Chapter Text
Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers
There are few things in London more reliable than rain, traffic, and the Bridgertons making themselves impossible to ignore.
This author has often wondered whether the family of Viscount Bridgerton knows how loudly it lives. Perhaps they do. Perhaps they simply do not care. After all, when one possesses a handsome house in Grosvenor Square, a respected name, a devoted public following, and eight children with the subtlety of a marching band, quiet living may be rather out of the question.
Still, one must admire them. They argue beautifully, love loudly, and dine as though feeding half the county.
And if rumours are to be believed, this season may finally see Miss Daphne Bridgerton step out from beneath her parents’ elegant roof and into the world’s unforgiving gaze.
This author wishes her luck.
She shall need it.
By half past eleven on Sunday morning, Bridgerton House was already making enough noise to be heard from the pavement.
It was not, Violet Bridgerton often insisted, noise. It was life. It was family. It was warmth. It was the sound of eight children, two parents, a handful of staff who had long ago stopped pretending to be surprised by anything, and a house that had never once managed to stay calm for more than twelve consecutive minutes.
Edmund Bridgerton called it chaos.
He said so from the foot of the stairs, one hand tucked into the pocket of his navy trousers, the other holding the Sunday papers he had been trying to read since breakfast.
“Violet,” he called, lifting his voice over a crash from somewhere above him, “I believe one of our sons has broken something expensive.”
“One of them?” Violet replied from the drawing room. “That narrows it down beautifully.”
Edmund smiled despite himself.
He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, warm-eyed, and still handsome in the way that made women of a certain age pause in the street and whisper that Violet Bridgerton had chosen very well indeed. His hair had silvered at the temples in recent years, though none of his children would have dared say it aged him. It only made him look more like what he was: Viscount Bridgerton, former MP, occasional public speaker, patron of too many charities, and father of eight people who had been placed on this earth to test the limits of his patience.
A football came bouncing down the stairs.
Edmund caught it against his chest without looking.
“Gregory!”
There was a brief, guilty silence.
Then, from somewhere above, came Gregory’s voice. “It wasn’t me!”
Edmund looked at the football in his hands. It was blue and scuffed, with Gregory’s name written on it in black marker.
“Remarkable,” Edmund said. “Your football has learned to play by itself.”
A door opened on the second floor. Gregory Bridgerton appeared on the landing, all elbows, dark hair, and panic. At thirteen, he had not yet grown into his limbs, but he moved with the restless confidence of a boy who had already decided football would be his life. Chelsea had invited him to a youth trial later in the summer, and he had been unbearable since the email arrived.
“It slipped,” Gregory said.
“From your foot?”
Gregory thought about lying, then seemed to decide that lying to Edmund Bridgerton before Sunday lunch was not a battle he could win.
“Yes.”
“In the house?”
“It was one touch.”
“It came down two flights of stairs.”
“It was a strong touch.”
Edmund pointed towards the drawing room. “No footballs indoors.”
“Dad—”
“Not a negotiation.”
Gregory groaned, taking the ball when Edmund threw it back to him. “Anthony used to kick things in the house.”
Anthony Bridgerton appeared at the top of the stairs at precisely the wrong moment, phone pressed to his ear, wearing a charcoal shirt and the expression of a man who had already billed three hours before lunch.
“I never kicked things in the house,” Anthony said.
Edmund looked at him.
Anthony paused.
“I rarely kicked things in the house.”
“You broke your mother’s Wedgwood vase with a cricket bat,” Edmund said.
“I was eleven.”
“You blamed Benedict.”
Benedict Bridgerton’s voice floated from the upstairs hallway. “And I have carried that trauma for fifteen years.”
Anthony ignored him and continued down the stairs, still on his phone. “No, I’m listening,” he said into it. “Yes, I saw the email. No, I am not coming into chambers today. It is Sunday. My mother has declared lunch mandatory, and despite my many legal qualifications, I have yet to find a loophole.”
