Bridgerton Collection, Volume 1 (Bridgertons #1-3)

by Julia Quinn

In the past few days he’d proven himself sensitive, caring, and principled. Even, she thought with a glimmer of a smile as she recalled the light in Penelope Featherington’s eyes when he’d saved her from the verbal talons of Cressida Cowper, heroic. He was devoted to family. He had used his social position and power not to lord over others but simply to spare another person insult. He had helped her through one of her phobic attacks with a grace and sensitivity that, now that she could view it with a clear head, stunned her. He might have been a rake and a rogue—he might still be a rake and a rogue—but clearly his behavior to those ends did not define the man. And the only objection Kate had to his marrying Edwina was . . . She swallowed painfully. There was a lump the size of a cannonball in her throat. Because deep in her heart, she wanted him for herself.

Kate was worried. Anthony had been practically tripping over himself to make certain that she understood that he would never love her. And he certainly didn’t seem to want her love in return. Then he’d gone and kissed her as if there were no tomorrow, as if she were the most beautiful woman on earth. She’d be the first to admit that she had little experience with men and their desires, but he’d certainly seemed to desire her. Or was he simply wishing she was someone else? She was not his first choice for a wife. She’d do well to remember that fact. And even if she did fall in love with him—well, she’d simply have to keep it to herself. There was really nothing else to do.

And suddenly it was simple. He had to tell Kate that he loved her. Now. This very day. He had to make sure she knew, and he vowed to spend every last minute of his miserably short life proving it to her. It was too late to change the destiny of his heart. He’d tried not to fall in love, and he’d failed. Since he wasn’t likely to fall back out of love, he might as well make the best of the situation. He was going to be haunted by the premonition of his own death whether or not Kate knew of his love for her. Wouldn’t he be happier during these last few years if he spent them loving her openly and honestly? He was fairly certain she’d fallen in love with him as well; surely she’d be glad to hear that he felt the same way. And when a man loved a woman, truly loved her from the depths of her soul to the tips of her toes, wasn’t it his God-given duty to try to make her happy?

He wouldn’t tell her of his premonitions, though. What would be the point? He might suffer the knowledge that their time together would be cut short, but why should she? Better she be struck by sharp and sudden pain at his death than suffer the anticipation of it beforehand. He was going to die. Everyone died, he reminded himself. He was just going to have to do it sooner rather than later. But by God, he was going to enjoy his last years with every breath of his being. It might have been more convenient not to have fallen in love, but now that he had, he wasn’t going to hide from it. It was simple. His world was Kate. If he denied that, he might as well stop breathing right now.

Everyone knew Sophie was a bastard, and no one talked about it, and they were all quite happy with this arrangement. Until the earl decided to marry.

Plus, the upstairs maid had said that the housekeeper had said that the neighbors’ butler had said that the earl’s intended wife already had two daughters, and they were near in age to Sophie.

After seven years alone in the nursery, Sophie was delighted. Unlike the other children in the district, she was never invited to local parties and events. No one actually came out and called her a bastard—to do so was tantamount to calling the earl, who had made one declaration that Sophie was his ward and then never revisited the subject, a liar. But at the same time, the earl never made any great attempt to force Sophie’s acceptance. And so at the age of ten, Sophie’s best friends were maids and footmen, and her parents might as well have been the housekeeper and butler. But now she was getting sisters for real.

Please let her love me.

Sophie cleared her throat again, this time more loudly, and said, “My lord?” in a voice that came out a bit more squeaky than she’d intended. The earl turned around. “Ah, Sophia,” he murmured, “I didn’t realize you were in the hall.” Sophie beamed. He hadn’t been ignoring her, after all. “And who might this be?” the countess asked, stepping forward to get a better look. “My ward,” the earl replied. “Miss Sophia Beckett.” The countess speared Sophie with an assessing look, then her eyes narrowed. And narrowed. And narrowed some more. “I see,” she said. And everyone in the room knew instantly that she did see. “Rosamund,” the countess said, turning to her two girls, “Posy, come with me.”

