Chapter Text
The house had never been this quiet.
It was not the quiet of sleep, nor the gentle hush that came after a long day of laughter and movement. This quiet was something else entirely—thick, pressing, suffocating. It clung to the walls of Bridgerton House like a second skin, settling into the very bones of it, as though the structure itself mourned.
Anthony Bridgerton stood alone in his father’s study, though it was his study now. Everything in the room insisted upon that truth: the heavy desk, the neatly arranged correspondence, the ledgers waiting to be reviewed, the signet ring that weighed like iron upon his finger.
Viscount.
The word had come too quickly. Too suddenly. It had not asked if he was ready. It had not paused to consider that he was only seventeen, that he had woken that morning still a son and gone to bed a father to seven.
It had simply taken.
Anthony pressed his palm flat against the desk, his fingers curling slowly as though he might leave marks in the polished wood. He could still smell his father here—faint now, fading, but not gone. A deep, steady alpha scent that had once filled every corner of the house, anchoring it, defining it.
Gone.
The thought struck again, sharp and unforgiving.
He forced himself to breathe.
Alphas were not meant to falter. They were not meant to break. The instinct to hold steady, to contain, to protect—it was carved into him as deeply as the soulmate mark that rested against his skin.
He did not look at it.
He had not looked at it since that morning.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
Anthony straightened immediately, every inch the viscount. “Enter.”
The door opened just enough for his mother to step through. Violet Bridgerton did not move further into the room at first. She stood there, watching him with eyes that were far too perceptive.
“You have not come to dinner,” she said gently.
“I have work.”
“You always have work now.”
Anthony’s jaw tightened. “That is the nature of my position.”
Her gaze softened, but there was something else beneath it—something searching. “Your siblings miss you.”
He did not respond.
Of course they missed him. They missed everything that had been lost.
“So do I,” she added quietly.
That, he could not ignore.
Anthony inhaled slowly, forcing the tightness from his chest. “I see them.”
“At night,” Violet said.
It was not a question.
Anthony inclined his head once. “It is sufficient.”
It had to be.
Every evening, when the house settled and the younger children were prepared for bed, he went to them. One by one.
Benedict first, because he pretended he did not need it. Colin, who leaned into him with a soft, quiet relief he tried to hide. Daphne, who clung just a moment longer than necessary. Eloise, who tolerated it with a wrinkle of her nose but never refused. Francesca, Gregory, Hyacinth—each of them receiving the same careful, measured touch.
A brush of his scent along their wrists.
A reassurance.
A claim of protection.
It was what a head alpha did.
It was all he allowed himself to do.
“You do not stay,” Violet said.
“I cannot.”
“You will not,” she corrected softly.
Anthony’s gaze snapped to hers. “I have responsibilities.”
“And they are not your family?”
“They are precisely why I must keep my distance.”
The words came sharper than intended, but he did not retract them.
Violet stepped further into the room now, her presence warm, steady—beta calm layered over the faint remnants of the bond she had shared with his father. “Anthony,” she said, his name filled with both affection and quiet reprimand, “they have lost their father.”
“So have I.”
The admission slipped out before he could stop it.
Silence followed.
Heavy. Raw.
Violet’s expression softened further, her voice gentler still. “Yes,” she said. “You have.”
Something in his chest threatened to fracture.
Anthony turned away, his hands bracing against the desk once more. “I cannot afford indulgence,” he said, his tone now controlled, distant. “Not anymore.”
Behind him, he heard her sigh.
“You are allowed to grieve.”
“No,” he said. “I am not.”
Because if he did—if he let himself feel it fully, without restraint—he was not certain he would ever recover.
Violet did not argue further.
After a moment, she said quietly, “Very well. But do not forget, my son, that leadership is not only duty. It is also presence.”
He said nothing.
Eventually, she left.
The door closed with a soft click, and the silence returned.
—
The routine settled quickly.
Days were for work.
Evenings were for solitude.
And nights—nights were for the children.
Anthony kept to it with rigid precision. It was easier that way. Easier to move through each hour with purpose, without allowing space for thought.
Without allowing space for memory.
That night was no different.
The house had long since quieted when he left his study. The corridors were dimly lit, the air cooler, carrying the faint mingling scents of his family.
He could track them easily.
Always.
It was instinct.
He began, as always, with Benedict.
His brother was still awake, propped against his pillows with a book he was not reading. He glanced up when Anthony entered, his expression carefully neutral.
“Anthony.”
“Benedict.”
No further words were exchanged.