Edmund watched his eldest son reach the hall and gave him the look. It was not an angry look. Edmund rarely needed anger. The look was far worse. It was steady and patient, carrying the entire weight of fatherly disappointment.
Anthony covered the phone. “Five minutes.”
“Three.”
“Dad.”
“Two, if you keep speaking.”
Anthony muttered something that sounded unflattering and disappeared towards the library.
Violet swept into the hall at that moment with a vase of flowers in her arms and a determined cheer on her face. She had always been beautiful, but motherhood had given her a kind of softness that made people underestimate her. It was their mistake. Violet Bridgerton could organise a charity ball, soothe a crying child, terrify a headmistress, and silence Anthony with a single raised eyebrow.
“Where is Hyacinth?” she asked.
Edmund glanced towards the ceiling, where a high, dramatic voice had begun reciting something with alarming intensity.
“Performing, I think.”
“She is supposed to be setting the table.”
“Perhaps the table is her audience.”
Violet gave him a look. “Do not encourage her.”
“I gave up discouraging Hyacinth shortly after she learned to speak.”
A thunder of footsteps followed, and Hyacinth Bridgerton appeared on the stairs wearing a pale pink cardigan, a white ribbon in her dark hair, and an expression of injured artistic dignity.
“I was rehearsing,” she announced.
“You were shouting,” Edmund said.
“I was projecting.”
“You were projecting directly over my newspaper.”
Hyacinth reached the bottom stair and kissed Edmund’s cheek with the careless affection of a child who knew she was adored. “That is because newspapers are dull, Papa.”
“Not all newspapers,” came Eloise’s voice from the drawing room. “Some of them are instruments of political resistance.”
Colin Bridgerton appeared behind Hyacinth carrying a plate with half a croissant on it. “Some of them also have very good restaurant reviews.”
“Colin,” Violet said. “Why are you eating before lunch?”
“I’m not eating,” Colin said. “I’m assessing texture.”
“You are eating.”
“I am professionally assessing texture.”
“You write about food on the internet,” Anthony called from the library doorway, phone now absent. “You are not a surgeon.”
Colin looked wounded. “There are people in this family who appreciate my work.”
“No, there are people in this family who like free meals,” Eloise replied, strolling in behind him with a notebook under her arm and ink on her fingers.
Eloise Bridgerton was seventeen, opinionated, and already convinced the world was badly arranged. She was studying writing and politics, volunteering at a local paper whenever she could charm or argue her way into the office, and had spent most of the week declaring that society events were archaic performances designed to sell daughters like livestock.
Violet had listened politely and then reminded her she still had to attend Queen Charlotte’s garden party on Friday.
Eloise had not yet forgiven her.
“I do appreciate Colin’s work,” Francesca said quietly from the doorway of the music room.
Everyone turned.
Francesca rarely raised her voice, which meant people sometimes forgot she was there until she said something precisely when it mattered. At sixteen, she had a calmness none of the other Bridgertons possessed. She was slender, graceful, and often seemed half inside the room and half somewhere else entirely, as if listening to music no one else could hear.
She wore soft blue today, her hair pinned back, a pair of discreet earphones looped around her neck. Sunday lunch overwhelmed her when everyone arrived at once. Violet had learned years ago not to fuss over it in front of people. Edmund had learned to keep a quieter chair for her near him at the table.
“You do?” Colin said, brightening.
Francesca nodded. “I went to the bakery you wrote about in Soho.”
“And?”
“The almond croissant was good.”
Colin pointed at her. “That is why Francesca is my favourite.”
“I thought I was your favourite,” Hyacinth said, outraged.
“You are my favourite when you are not screaming Shakespeare at the chandelier.”
“It wasn’t Shakespeare. It was Audrey Hepburn.”
“That explains the chandelier.”
Hyacinth gasped. “Papa, Colin is bullying me.”
Edmund folded his paper beneath one arm. “Colin, stop bullying Audrey Hepburn.”
Colin opened his mouth, considered the argument, and wisely chose another bite of croissant.