This sounds like cinderella; pray the author gets more creative

As for the earl, he never intervened. Sophie’s life continued in this vein for four years, until the earl surprised everyone by clutching his hand to his chest while taking tea in the rose garden, letting out one ragged gasp, and falling facefirst to the stone cobbles. He never regained consciousness.

beware: the rewrite of cinderella! SHAME ON AUTHOR

“What, then, is your favorite color?” He grinned. “You’re going to waste your question on that?” “I only get one question?” “More than fair, considering you’re granting me none.” Benedict leaned forward, his dark eyes glinting. “And the answer is blue.” “Why?” “Why?” he echoed. “Yes, why? Is it because of the ocean? Or the sky? Or perhaps just because you like it?” Benedict eyed her curiously. It seemed such an odd question—why his favorite color was blue. Everyone else would have taken blue for an answer and left it at that. But this woman—whose name he still didn’t even know—went deeper, beyond the whats and into the whys.

“Are you a painter?” he queried. She shook her head. “Just curious.” “Why is your favorite color green?” She sighed, and her eyes grew nostalgic. “The grass, I suppose, and maybe the leaves. But mostly the grass. The way it feels when one runs barefoot in the summer. The smell of it after the gardeners have gone through with their scythes and trimmed it even.” “What does the feel and smell of grass have to do with the color?” “Nothing, I suppose. And maybe everything. I used to live in the country, you see . . .” She caught herself. She hadn’t meant to tell him even that much, but there didn’t seem to be harm in his knowing such an innocent fact. “And you were happier there?” he asked quietly. She nodded, a faint rush of awareness shivering across her skin. Lady Whistledown must never have had a conversation with Benedict Bridgerton beyond the superficial, because she’d never written that he was quite the most perceptive man in London. When he looked into her eyes, Sophie had the oddest sense that he could see straight into her soul.

“You’re very quiet,” Benedict said softly. “I was just thinking.” “About?” “About what I’d miss—and what I wouldn’t miss—should my life drastically change.” His eyes grew intense. “And do you expect it to drastically change?” She shook her head and tried to keep the sadness out of her voice when she answered, “No.” His voice grew so quiet it was almost a whisper. “Do you want it to change?” “Yes,” she sighed, before she could stop herself. “Oh, yes.” He took her hands and brought them to his lips, gently kissing each one in turn. “Then we shall begin right now,” he vowed. “And tomorrow you shall be transformed.” “Tonight I am transformed,” she whispered. “Tomorrow I shall disappear.” Benedict drew her close and dropped the softest, most fleeting of kisses onto her brow. “Then we must pack a lifetime into this very night.”

She plunged into the ballroom, knowing that Benedict would prove a determined pursuer, and she’d have the best chance of losing him in a large crowd. All she had to do was make it across the room, and then she could exit via the side door and scoot around the outside of the house to her waiting carriage. The revelers were still removing their masks, and the party was loud with raucous laughter. Sophie pushed and jostled, anything to beat her way to the other side of the room. She threw one desperate glance over her shoulder. Benedict had entered the ballroom, his face intense as he scanned the crowd. He didn’t seem to have seen her yet, but she knew that he would; her silver gown would make her an easy target. Sophie kept shoving people out of her way. At least half of them didn’t seem to notice; probably too drunk. “Excuse me,” she muttered, elbowing Julius Caesar in the ribs. “Beg pardon,” came out more like a grunt; that was when Cleopatra stepped on her toe.

“You have overstepped your bounds,” Araminta said in a low voice. “I warned you years ago not to forget your place in this world. You are a bastard, a by-blow, the product of—” “I know what a bastard is,” Sophie snapped. Araminta raised one haughty brow, silently mocking Sophie’s outburst. “You are unfit to mingle with polite society,” she continued, “and yet you dared to pretend you are as good as the rest of us by attending the masquerade.” “Yes, I dared,” Sophie cried out, well past caring that Araminta had somehow discovered her secret. “I dared, and I’d dare again. My blood is just as blue as yours, and my heart far kinder, and—” One minute Sophie was on her feet, screaming at Araminta, and the next she was on the floor, clutching her cheek, made red by Araminta’s palm. “Don’t you ever compare yourself to me,” Araminta warned. Sophie remained on the floor. How could her father have done this to her, leaving her in the care of a woman who so obviously detested her? Had he cared so little? Or had he simply been blind? “You will be gone by morning,” Araminta said in a low voice. “I don’t ever want to see your face again.”

