Painted by Passion (Benedict Bridgerton X OC, a Bridgerton Fanfic)

Chapter 1

Angelica Rotherham did not spend overmuch time on making her appearance radiant, to be honest. Had some unknown power that be offered her a choice between an hour at a vanity table and an hour of reading Goethe's book on theory of colour, she would have chosen the latter - and usually did. However, tonight was a special night, and not because she was so very keen to see the fireworks at Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. No - tonight was the night she was going to set her plan in motion.

Therefore, she took all the care she could -  even curling her hair with heated tongs and fixing the resulting curls in place with sugared water.

Angelica wondered if a touch of rouge would be too much. Then she judged that it would. After all, none of those well-bred debutantes in their swan-pale gowns are going to be wearing it, and it was her father's desire that she did not differ from them an inch.

At least, where appearance was concerned. Angelica doubted this ruse would work. After all, what use is the appearance of a genteel lady if anyone who asked about her parentage would know that her father was no peer, not even a squire, but a man who earned his bread with his hands?

Very well, it was not as though Henry Rotherham dug ditches for a living. He was an artist who, on his travels through the Continent before (and, perilously, even during) the war had captured the likeness of many a nobleman. But, from the point of view of those who ruled the ton, the only difference between that and digging ditches was the amount of paint being involved.

Suddenly, she heard a gentle tapping on the door of her bedroom.

'Angelica, are you quite ready?' Her father asked from the other side.

Angelica smiled fondly. He never did barge into her room without permission, and she was grateful to him for it. Sometimes, at night, having something of a dramatic streak, she liked to stand in front of her darkened mirror and imagine herself a woman of ruthless ambition, like the lady from the Scottish tragedy. But, when dawn came, she had to admit that was, in truth, merely a lively girl with tender feeling, and very much regretted having to go behind her father's back.

However, he did not quite leave her any choice.

It was not as though she had never asked him for what she wanted honestly, frankly. Indeed, one such conversation took place just before they were to leave for London. It was an inn in Calais, and Angelica did not sleep well, having heard rather frightful things about the crossing. She came to her father's room, and asked him the last time to engage a tutor for her once they reached the city and settled there. Not the kind of drawing-master who taught watercolours to young ladies for the sake of their accomplishments, but a proper painter, like him. She knew that the Royal Academy of Arts did not accept women - although, bizarrely, her namesake Angelica Kaufman had been admitted as a member through Queen Charlotte's insistent patronage - but, perhaps, a private apprenticeship might be possible?

The answer, as before, was a categorical no.

'It is not because I think you incapable', her father hastened to explain, the room dark around him, the firelight faint on his face. 'Far from it. Certainly it is not because I think you incapable as a young woman. But you don't understand what a precarious path it is - the dependence, the caprices of the patrons, the cost of putting up a proper facade, the danger that, once the fashion for your particular mode of painting passes, you are going to be swept out with the ashes'.

'But your life isn't precarious', Angelica protested then. 'Indeed, we would not have been returning to London, if it were not so. It is a splendid place to be sure, but no the cheapest in the world'.

'You certainly have a gift for understatement', he chuckled. 'First of all, I wouldn't be so sure about my invulnerability. One failure or a turn of a malicious tongue is all it takes. Second... it is precisely because I have reached some modest success - most of those I once studied sketching with did not, I must add - that I can afford to strive for a more secure life for you. A good husband - not a peer, of course, I am not fit for Bedlam yet - but a man of some means. Perhaps, with some land or an interest in a bank'.

'How thrilling', Angelica said bleakly. 'What an enchanting vistas of life you are opening in front of me'.

'I want to raise you up in the world, Angel. Not to have you toil the way I did. It is what every parent worthy of a name wants, I suppose - that his children live a better life than he once did'.

It was not as though Angelica wanted to thwart him in his dreams. It was only she wanted to prove that hers were just as robust, if not, perhaps, as sensible.

She had learned quite a lot about drawing, if less about painting, in the leaner years when her parents, both still alive back then, still supposed she might follow in her father's footsteps one day. The rest, she wrung out of long hours of practice. The only thing she lacked now was an opportunity to prove herself.

But that was the very crux of her plan.

Despite having only arrived in London a month ago, she knew - if only from gossip - the comet-like social success of Viscount Bridgerton and his large family. If one of them commissioned... anything, really, from her, and she executed the commission well, she was going to be set for success.

Now, there remained just a little trouble - charm one of the brothers of the family into doing just that. Her (admittedly unpractised) feminine charms would have to make up for the lack of her professional credentials.

Angelica looked into the small mirror, unconsciously touching the shoulder-length brown curls. Yes, everything looked quite fine, not a hair strand out of place. Quite unlike herself, really.

She stood up, and opened the door with a bright smile.

'Actually', she said, 'I am ready for the evening'.