Violet looked around the hall, counting silently. “Where is Daphne?”
“Upstairs,” Eloise said. “Trying on the blue dress.”
Violet’s face brightened at once. “Oh, good.”
Eloise rolled her eyes. “It’s just a dress.”
“It is not just a dress,” said Violet. “It is her first Queen Charlotte event since the apprenticeship announcement, and she is representing Madame Delacroix’s studio and her own designs. It matters.”
“It matters because people have decided it matters,” Eloise said.
“That is generally how society works,” Edmund replied.
Eloise pointed her notebook at him. “You were an MP. You should object to this.”
“I objected to many things as an MP. I object to fewer things before lunch.”
“Coward.”
“Hungry coward,” Edmund corrected.
Violet touched Eloise’s arm as she passed. “Darling, you may dismantle society after the roast potatoes.”
“That is exactly how oppressive systems continue.”
“Then have carrots as well.”
Eloise made a sound of despair and fell dramatically into the nearest chair.
Daphne Bridgerton stood in her bedroom and tried not to look terrified.
The dress was beautiful.
She knew it was beautiful because she had designed half of it herself, and because Madame Delacroix had stood behind her in the studio three days earlier, pinned the silk at her waist, and murmured in her warm French accent that Miss Bridgerton had an eye sharper than most women twice her age.
It was soft blue, elegant without being childish, modern without making Violet faint. The bodice was simple, the skirt floated when she moved, and the sleeves were delicate enough to make her feel like something painted rather than stitched together in a workroom above a Mayfair boutique.
She hated that she cared so much.
She hated that her stomach twisted when she thought of Queen Charlotte looking at her.
She hated that everyone had decided this year was the year Daphne Bridgerton became interesting.
Not that she had been uninteresting before. She was a Bridgerton. There were newspapers that cared if one of them bought coffee in the wrong sunglasses. But this was different. This was not about being part of the famous family with the handsome father, beloved mother, brilliant eldest son, artistic second son, travelling food blogger, difficult daughter, quiet musician, football-mad boy, and tiny theatrical terror.
This was Daphne, alone.
Daphne, the fashion designer.
Daphne, the debutante without being called a debutante because Eloise would never stop mocking the word.
Daphne, the girl Queen Charlotte had apparently called “promising” after seeing one of her sketches.
Promising was a dangerous word.
It meant people expected something.
A knock came at the door.
“Come in,” Daphne said.
Violet entered first, and her expression changed in an instant.
“Oh,” she said softly. “Daphne.”
Daphne looked down at herself. “Is it too much?”
“No.” Violet came closer, eyes bright. “No, darling. It is perfect.”
Edmund appeared behind her in the doorway and stopped.
Daphne stiffened. “Papa?”
He did not speak for a moment. That frightened her more than criticism would have done. Edmund always knew what to say. He had something for everything: Parliament, heartbreak, broken vases, footballs on staircases, nightmares, first periods, failed exams, Anthony’s temper, Eloise’s speeches, Hyacinth’s performances.
But now he only looked at her.
Then his face softened.
“You look like your mother,” he said.
Violet turned her head quickly, blinking.
Daphne swallowed. “Is that good?”
Edmund stepped into the room. “It is the highest compliment I know.”
“Oh,” Daphne whispered.
He held out his hand, and she took it. He turned her gently, not as if he were inspecting a dress, but as if he were looking at his daughter and realising she had grown while he had been foolish enough to blink.
“You are allowed to be nervous,” he said.
“I’m not nervous.”
“You have been pulling at that sleeve for thirty seconds.”
Daphne dropped it immediately.
Violet smiled. “Your father notices everything when he is pretending not to.”
“It is one of my few useful skills,” Edmund said.
Daphne looked towards the mirror. “What if I make a fool of myself?”
“Then you will have joined a very old family tradition,” Edmund replied.
She laughed despite herself.