Sophie cried out as she was propelled forward, and she clutched tightly to her small bag. She was about to be raped; that much was clear. But her panicked mind wanted to hold on to some last shred of dignity, and she refused to allow these men to spill her every last belonging onto the cold ground. The man who caught her fondled her roughly, then shoved her toward the third one. He’d just snaked his hand around her waist, when she heard someone yell out, “Cavender!” Sophie shut her eyes in agony. A fourth man. Dear God, weren’t three enough? “Bridgerton!” Phillip called out. “Come join us!” Sophie’s eyes snapped open. Bridgerton? A tall, powerfully built man emerged from the shadows, moving forward with easy, confident grace. “What have we here?” Dear God, she’d recognize that voice anywhere. She heard it often enough in her dreams. It was Benedict Bridgerton. Her Prince Charming.

Benedict groaned. He was too far away to determine whether the housemaid was enjoying their attentions, and if she was not, then he was going to have to save her, which was not how he’d planned to spend his evening. He’d never been particularly enamored of playing the hero, but he had far too many younger sisters—four, to be precise—to ignore any female in distress. “Ho there!” he called out as he ambled over, keeping his posture purposefully casual. It was always better to move slowly and assess the situation than it was to charge in blindly. “Bridgerton!” Cavender called out. “Come join us!”

Benedict drew close just as one of the men snaked an arm around the young woman’s waist and pinned her to him, her back to his front. His other hand was on her bottom, squeezing and kneading. Benedict brought his gaze to the maid’s eyes. They were huge and filled with terror, and she was looking at him as if he’d just dropped fully formed from the sky. “What have we here?” he asked. “Just a bit of sport,” Cavender chortled. “My parents were kind enough to hire this prime morsel as the upstairs maid.” “She doesn’t appear to be enjoying your attentions,” Benedict said quietly. “She likes it just fine,” Cavender replied with a grin. “Fine enough for me, anyway.” “But not,” Benedict said, stepping forward, “for me.” “You can have your turn with her,” Cavender said, ever jovial. “Just as soon as we’re through.” “You misunderstand.” There was a hard edge to Benedict’s voice, and the three men all froze, looking over at him with wary curiosity. “Release the girl,” he said. Still stunned by the sudden change of atmosphere, and with reflexes most likely dulled by alcohol, the man holding the girl did nothing.

“I don’t want to fight you,” Benedict said, crossing his arms, “but I will. And I can assure you that the three-to-one odds don’t frighten me.” “Now, see here,” Cavender said angrily. “You can’t come here and order me about on my own property.” “It’s your parents’ property,” Benedict pointed out, reminding them all that Cavender was still rather wet behind the ears. “It’s my home,” Cavender shot back, “and she’s my maid. And she’ll do what I want.” “I wasn’t aware that slavery was legal in this country,” Benedict murmured. “She has to do what I say!” “Does she?” “I’ll fire her if she doesn’t.” “Very well,” Benedict said with a tiny quirk of a smile. “Ask her then. Ask the girl if she wants to tup with all three of you. Because that is what you had in mind, isn’t it?” Cavender sputte...

She turned to Benedict and nodded, still afraid to use her voice. She felt as if she were choking inside, although she wasn’t certain whether that was from fear or relief. “Good,” he said. “Shall we be off?” She gave a rather pointed look at the arm that was still holding her hostage. “Oh, for the love of God,” Benedict snarled. “Will you let go of her or will I have to shoot your damned hand off?” Benedict wasn’t even holding a gun, but the tone of his voice was such that the man let go instantly. “Good,” Benedict said, holding his arm out toward the maid. She stepped forward, and with trembling fingers placed her hand on his elbow. “You can’t just take her!” Phillip yelled. Benedict gave him a supercilious look. “I just did.” “You’ll be sorry you did this,” Phillip said. “I doubt it. Now get out of my sight.” Phillip made a huffy sound, then turned his friends and said, “Let’s get out of here.” Then he turned to Benedict and added, “Don’t think you shall ever receive another invitation to one of my parties.” “My heart is breaking,” Benedict drawled.

She stared at him, right into his eyes. And that was when she knew. He wasn’t going to recognize her. He had no idea who she was. Sophie didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.

