Bridgerton Collection Volume 1 (Bridgertons)

by Julia Quinn

  But if he had indeed blushed—and his cheeks did feel a touch warm—neither of his brothers saw it, because they didn’t say anything, and if there was anything in life as certain as, say, the sun rising in the east, it was that a Bridgerton never passed up the opportunity to tease and torment another Bridgerton.

  “She’s been talking about Penelope Featherington nonstop,” Colin said with a scowl. “I tell you, I’ve known the girl since we were both in short pants. Er, since I was in short pants, at least. She was in . . .” He scowled some more, because both his brothers were laughing at him. “She was in whatever it is that young girls wear.”

  “Frocks?” Anthony supplied helpfully.

  “Petticoats?” was Benedict’s suggestion.

  “The point is,” Colin said forcefully, “that I have known her forever, and I can assure you I am not likely to fall in love with her.”

  Anthony turned to Benedict and said, “They’ll be married within a year. Mark my words.”

  Colin crossed his arms. “Anthony!”

  “Maybe two,” Benedict said. “He’s young yet.”

  “Unlike you,” Colin retorted. “Why am I besieged by Mother, I wonder? Good God, you’re thirty-one—”

  “Thirty,” Benedict snapped.

  “Regardless, one would think you’d be getting the brunt of it.”

  Benedict frowned. His mother had been uncharacteristically reserved these past few weeks when it came to her opinions on Benedict and marriage and why the two ought to meet and soon. Of course, Benedict had been avoiding his mother’s house like the plague, but even before that, she’d not mentioned a word.

  It was most odd.

  “At any rate,” Colin was still grumbling, “I am not going to marry soon, and I am certainly not going to marry Penelope Featherington!”

  “Oh!”

  It was a feminine “oh,” and without looking up, Benedict somehow knew that he was about to experience one of life’s most awkward moments. Heart filled with dread, he lifted his head and turned toward the front door. There, framed perfectly in the open doorway, was Penelope Featherington, her lips parted with shock, her eyes filled with heartbreak.

  And in that moment, Benedict realized what he’d probably been too stupid (and stupidly male) to notice: Penelope Featherington was in love with his brother.

  Colin cleared his throat. “Penelope,” he squeaked, his voice sounding as if he’d regressed ten years and gone straight back to puberty, “uh . . . good to see you.” He looked to his brothers to leap in and save him, but neither chose to intervene.

  Benedict winced. It was one of those moments that simply could not be saved.

  “I didn’t know you were there,” Colin said lamely.

  “Obviously not,” Penelope said, but her words lacked an edge.

  Colin swallowed painfully. “Were you visiting Eloise?”

  She nodded. “I was invited.”

  “I’m sure you were!” he said quickly. “Of course you were. You’re a great friend of the family.”

  Silence. Horrible, awkward silence.

  “As if you would come uninvited,” Colin mumbled.

  Penelope said nothing. She tried to smile, but she obviously couldn’t quite manage it. Finally, just when Benedict thought she would brush by them all and flee down the street, she looked straight at Colin and said, “I never asked you to marry me.”

  Colin’s cheeks turned a deeper red than Benedict would have thought humanly possible. Colin opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

  It was the first—and quite possibly would be the only—moment of Benedict’s recollection for which his younger brother was at a complete loss for words.

  “And I never—” Penelope added, swallowing convulsively when the words came out a bit tortured and broken. “I never said to anyone that I wanted you to ask me.”

  “Penelope,” Colin finally managed, “I’m so sorry.”

  “You have nothing to apologize for,” she said.

  “No,” Colin insisted, “I do. I hurt your feelings, and—”

  “You didn’t know I was there.”

  “But nevertheless—”

  “You are not going to marry me,” she said hollowly. “There is nothing wrong with that. I am not going to marry your brother Benedict.”

  Benedict had been trying not to look, but he snapped to attention at that.

  “It doesn’t hurt his feeling when I announce that I am not going to marry him.” She turned to Benedict, her brown eyes focusing on his. “Does it, Mr. Bridgerton?”

  “Of course not,” Benedict answered quickly.

  “It’s settled, then,” she said tightly. “No feelings were hurt. Now then, if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I should like to go home.”

  Benedict, Anthony, and Colin parted as if drops in the Red Sea as she made her way down the steps.

  “Don’t you have a maid?” Colin asked.

  She shook her head. “I live just around the corner.”

  “I know, but—”

  “I’ll escort you,” Anthony said smoothly.

  “That’s really not necessary, my lord.”

  “Humor me,” he said.

  She nodded, and the two of them took off down the street.

  Benedict and Colin watched their retreating forms in silence for a full thirty seconds before Benedict turned to his brother and said, “That was very well done of you.”

  “I didn’t know she was there!”

  “Obviously,” Benedict drawled.

  “Don’t. I feel terrible enough already.”

  “As well you should.”

  “Oh, and you have never inadvertently hurt a woman’s feelings before?” Colin’s voice was defensive, just defensive enough so that Benedict knew he felt like an utter heel inside.

  Benedict was saved from having to reply by the arrival of his mother, standing at the top of the steps, framed in the doorway much the same way Penelope had been just a few minutes earlier.