“I am serious,” he said. “Every person downstairs has made a fool of themselves in public at least once. Anthony shouted at a photographer outside court. Benedict fell asleep during a lecture at the Royal Academy and woke himself snoring. Colin posted a restaurant review and forgot to remove the sentence, ‘This bit is boring, fix later.’ Eloise once called a minister morally constipated during a student debate.”
“He was,” Violet said.
“And Gregory tried to nutmeg Prince Friedrich at a charity match.”
“He moved too slowly,” Daphne said.
“Exactly. You come from brave fools. Do not let the world convince you that perfection is required.”
Daphne looked at him through the mirror. “You make it sound easy.”
“It is not easy,” Edmund said. “But neither is hiding. And Bridgertons are very poor at hiding.”
Violet’s face flickered slightly.
Daphne caught it. “Mama?”
“Nothing,” Violet said too quickly.
Edmund noticed too. “Violet.”
She sighed. “Lady Whistledown mentioned Daphne this morning.”
Daphne went cold. “What did she say?”
“Nothing unkind,” Violet said.
“That woman never needs to be unkind,” Daphne replied. “She only needs to be accurate.”
Edmund’s mouth twitched. “That is unfortunately true.”
“Papa!”
“I am not defending her,” Edmund said. “I am acknowledging the danger of a sharp sentence.”
Daphne sat on the edge of the bed, careful of the skirt. “Everyone reads her.”
“Not everyone,” Violet said.
Edmund raised his brows.
Violet hesitated. “Most people.”
“Anthony pretends not to,” Daphne said. “Then quotes her accidentally.”
“Anthony pretends not to care about many things,” Edmund said. “It rarely works.”
Daphne looked down at her hands. “She said I would need luck.”
Violet sat beside her. “Then let her write it. You have more than luck.”
“You have talent,” Edmund said.
“And family,” Violet added.
“And a mother who will spend all Friday staring down anyone who looks at you sideways.”
“And a father who has had years of practice frightening men in committee rooms,” Edmund said.
Daphne smiled. “That is comforting.”
“As it should be.”
Another crash sounded from downstairs, followed by Hyacinth yelling, “It was already loose!”
Violet closed her eyes.
Edmund kissed Daphne’s forehead. “Come down when you are ready.”
“And if I am not ready?”
“Then come down anyway,” he said gently. “We will be there.”
Penelope Featherington arrived at Bridgerton House with a notebook in her bag and secrets in her chest.
She did not think of them as secrets most days. Secrets sounded dramatic. Secrets belonged to spies, politicians, unfaithful husbands, and women with diamonds hidden in velvet boxes. Penelope had observations. Sentences. Little scraps of truth that gathered at the edge of her mind until they demanded somewhere to go.
Unfortunately, somewhere had become London’s most talked-about anonymous society column.
She stood on the front step beside her mother and sisters while Portia Featherington adjusted Felicity’s collar for the third time.
“Stand straight,” Portia whispered.
“I am standing straight,” Felicity said.
“Straighter.”
Felicity tried to lengthen her neck and nearly tipped backwards.
Penelope caught her elbow. “Careful.”
“Thank you,” Felicity whispered.
Penelope smiled at her youngest sister. Felicity was the best of them. Sweet without being foolish, pretty without being vain, and already devoted to Hyacinth Bridgerton with the kind of fierce loyalty usually reserved for soldiers and elderly dogs.
Prudence was scrolling through her phone, bored. Philippa was checking her lipstick in the reflection of the brass door knocker. Archibald Featherington stood behind them in a green waistcoat that had once been fashionable and now looked as though it was trying to remember better days.
Portia lifted her chin. “Girls, remember, we are guests of the Bridgertons.”
“We come every month,” Prudence said.
“And every month you behave as if raised in a barn.”
“We have never had a barn.”
“Not for lack of your father trying to gamble enough money to buy one,” Portia muttered.
Archibald coughed. “I heard that.”
“Good.”
Penelope looked down before anyone saw her smile.
The door opened, and Hyacinth appeared before the housekeeper could stop her.
“Felicity!”
“Hyacinth!”