It was clear to all of the guests at the Mottram ball Thursday last that Miss Rosamund Reiling has set her cap for Mr. Phillip Cavender. It is the opinion of This Author that the two are well matched indeed. LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 30 APRIL 1817

It seems one cannot take two steps at a London ball these days without stumbling across a society matron lamenting the difficulties of finding good help. Indeed, This Author thought that Mrs. Featherington and Lady Penwood were going to come to blows at last week’s Smythe-Smith musicale. It seems that Lady Penwood stole Mrs. Featherington’s lady’s maid right out from under her nose one month ago, promising higher wages and free cast-off clothing. (It should be noted that Mrs. Featherington also gave the poor girl cast-off clothing, but anyone who has ever observed the attire of the Featherington girls would understand why the lady’s maid would not view this as a benefit.) The plot thickened, however, when the lady’s maid in question fled back to Mrs. Featherington, begging to be rehired. It seemed that Lady Penwood’s idea of a lady’s maid included duties more accurately ascribed to the scullery maid, upstairs maid, and cook. Someone ought to tell the woman that one girl cannot do the work of three. LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 2 MAY 1817

It has oft been said that physicians make the worst patients, but it is the opinion of This Author that any man makes a terrible patient. One might say it takes patience to be a patient, and heaven knows, the males of our species lack an abundance of patience. LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 2 MAY 1817

It was only when Benedict noticed that his jaw was clamped together like a vise that he realized he was absolutely furious. At whom, he wasn’t precisely certain. But he did not like seeing Sophie so hungry. They had an odd little bond, he and the housemaid. He’d saved her and she’d saved him. Oh, he doubted his fever from the night before would have killed him; if it had been truly serious, he’d still be battling it now. But she had cared for him and made him comfortable and probably hastened his road to recovery.

The housemaid wars rage on in London. Lady Penwood called Mrs. Featherington a conniving, ill-bred thief in front of no less than three society matrons, including the very popular dowager Viscountess Bridgerton! Mrs. Featherington responded by calling Lady Penwood’s home no better than a workhouse, citing the ill treatment of her lady’s maid (whose name, This Author has learned, is not Estelle as was originally claimed, and furthermore, she is not remotely French. The girl’s name is Bess, and she hails from Liverpool.) Lady Penwood stalked away from the altercation in quite a huff, followed by her daughter, Miss Rosamund Reiling. Lady Penwood’s other daughter, Posy (who was wearing an unfortunate green gown) remained behind with a somewhat apologetic look in her eyes until her mother returned, grabbed her by the sleeve, and dragged her off. This Author certainly does not make up the guest lists at society parties, but it is difficult to imagine that the Penwoods will be invited to Mrs. Featherington’s next soirée. LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 7 MAY 1817

“I was hoping you might find her a position in your household,” Benedict said. “But not if it’s too much trouble,” Sophie hastened to add. “No,” Violet said slowly, her eyes settling on Sophie’s face with a curious expression. “No, it wouldn’t be any trouble at all, but . . .” Both Benedict and Sophie leaned forward, awaiting the rest of the sentence. “Have we met?” Violet suddenly asked. “I don’t think so,” Sophie said, stammering slightly. How could Lady Bridgerton think she knew her? She was positive their paths had not crossed at the masquerade. “I can’t imagine how we could have done.” “I’m certain you’re right,” Lady Bridgerton said with a wave of her hand. “There is something vaguely familiar about you. But I’m sure it’s just that I’ve met someone with similar features. It happens all the time.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Lady Bridgerton said, walking toward the stairs. “Here, come with me, Miss Beckett. What did you say your given name was?” “Sophia. Sophie.” “Come with me, Sophie. I’ll introduce you to the girls. And,” she added, her nose crinkling with distaste, “we’ll find you something new to wear. I cannot have one of our maids dressed so shabbily. A person would think we didn’t pay you a fair wage.” It had never been Sophie’s experience that members of the ton were concerned about paying their servants fairly, and she was touched by Lady Bridgerton’s generosity.

But they were scoundrels she clearly loved. Sophie could hear it in the way she spoke, see it in her eyes when they lit with joy upon seeing her son. And it made Sophie lonely and wistful and jealous. How different her life might have been had her mother lived through childbirth. They might have been unrespectable, Mrs. Beckett a mistress and Sophie a bastard, but Sophie liked to think that her mother would have loved her. Which was more than she received from any other adult, her father included. “Come along, Sophie,” Lady Bridgerton said briskly. Sophie followed her up the stairs, wondering why, if she were merely about to begin a new job, she felt as if she were entering a new family. Itfelt . . . nice. And it had been a long, long while since her life had felt nice.