  “Has your brother arrived yet?” Violet asked.

  Benedict jerked his head toward the corner. “He is escorting Miss Featherington home.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s very thoughtful of him. I—Where are you going, Colin?”

  Colin paused briefly but didn’t even turn his head as he grunted, “I need a drink.”

  “It’s a bit early for—” She stopped mid-sentence when Benedict laid his hand on her arm.

  “Let him go,” he said.

  She opened her mouth as if to protest, then changed her mind and merely nodded. “I’d hoped to gather the family for an announcement,” she said with a sigh, “but I suppose that can wait. In the meantime, why don’t you join me for tea?”

  Benedict glanced at the clock in the hall. “Isn’t it a bit late for tea?”

  “Skip the tea then,” she said with a shrug. “I was merely looking for an excuse to speak with you.”

  Benedict managed a weak smile. He wasn’t in the mood to converse with his mother. To be frank, he wasn’t in the mood to converse with any person, a fact to which anyone with whom he’d recently crossed paths would surely attest.

  “It’s nothing serious,” Violet said. “Heavens, you look as if you’re ready to go to the gallows.”

  It probably would have been rude to point out that that was exactly how he felt, so instead he just leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.

  “Well, that’s a nice surprise,” she said, beaming up at him. “Now come with me,” she added, motioning toward the downstairs sitting room. “I have someone I want to tell you about.”

  “Mother!”

  “Just hear me out. She’s a lovely girl . . .”

  The gallows indeed.

  Chapter 19

  Miss Posy Reiling (younger step-daughter to the late Earl of Penwood) isn’t a frequent subject of this column (nor, This Author is sad to say, a frequent subject of attention at social functions) but one could not help but notice that she was acting very strangely at her mother�
��s musicale on Tuesday eve. She insisted upon sitting by the window, and she spent most of the performance staring at the streetscape, as if looking for something . . . or perhaps someone?

  LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 11 JUNE 1817

  Forty-five minutes later, Benedict was slouching in his chair, his eyes glazed. Every now and then he had to stop and make sure his mouth wasn’t hanging open.

  His mother’s conversation was that boring.

  The young lady she had wanted to discuss with him had actually turned out to be seven young ladies, each of which she assured him was better than the last.

  Benedict thought he might go mad. Right there in his mother’s sitting room he was going to go stark, raving mad. He’d suddenly pop out of his chair, fall to the floor in a frenzy, his arms and legs waving, mouth frothing—

  “Benedict, are you even listening to me?”

  He looked up and blinked. Damn. Now he would have to focus on his mother’s list of possible brides. The prospect of losing his sanity had been infinitely more appealing.

  “I was trying to tell you about Mary Edgeware,” Violet said, looking more amused than frustrated.

  Benedict was instantly suspicious. When it came to her children dragging their feet to the altar, his mother was never amused. “Mary who?”

  “Edge—Oh, never mind. I can see that I cannot compete with whatever is plaguing you just now.”

  “Mother,” Benedict said abruptly.

  She cocked her head slightly to the side, her eyes intrigued and perhaps a bit surprised. “Yes?”

  “When you met Father—”

  “It happened in an instant,” she said softly, somehow knowing what he’d meant to ask.

  “So you knew that he was the one?”

  She smiled, and her eyes took on a faraway, misty look. “Oh, I wouldn’t have admitted it,” she said. “At least not right away. I fancied myself a practical sort. I’d always scoffed at the notion of love at first sight.” She paused for a moment, and Benedict knew she was no longer in the room with him, but at some long-ago ball, meeting his father for the first time. Finally, just when he thought she’d completely forgotten the conversation, she looked back up and said, “But I knew.”

  “From the first moment you saw him?”

  “Well, from the first time we spoke, at least.” She took his offered handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes, smiling sheepishly, as if embarrassed by her tears.

  Benedict felt a lump forming in his throat, and he looked away, not wanting her to see the moisture forming in his own eyes. Would anyone cry for him more than a decade after he died? It was a humbling thing to be in the presence of true love, and Benedict suddenly felt so damned jealous—of his own parents.

  They’d found love and had the good sense to recognize and cherish it. Few people were so fortunate.

  “There was something about his voice that was so soothing, so warm,” Violet continued. “When he spoke, you felt like you were the only person in the room.”

  “I remember,” Benedict said with a warm, nostalgic smile. “It was quite a feat, to be able to do that with eight children.”

  His mother swallowed convulsively, then said, her voice once again brisk, “Yes, well, he never knew Hyacinth, so I suppose it was only seven.”

  “Still . . .”

  She nodded. “Still.”

  Benedict reached out and patted her on the hand. He didn’t know why; he hadn’t planned to. But somehow it seemed the right thing to do.

  “Yes, well,” she said, giving his hand a little squeeze before returning hers to her lap. “Was there any particular reason you asked about your father?”

  “No,” he lied. “At least not . . . Well . . .”

  She waited patiently, with that mildly expectant expression that made it impossible to keep one’s feelings to oneself.

  “What happens,” he asked, as surprised by the words tumbling forth as she undoubtedly was, “when one falls in love with someone unsuitable?”