The two girls collided in the doorway in a flurry of ribbons, giggles, and elbows.
Portia’s face tightened, though not with displeasure. With calculation.
Penelope knew that expression. It was the look her mother wore whenever she mentally arranged marriages at least ten years too early.
“Mrs Featherington,” Hyacinth said grandly, remembering herself. “Welcome to Bridgerton House.”
Portia blinked. “Thank you, Hyacinth.”
“I am practising being elegant.”
“You are doing very well.”
“I know.”
Felicity giggled.
“Hyacinth,” came Edmund Bridgerton’s voice from inside. “Did you answer the door?”
Hyacinth turned. “Yes, Papa.”
“Are you the butler?”
“No.”
“Then why are you doing Mr Burrows’s job?”
“Because I am quicker.”
Edmund appeared behind her and gave the Featheringtons a warm smile. “Portia. Archibald. Girls. Come in before Hyacinth reorganises the staff.”
Penelope stepped inside and felt, as she always did, the strange ache of entering a house that was not hers but felt more like home than her own.
Bridgerton House was elegant without being cold. Flowers spilt from vases. Family photographs covered side tables. Someone had left sheet music on a chair, a football boot under a console table, a silk ribbon over the banister, and what appeared to be one of Colin’s notebooks beside a plate of crumbs.
It was beautiful because it was lived in.
The Featherington house was full of things Portia wanted people to admire.
The Bridgerton house was full of people who had forgotten to put things away.
“Pen!”
Eloise came down the hall at speed and caught Penelope’s hands.
Penelope’s chest loosened. “Hello.”
“You are late.”
“My mother changed her earrings three times.”
“Mine rearranged flowers for twenty minutes because Queen Charlotte might send someone round to inspect them.”
“Would she?”
“No, but try telling Mama that.”
Penelope laughed.
Eloise linked arms with her and pulled her towards the drawing room. “Come on. Colin is being insufferable about pastry, Anthony is in a mood, Benedict has paint on his sleeve, and Daphne looks annoyingly beautiful, which means everyone will be unbearable about it.”
Penelope heard Colin’s name and hated herself for the way her heart lifted.
He was in the drawing room when they entered, leaning against the mantelpiece with a plate in one hand, talking animatedly to Benedict about some tiny restaurant in Lisbon that apparently served the best custard tart in the world. Colin Bridgerton always seemed to carry sunlight with him, even indoors. His hair was slightly too long, his smile slightly too easy, and his charm so effortless that Penelope suspected he had no idea what it did to people.
What it did to her.
“Pen!” he said, spotting her at once. “You came.”
“I was invited.”
“Yes, but Eloise was invited too, and she keeps threatening not to come to things on principle.”
“I am still here on principle,” Eloise said.
“That makes no sense.”
“It does to me.”
Colin smiled and offered Penelope the plate. “Croissant?”
Penelope glanced at it. “There is only a corner left.”
“It’s the best corner.”
“You have eaten the rest.”
“I had to check the middle was safe.”
Penelope took it, because refusing Colin Bridgerton was not one of her talents.
“Thank you,” she said.
He grinned. “Always.”
It was only one word.
It was nothing.
Penelope tucked it away anyway.
Across the room, Daphne entered with Violet and Edmund behind her, and conversation softened.
Penelope saw it happen. The room did not fall silent, exactly. The Bridgertons did not keep silent unless someone was in hospital or Anthony was about to explode. But the noise changed. It warmed. Lifted. Gathered around Daphne like sunlight.
She looked beautiful. Not in the artificial, polished way Cressida Cowper looked beautiful, though Cressida worked very hard at it. Daphne looked like herself, only more so. Soft blue dress, bright eyes, nervous smile, shoulders trying not to hunch beneath the attention.
Colin whistled. “Daph, you look stunning.”
Daphne flushed. “Thank you.”
Anthony emerged from the library and stopped. His face softened in that quick, private way Penelope sometimes saw in him when he forgot to be difficult.
“You look grown up,” he said.
Daphne frowned. “That sounds terrible.”