Rosamund Reiling swears that she saw Benedict Bridgerton back in London. This Author is inclined to believe the veracity of the account; Miss Reiling can spot an unmarried bachelor at fifty paces. Unfortunately for Miss Reiling, she can’t seem to land one. LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 12 MAY 1817

“Or maybe,” Violet continued, warming to the endeavor, “she’s the illegitimate child of a nobleman.” That was considerably more plausible—and more palatable. “One would think he’d have settled enough funds on her so that she didn’t have to work as a housemaid.” “A great many men completely ignore their by-blows,” Violet said, her face wrinkling with distaste. “It’s nothing short of scandalous.” “More scandalous than their having the by-blows in the first place?” Violet’s expression turned quite peevish. “Besides,” Benedict said, leaning back against the sofa and propping one ankle on the other knee, “if she were the bastard of a nobleman, and he’d cared for her enough to make sure she had schooling as a child, then why is she completely penniless now?” “Hmmm, that’s a good point.” Violet tapped her index finger against her cheek, pursed her lips, then continued tapping. “But have no fear,” she finally said, “I shall discover her identity within a month.” “I’d recommend asking Eloise for help,” Benedict said dryly. Violet nodded thoughtfully. “Good idea. That girl could get Napoleon to spill his secrets.”

As he approached the nursery door, the laughter increased, with a few squeals thrown in for good measure. The sounds brought a smile to Benedict’s face, and he turned when he reached the open doorway, and then— He saw her. Her. Not Sophie. Her. And yet it was Sophie. She was blindfolded, smiling as she groped her hands toward the giggling children. He could see only the bottom half of her face, and that’s when he knew. There was only one other woman in the world for whom he’d seen only the bottom half of her face. The smile was the same. The gamine little point at the end of her chin was the same. It was all the same. She was the woman in silver, the woman from the masquerade ball. It suddenly made sense. Only twice in his life had he felt this inexplicable, almost mystical attraction to a woman. He’d thought it remarkable, to have found two, when in his heart he’d always believed there was only one perfect woman out there for him. His heart had been right. There was only one. He’d searched for her for months. He’d pined for her even longer. And here she’d been right under his nose.

He advanced on her. “Who are you?” She backed up another step. “Sophia Beckett.” “Who are you?” “I’ve been a servant since I was fourteen.” “And who were you before that?” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “A bastard.” “Whose bastard?” “Does it matter?” His stance grew more belligerent. “It matters to me.” Sophie felt herself deflate. She hadn’t expected him to ignore the duties of his birth and actually marry someone like her, but she’d hoped he wouldn’t care quite that much. “Who were your parents?” Benedict persisted. “No one you know.” “Who were your parents?” he roared. “The Earl of Penwood,” she cried out. He stood utterly still, not a muscle moving. He didn’t even blink.

“I am a nobleman’s bastard,” she said harshly, years of anger and resentment pouring forth. “My father was the Earl of Penwood and my mother was a maid. Yes,” she spat out when she saw his face grow pale, “my mother was a lady’s maid. Just as I am a lady’s maid.” A heavy pause filled the air, and then Sophie said in a low voice, “I won’t be like my mother.” “And yet, if she’d behaved otherwise,” he said, “you wouldn’t be here to tell me about it.” “That’s not the point.” Benedict’s hands, which had been fisted at his sides, began to twitch. “You lied to me,” he said in a low voice. “There was no need to tell you the truth.” “Who the hell are you to decide?” he exploded. “Poor little Benedict, he can’t handle the truth. He can’t make up his own mind. He—” He broke off, disgusted by the whiny edge to his voice. She was turning him into someone he didn’t know, someone he didn’t like.

While we are on the topic, Miss Reiling’s mother, the Countess of Penwood, has also been acting very strange of late. According to servants’ gossip (which we all know is always the most reliable sort), the countess threw quite the tantrum last night, hurling no fewer than seventeen shoes at her servants. One footman sports a bruised eye, but other than that, all remain in good health. LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 11 JUNE 1817

If Miss Featherington’s gathering weren’t enough gossip, not three hours later, a woman was accosted right in front of the town house by the Countess of Penwood, who lives three doors down. It seems the woman, who This Author suspects was working in the Bridgerton household, used to work for Lady Penwood. Lady Penwood alleges that the unidentified woman stole from her two years ago and immediately had the poor thing carted off to jail. This Author is not certain what the punishment is these days for theft, but one has to suspect that if one has the audacity to steal from a countess, the punishment is quite strict. The poor girl in question is likely to be hanged, or at the very least, find herself transported. The previous housemaid wars (reported last month in This Column) seem rather trivial now. LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 13 JUNE 1817

