions asked. This was about who was in charge. And he had no arguments, no recourse against her. Because, as she had said to him. She would always win. And if he stood against her, he would always lose. And he never intended on losing again.

“You’ve ruined me,” he whispered, eyes dark. “Completely.” She rewarded him with a deeper roll of her hips. His moan was shameless. There was nothing left in him but lust, desperation and need. “I’m yours,” he gasped. “God help me, Penelope, I am yours .”

She leaned forward, kissing him as her pace quickened, and whispered against his lips.

“Good. Now surrender to your Viscountess, my Lord.”

He did.

With a cry and a thrust that shook the bed frame and echoed like a confession.

She followed moments later, shattering in his arms, but not collapsing. She held herself above him just long enough to see the look in his eyes.

Wrecked.

Worshipful.

Utterly, deliciously conquered.

And she smiled.

Because this was not the end of their game.

It was only the beginning.