“It was meant well.”
“From Anthony, that is practically poetry,” Benedict said.
Anthony gave him a look. Benedict smiled serenely and lifted his glass.
Edmund crossed to Daphne and rested a hand briefly between her shoulders. “No one make her nervous.”
Naturally, every Bridgerton began speaking at once.
“You’ll be brilliant,” Colin said.
“Don’t trip,” Gregory added.
“Gregory!” Violet snapped.
“What? I’m helping.”
“You are not helping,” Francesca said.
Hyacinth clasped her hands. “You look like a princess.”
Eloise groaned. “Do not say princess. She will be surrounded by enough monarchy next week.”
“Queen Charlotte likes princesses,” Hyacinth said.
“Queen Charlotte likes obedience, diamonds, and terrifying people.”
“She likes me,” Hyacinth said.
“She said you had spirit,” Violet corrected.
“That means she likes me.”
“That means she is watching you,” Edmund said.
Hyacinth considered this, then smiled. “Good.”
Penelope watched them all and felt the familiar tug in her fingers.
The sentence formed before she could stop it.
The Bridgertons do not enter society one by one. They arrive as weather.
She looked away quickly, ashamed and thrilled by the thought.
Eloise nudged her. “What are you thinking?”
“Nothing.”
“You looked as if you were thinking something.”
“I often think things.”
“Suspicious.”
Penelope smiled, but her pulse had quickened.
Secrets were not dramatic, she reminded herself.
Not until someone discovered them.
Simon Basset had not intended to return to London during the season.
He had told himself this repeatedly on the flight from New York, again in the car from Heathrow, and once more when his driver turned into Mayfair and the familiar streets began closing around him like a memory.
London in June was all polished windows, expensive perfume, and people pretending not to stare.
Simon had learned young that people always stared.
As a boy, they stared because he was the Duke of Hastings’ son and because his father made certain everyone knew what was expected of him. As a young man, they stared because he was wealthy, titled, handsome, and rumoured to be either rude, damaged, arrogant, or all three depending on which dinner party one had attended. As an adult, they stared because he had become very good at giving them nothing.
He preferred distance.
He preferred hotels to family homes, business meetings to society events, countries where no one knew his father’s name.
Unfortunately, Lady Danbury did not care what Simon preferred.
His phone buzzed again as the car slowed near Grosvenor Square.
Lady Danbury: You are late.
Simon sighed.
Simon: I am not late. I never agreed to come.
Her reply appeared almost instantly.
Lady Danbury: And yet here you are. Progress.
He looked out of the window and saw Bridgerton House.
The sight gave him a feeling he did not want to name.
Edmund Bridgerton had been kind to him when kindness was not useful. That was the difference. Plenty of people were polite to Simon. Plenty were flattering. Plenty wanted proximity to a dukedom, to the money, to the invitations, to the old estate in Kent, to the name Hastings still carried despite everything Simon’s father had done to poison it.
Edmund had never wanted anything from him.
He had simply seen a boy at Eton who stuttered under pressure and went silent when mocked, and he had treated him as if silence was not stupidity. Later, when Simon’s father died, and the papers wrote their hungry little stories about inheritance and estrangement, Edmund had sent one message.
You owe him nothing. You are welcome here when you are ready.
Simon had not been ready for years.
Apparently, Lady Danbury had decided he was ready now.
The car stopped.
Simon remained seated for a moment.
His driver glanced back. “Your Grace?”
Simon hated the title. He used it because refusing it gave people another thing to discuss.
“Thank you,” he said, stepping out.
The front door opened before he reached it.
Edmund Bridgerton stood there, smiling as though Simon had only been gone a week instead of years.
“Simon.”
There it was. No title. No performance. No careful, brittle politeness.
Simon’s throat tightened.
“Edmund.”
Edmund came down the steps and embraced him.
Simon froze for half a second, then returned it.
“You took your time,” Edmund said quietly.
Simon stepped back. “I was busy.”