Such a scurry on Bruton Street. The dowager Viscountess Bridgerton and her son, Benedict Bridgerton, were seen dashing out of her house Friday morning. Mr. Bridgerton practically threw his mother into a carriage, and they took off at breakneck speed. Francesca and Hyacinth Bridgerton were seen standing in the doorway, and This Author has it on the best authority that Francesca was heard to utter a very unladylike word. But the Bridgerton household was not the only one to see such excitement. The Penwoods also experienced a great deal of activity, culminating in a public row right on the front steps between the countess and her daughter, Miss Posy Reiling. As This Author has never liked Lady Penwood, she can only say, “Huzzah for Posy!” LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 16 JUNE 1817

“A model of Christian charity,” Sophie muttered. “I’m sure the justice will be touched.” Araminta brushed her fingers against her temple, idly pushing back her hair. “Won’t he, though?” She looked directly at Sophie and smiled. It was a hard and hollow expression, and suddenly Sophie had to know— “Why do you hate me?” she whispered. Araminta did nothing but stare at her for a moment, and then she whispered, “Because he loved you.” Sophie was stunned into silence. Araminta’s eyes grew impossibly brittle. “I will never forgive him for that.”

Sophie shook her head in disbelief. “He never loved me.” “He clothed you, he fed you.” Araminta’s mouth tightened. “He forced me to live with you.” “That wasn’t love,” Sophie said. “That was guilt. If he loved me he wouldn’t have left me with you. He wasn’t stupid; he had to have known how much you hated me. If he loved me he wouldn’t have forgotten me in his will. If he loved me—” She broke off, choking on her own voice. Araminta crossed her arms. “If he loved me,” Sophie continued, “he might have taken the time to talk to me. He might have asked me how my day went, or what I was studying, or did I enjoy my breakfast.” She swallowed convulsively, turning away. It was too hard to look at Araminta just then. “He never loved me,” she said quietly. “He didn’t know how to love.” No words passed between the two women for many moments, and then Araminta said, “He was punishing me.” Slowly, Sophie turned back around. “For not giving him an heir.” Araminta’s hands began to shake. “He hated me for that.” Sophie didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know if there was anything to say. After a long moment, Araminta said, “At first I hated you because you were an insult to me. No woman should have to shelter her husband’s bastard.” Sophie said nothing. “But then . . . But then . . .” To Sophie’s great surprise, Araminta sagged against the wall, as if the memories were sucking away her very strength. “But then it changed,” Araminta finally said. “How could he have had you with some whore,...

“And she’s”—he gulped as he pointed to Sophie—“your fiancée?” Sophie waited for some sort of supernatural sign to stir the air, branding Benedict as a liar, but to her surprise, nothing happened. Lady Bridgerton was even nodding. “You can’t marry her,” Araminta insisted. Benedict turned to his mother. “Is there any reason I need to consult Lady Penwood about this?” “None that I can think of,” Lady Bridgerton replied. “She is nothing but a whore,” Araminta hissed. “Her mother was a whore, and blood runs—urp!” Benedict had her by the throat before anyone was even aware that he had moved. “Don’t,” he warned, “make me hit you.” The magistrate tapped Benedict on the shoulder. “You really ought to let her go.” “Might I muzzle her?” The magistrate looked torn, but eventually he shook his head. With obvious reluctance, Benedict released Araminta. “If you marry her,” Araminta said, rubbing her throat, “I shall make sure everyone knows exactly what she is—the bastard daughter of a whore.”

nothing left from his will.” “That’s not true,” Posy blurted out. Sophie turned to her in shock. “He did leave you money,” Posy insisted. Sophie felt her jaw go slack. “That’s not possible. I had nothing. My father saw to my welfare up to age twenty, but after that—” “After that,” Posy said rather forcefully, “you had a dowry.” “A dowry?” Sophie whispered. “That’s not true!” Araminta shrilled. “It is true,” Posy insisted. “You ought not leave incriminating evidence about, Mother. I read a copy of the earl’s will last year.” She turned to the rest of the room and said, “It was in the same box where she put her wedding band.”

time.” The magistrate cleared his throat and turned on Araminta, “And what has happened to her dowry?” Araminta said nothing. Lady Bridgerton cleared her throat. “I don’t think it’s terribly legal,” she said, “to embezzle a young woman’s dowry.” She smiled—a slow, satisfied sort of smile. “Eh, Araminta?” Chapter 23 Lady Penwood appears to have left town. So does Lady Bridgerton. Interesting . . . LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 18 JUNE 1817 Benedict decided he had never loved his mother more than he did at that very minute. He was trying not to grin, but it was exceedingly difficult with Lady Penwood gasping like a fish on land.

