The Wrong Mr Bridgerton

Chapter 1

With Duchess Daphne Hastings leaving the Bridgerton home in Mayfair to join his long time friend Simon Bassett. Also known as The Duke of Hastings.

Viscount Anthony Bridgerton found himself in need of a wife. If Simon and Daphne, who to be honest were complete opposites can make such things work. With Daphne being an innocent. Not that The Duke was a complete disaster. But he indeed had his moments.

In all fairness he didn't know how he would have survived Oxford without his constant jests and toughness. Not to mention helping him remove the Goat that he assisted to bringing in the dormitory to start with. It was charming that of all people he may have thought Simon was meant for, Daph wasn't on the top of the list, not even tenth. But between them both they seemed to find something stronger. More meaningful. A peace. A happiness that he found himself in sudden need of.

Anthony did not necessarily want or need a wife for a love match, but a match like no other. He needed a woman strong of mind, tough and beautiful. Everything that a Viscountess should be. She didn't have to be the most beautiful of ladies, but pretty nonetheless. He craved one who would be a keen conversationalist and a good wit wouldn't go unnoticed.

He knew he had high demands, a man in his position should have a decent list of prospects to join his very rambunctious family.

After a very long day looking through ledgers, Colin Bridgerton, his second younger brother was always the most difficult accounts to sort through. He was a spender, that much was true.

All his travels and adventures sucked his money dry, almost as if he didnt think of his other siblings, left in wait for his return. Anthony sometimes wished for a simpler life like young Colin.
His cards were dealt in the opposite direction sadly. 

He was thrust into his job as Viscount, after his father died, he was the first born son. So all authority and responsibilities were bestow upon him. His first question being asked who to save, his mother, or his youngest sister Hyacinth, which his mother was carrying at the time. No son, should have to make such a choice. It was not fair to him, and definitely not fair to his grieving mother. His mind was moving so quickly, all he could focus on was his her.

Her world had come crashing around her, and now her choices were not her own.

All the responsibilities left little space for joy, for laughter, for his siblings. He was hard on the inside and out, the world indefinitely, made him thus.

He was glad that he had not made that choice. He demanded the physician to allow his mother make it herself. Then a new day came and Hyacinth was born. His mother fell more and more into a melancholy. She had six children and one newborn to care for. For the first time Anthony had to stand his ground, it was torture stuck between a rock and a hard place.

He made choices, a lot of choices. His mother's grief never seemed to end. She was restless, losing Edmund, was all consuming. Giving him no time to grieve himself. After all, he had lost a father, a mentor, a friend. The greatest man he had ever known. He needed to step up, for his family.

His family tolerated him at best, he was not tolerable most of the time. He knew this to be true. It was difficult but someone had to hold everyone together. Anthony was strong of mind. His family found him a bore at times, he didn't want them aware of the hardship, although sometimes found himself hinting at such.

Benedict wished his brother would never leave, if he was to, then all responsibilities would fall to him. He had neither the inclination or paint pallet to explain the complete disaster which would no doubt swallow him whole.

Benedict was an artist, his imagination was bright and fulfilling. that is where his heart truly lies. Paint spoke to him, made him feel things that another human being has yet to come close to. The warmth of a sunrise, the loving embrace of another. He had been to bed with a fair few beauties in his time, but none that made him feel the touch that a William Turner sky or Jean-Honore Fragonard, indeed would. His painting The Progress of Love: Love Letters warmed his soul, made him want to be an artist, inspired him.

Benedict, who wished to one day feeling a love like no other, Anthony on the other hand, had decided that, by taking love out of the equation, he would never have to live in the shadow, like his mother did most of his life. To see her suffer for so long made him definite in his decision to leave love on the shelf. Never wishing to sully his mind with such thoughts again. He couldn't do that again.

Anthony made a rather large list of prospects, scribbling down the eighth ladies name, he decided a break was needed indeed. The sky was overcast and cool, rain would surely follow in an hour he thought to himself. His head was too busy, even the rain would offer little comfort.
He rather enjoyed the rain, it was a strange feeling that such a simple thing as the change in weather, improves his mood. Something almost calming.

It was a delight to hear the droplets on the window to improve his sleep. He didn't tend to sleep a lot, his mind was always so full of numbers, names and such, he surprised himself that he could at least hold some form of conversation. Too many things to think of. It was a pain to be a Viscount. Sure, he liked the title but it could get rather tedious at times.

So Lord Anthony Bridgerton left his very comfortable but stressful study to go and get some much needed respite. He got into carriage and thought he'd travel through Bloomsbury. He couldn't help but feel at home there. The people like himself were thrust into a hard working environment, and Anthony found he always seemed to be doing the exact same.

He could just make out the top of St Brides church, a beautiful steeple he had always thought. It looked idyllic on lightened up by the street lights, a fog was slowly moving in, St Brides was slowly disappearing into the ether. He couldn't even see the spire anymore. He could not help but think how St Brides always seemed to remind him of a cake. Marvelous structure to be sure.

He passed Fleet Street, something caught his eye in the smog. A flash of deep blue.

He banged on the wall of the carriage "Slow down" he called out with a sense of urgency. 

He let his eyes squint, bringing a figure into focus. Looked rather suspicious he thought to himself. Business should be closed for the night.

A Lady in a blue cloak was walking from the Chancery Lane Printing Press with a bouncy demeanor, her curly red hair glowed in the moonlight and street lights. She was throwing a money bag on the air and catching it, a smile etched on her face. A face he knew well. Unfathomable. It could not be. It could not.

The Carriage stopped briefly as the very familiar figure darted in front of them, a horse let out an exhausted nay. He whispered her name from his ever so surprised lips, as her feet in delicate pale blue leather boots hit the cobbles with a tipy tap "Miss Penelope"