  “Someone unsuitable,” she repeated.

  Benedict nodded painfully, immediately regretting his words. He should never have said anything to his mother, and yet . . .

  He sighed. His mother had always been a remarkably good listener. And truly, for all her annoying matchmaking ways, she was more qualified to give advice on matters of the heart than anyone he knew.

  When she spoke, she appeared to be choosing her words carefully. “What do you mean by unsuitable?”

  “Someone . . .” He stopped, paused. “Someone someone like me probably shouldn’t marry.”

  “Someone perhaps who is not of our social class?”

  He glanced at a painting on the wall. “Someone like that.”

  “I see. Well . . .” Violet’s brow scrunched a bit, then she said, “I suppose it would depend on how far out of our social class this person is.”

  “Far.”

  “A little bit far or quite a lot far?”

  Benedict was convinced that no man of his age and reputation had ever had such a conversation with his mother, but he nonetheless answered, “Quite a lot.”

  “I see. Well, I would have to say . . .” She chewed on her lower lip for a moment before continuing. “I would have to say,” she said, slightly more forcefully (although not, if one was judging in absolute terms, forceful at all).

  “I would have to say,” she said for a third time, “that I love you very much and will support you in all things.” She cleared her throat. “If indeed we are talking about you.”

  It seemed useless to deny it, so Benedict just nodded.

  “But,” Violet added, “I would caution you to consider what you are doing. Love is, of course, the most important element in any union, but outside influences can put a strain on a marriage. And if you marry someone of, say”—she cleared her throat—“the servant class, then you will find yourself the subject of a great deal of gossip and no small amount of ostracism. And that will be difficult for one such as you to bear.”

  “One such as me?” he asked, bristling at her choice of words.

  “You must know I mean no insult. But you and your brothers do lead charmed lives. You’re handsome, intelligent, personable. Everyone likes you. I cannot tell you how happy that makes me.” She smiled, but it was a wistful, slightly sad smile. “It is not easy to be a wallflower.”

  And suddenly Benedict understood why his mother was always forcing him to dance with the girls like Penelope Featherington. The ones who stood at the fringes of the ballroom, the ones who always pretended they didn’t actually want to dance.

  She had been a wallflower herself.

  It was difficult to imagine. His mother was hugely popular now, with an easy smile and piles of friends. And if Benedict had heard the story correctly, his father had been considered the catch of the season.

  “Only you will be able to make this decision,” Violet continued, bringing Benedict’s thoughts back to the here and now, “and I’m afraid it won’t be an easy one.”

  He stared out the window, his silence his agreement.

  “But,” she added, “should you decide to join your life with someone not of our class, I will of course support you in every possible manner.”

  Benedict looked up sharply. There were few women of the ton who would say the same to their sons.

  “You are my son,” she said simply. “I would give my life for you.”

  He opened his mouth to speak but was surprised to find that he couldn’t make a sound.

  “I certainly wouldn’t banish you for marrying someone unsuitable.”

  “Thank you,” he said. It was all he could manage to say.

  Violet sighed, loudly enough to regain his full attention. She looked tired, wistful. “I wish your father were here,” she said.

  “You don’t say that very often,” he said quietly.

  “I always wish your father were here.” She closed her eyes for a brief moment. “Always.”

  And then somehow it becam
e clear. As he watched his mother’s face, finally realizing—no, finally understanding—the depth of his parents’ love for one another, it all became clear.

  Love. He loved Sophie. That was all that should have mattered.

  He’d thought he’d loved the woman from the masquerade. He’d thought he’d wanted to marry her. But he understood now that that had been nothing but a dream, a fleeting fantasy of a woman he barely knew.

  But Sophie was . . .

  Sophie was Sophie. And that was everything he needed.

  Sophie wasn’t a great believer in destiny or fate, but after one hour with Nicholas, Elizabeth, John, and Alice Wentworth, young cousins to the Bridgerton clan, she was beginning to think that maybe there was a reason she had never managed to obtain a position as a governess.

  She was exhausted.

  No, no, she thought, with more than a touch of desperation. Exhaustion didn’t really provide an adequate description for the current state of her existence. Exhaustion didn’t quite capture the slight edge of insanity the foursome had brought to her mind.

  “No, no, no, that’s my doll,” Elizabeth said to Alice.

  “It’s mine,” Alice returned.

  “It is not!”

  “Is too!”

  “I’ll settle this,” ten-year-old Nicholas said, swaggering over with his hands on his hips.

  Sophie groaned. She had a feeling that it was not a terribly good idea to allow the dispute to be settled by a ten-year-old boy who happened to think he was a pirate.

  “Neither of you will want the doll,” he said, with a devious gleam in his eye, “if I simply lop off its—”

  Sophie leapt to intervene. “You will not lop off its head, Nicholas Wentworth.”

  “But then they’ll stop—”

  “No,” Sophie said forcefully.

  He looked at her, obviously assessing her commitment to that particular course of action, then grumbled and walked away.

  “I think we need a new game,” Hyacinth whispered to Sophie.

  “I know we need a new game,” Sophie muttered.

  “Let go of my soldier!” John screeched. “Let go let go let go!”