The magistrate’s eyes bugged out. “You’re not suggesting I arrest the countess?” “No, of course not,” Violet demurred. “She’d likely go free. The aristocracy rarely pays for its crimes. But,” she added, tilting her head slightly to the side as she gave Lady Penwood a very pointed glance, “if you were to arrest her, it would be terribly embarrassing while she defended the charges.” “What are you trying to say?” Lady Penwood asked through decidedly clenched teeth. Violet turned to the magistrate. “Might I have a few moments alone with Lady Penwood?” “Of course, my lady.” He gave her a gruff nod, then barked, “Everyone! Out!” “No, no,” Violet said with a sweet smile as she pressed something that looked suspiciously like a pound note into his palm. “My family may stay.”

The magistrate blushed slightly, then grabbed the warden’s arm and yanked him out of the room. “There now,” Violet murmured. “Where were we?” Benedict beamed with pride as he watched his mother march right up to Lady Penwood and stare her down. He stole a glance at Sophie. Her mouth was hanging open. “My son is going to marry Sophie,” Violet said, “and you are going to tell anyone who will listen that she was the ward of your late husband.” “I will never lie for her,” Lady Penwood shot back. Violet shrugged. “Fine. Then you can expect my solicitors to begin looking for Sophie’s dowry immediately. After all, Benedict will be entitled to it once he marries her.” Benedict slipped his arm around Sophie’s waist and gave her a light squeeze. “If someone asks me,” Lady Penwood ground out, “I will confirm whatever story you bandy about. But do not expect me to go out of my way to help her.” Violet pretended to mull that over, then said, “Excellent. I do believe that will do nicely.” She turned to he...

Violet pointedly turned her back on the countess, and said, “I’m sure some members of the ton will consider her a bit shabby, since obviously nobody will be familiar with her family, but at least she will be respectable. After all”—she turned back around and flashed a wide smile at Araminta—“there is that connection with the Penwoods....

He buried his face in her hair, inhaling her scent, smelling . . . Smelling . . . He drew back. “Would you care for a bath?” Her face turned an instant scarlet. “Oh, no,” she moaned, the words muffled into the hand she’d clapped over her mouth. “It was so filthy in jail, and I was forced to sleep on the ground, and—” “Don’t tell me any more,” he said. “But—” “Please.” If he heard more he might have to kill someone. As long as there had been no permanent damage, he didn’t want to know the details.

Sophie was glad she was leaning forward, her forehead resting on her bent knees, because she blushed. “Dunk your head so I can wash your hair,” he ordered. She slid under the water, then quickly came back up. Benedict rubbed the bar of soap in his hands and then began to work the lather through her hair. “It was longer before,” he commented. “I had to cut it,” she said. “I sold it to a wigmaker.” She wasn’t sure, but she thought she might have heard him growl. “It used to be much shorter,” she added. “Ready to rinse.” She dunked back in the tub, swishing her head this way and that under the water before coming back up for air. Benedict cupped his hands and filled them with water. “You’ve still got some in the back,” he said, letting the water pour over her hair.

“Well, she won’t know about Violet,” Benedict vowed. “At least not until it’s obvious to the world.” “Violet?” Sophie asked softly. “It’s time my mother had a grandchild named after her, don’t you think?” Sophie leaned against him, letting her cheek rest against the crisp linen of his shirt. “I think Violet is a lovely name,” she murmured, nestling deeper into the shelter of his arms. “I just hope it’s a girl. Because if it’s a boy, he’s never going to forgive us . . .”

Later that night, in a town house in the very best part of London, a woman picked up her quill and wrote: Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers 12 April 1824 Ah, Gentle Reader, This Author has learned that the Bridgerton grandchildren will soon number eleven . . . But when she tried to write more, all she could do was close her eyes and sigh. She’d been doing this for so very long now. Could it have possibly been eleven years already? Maybe it was time to move on. She was tired of writing about everyone else. It was time to live her own life. And so Lady Whistledown set down her quill and walked to her window, pushing aside her sage green curtains and looking out into the inky night. “Time for something new,” she whispered. “Time to finally be me.”