They did not need them.
Anthony stepped closer, reaching for his brother’s wrist. Benedict allowed it, his posture relaxing just slightly as Anthony brushed his scent over the skin there.
A quiet reassurance.
A silent promise.
Benedict exhaled softly.
“Goodnight,” Anthony said.
“Goodnight.”
Then he moved on.
Colin was half-asleep, his response instinctive as he leaned into Anthony’s touch. Daphne murmured something unintelligible, her fingers curling briefly in Anthony’s sleeve. Eloise huffed but did not pull away. Francesca slept through it entirely. Gregory and Hyacinth, still so young, shifted closer instinctively, seeking warmth.
Anthony gave each of them the same measured care.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
It was enough.
It had to be.
—
The next afternoon, something changed.
Anthony was in his study again, reviewing accounts he had already read twice over, when the door opened without warning.
He looked up sharply.
A small figure stood in the doorway.
She did not belong.
For a moment, his mind struggled to place her. She was too small to be one of his siblings—though not by much—and yet she carried none of their scents.
Instead, there was something softer. Sweeter.
Familiar, but not part of the core family bond.
“Hello,” she said.
Anthony blinked.
The child stepped fully into the room, pushing the door open with a determined little shove. She wore a pale yellow dress, slightly wrinkled, and her bright red curls were only half-contained by their ribbons.
“Who are you?” he asked.
She looked faintly offended by the question.
“I am Penelope.”
He frowned.
Penelope.
It took him a moment, but then he remembered.
The Featheringtons.
Across the street.
The girl—Penelope—seemed entirely unbothered by his confusion. She walked further into the room, her small shoes making soft sounds against the floor.
“You look sad,” she informed him.
Anthony stiffened.
“I do not.”
“You do.”
Her certainty was disarming.
Before he could respond, she held something out to him.
A small, slightly crumbled cookie.
“I brought you this,” she said.
Anthony stared at it.
“I do not require—”
“You should have it,” she insisted. “Because you are sad.”
He opened his mouth to refuse again.
Then stopped.
There was something about the way she stood there—utterly fearless, entirely sincere—that made refusal feel… unnecessary.
Slowly, he reached out and took the cookie.
“Thank you,” he said, the words unfamiliar in his mouth.
Penelope beamed.
“You are welcome.”
Silence followed.
Anthony found himself still holding the cookie, uncertain what to do next.
Penelope solved the problem for him by stepping closer.
Very close.
Close enough that her scent shifted—clearer now, warmer, tinged with something that made his instincts stir unexpectedly.
He froze.
That was… new.
Before he could fully process it, she tilted her head, studying him.
“You still look sad,” she said.
“I assure you—”
Without thinking, he reached for her.
It was instinct.
Pure and unfiltered.
His hand came to rest lightly against the side of her neck.
The moment stretched.
Anthony intended to do what he always did—to offer a light, careful scenting, a reassurance, nothing more.
But something… shifted.
The contact was different.
Warmer.
Brighter.
A sudden, sharp spark that seemed to travel straight through him, igniting something deep and unfamiliar.
He inhaled.
Her scent filled his senses—soft, sweet, threaded with something that felt… right.
Too right.
Anthony’s breath caught.
Penelope stilled beneath his hand, her eyes widening slightly. “Oh,” she said.
The sound was small.
Curious.
Not frightened.
Anthony pulled back immediately.
What had he done?
That was not proper scenting someone from another household, but it felt so right ?
“I apologize,” he said quickly, his voice tighter than intended.
Penelope blinked at him.
“Why?”
“Because I—” He stopped.
Because I should not have done that.
Because that was different.
Because—
“I do not believe you are sad anymore,” she said instead.
Anthony stared at her.
“What?”
She nodded, very certain. “You are not sad now.”
He did not know how to respond to that.
After a moment, she smiled again—bright, pleased.
“Good,” she said. “Then the cookie worked.”
Anthony let out a breath he had not realized he was holding.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “I suppose it did.”
She seemed satisfied with that answer.
“I must go now,” she announced. “Mama will be looking for me.”
He nodded.
Penelope turned, then paused at the door. She glanced back at him, her expression thoughtful.
“You can have another cookie tomorrow,” she said. “If you are sad again.”
And then she was gone.
Anthony remained where he stood, utterly still.
The room felt different.
He felt different.
Slowly, he lifted the cookie and took a bite.
It was slightly overbaked.
Too sweet.
Imperfect.
And yet—
Anthony exhaled.
For the first time in days, the weight on his chest eased