“Of course. We all know business is conducted exclusively in countries that are not England.”
Simon’s mouth twitched. “Lady Danbury sent me.”
“I assumed. You have the expression of a man being marched to his execution.”
“I have been invited to Sunday lunch with eight Bridgertons.”
“Same thing, really.”
Despite himself, Simon laughed.
Edmund clapped him on the shoulder. “Come in.”
“I do not wish to intrude.”
“You are already on the doorstep. The time for that concern has passed.”
Inside, the noise hit Simon first.
Laughter, footsteps, cutlery, a girl’s voice insisting that ballet required emotional suffering, someone else arguing that football required more, and Anthony Bridgerton saying, “For the last time, Gregory, you cannot compare Chelsea’s youth academy to the Royal Ballet.”
Simon stopped in the hall.
Edmund noticed. Of course he did.
“Too much?” he asked quietly.
“No.”
It was a lie, but a manageable one.
Edmund nodded as though he understood the distinction. “You can leave whenever you like.”
“Lady Danbury said I must stay two hours.”
“Agatha says many things. I have survived by ignoring half of them and pretending not to hear the rest.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“It is. Come meet the circus.”
Violet saw Simon first.
Her face lit up with genuine pleasure, and Simon braced himself for fussing. Violet Bridgerton’s fussing was legendary. But she only came forward and took his hands.
“Simon,” she said warmly. “How lovely to see you.”
“Lady Bridgerton.”
“Violet, please. You are not a stranger.”
He inclined his head. “Violet.”
“Better. Come in. Lunch is nearly ready, and Colin has eaten half the bread, so do not delay.”
“I heard that,” Colin called.
“You were meant to,” Violet replied.
Simon stepped into the drawing room and found himself observed by far too many Bridgertons at once.
Anthony stood near the window, assessing him with the sharp look of a lawyer and the guarded affection of someone who remembered him from boyhood. Benedict lounged in an armchair, paint still on his sleeve, smiling as if Simon’s discomfort amused him. Colin looked curious and friendly. Eloise looked as if she might interview him for a political essay. Francesca gave a small, polite nod before returning her gaze to the garden. Gregory stared openly. Hyacinth looked delighted.
And Daphne—
Simon’s thoughts stopped.
Daphne Bridgerton stood beside the mantelpiece in a soft blue dress, sunlight touching her hair, one hand resting lightly against the back of a chair. She was younger than he had expected and not at all what he remembered. The last time he had seen her properly, she had been a child running through Aubrey Hall with scraped knees and a ribbon coming loose.
She was not a child now.
Her eyes met his, and something quick and startled passed over her face, as though she had been caught thinking something she had not meant to think.
Edmund’s voice broke the moment.
“Everyone, Simon Basset. Duke of Hastings. Old family friend. Be civil or answer to your mother.”
Violet smiled sweetly. “And your father.”
“More your mother,” Edmund added. “She is worse.”
“I am not worse,” Violet said.
Every Bridgerton child looked away.
Violet narrowed her eyes. “None of you needed to agree so quickly.”
Hyacinth stepped forward. “Are you really a duke?”
Simon looked down at her. “So I am told.”
“Do you have a castle?”
“Hyacinth,” Anthony said.
“What? It is a fair question.”
Simon considered her. “No castle.”
Hyacinth looked disappointed.
“A house in London,” he said. “And an estate in Kent.”
She brightened. “Does it have horses?”
“Yes.”
Daphne looked up at that.
Simon noticed.
Edmund noticed Simon noticing.
That was unfortunate.
“We have horses at Aubrey Hall,” Gregory said. “Daphne is the best rider.”
“I am not the best,” Daphne said quickly.
“Yes, you are,” Colin said. “Anthony just claims he is because he cannot bear losing at anything that involves boots.”
“I do not claim,” Anthony said. “I am objectively competent.”
Kate Sharma, Simon thought suddenly, though he had not yet met the woman, would probably make sport of that sentence if she ever heard it. He had seen her name in a legal article Anthony had grudgingly praised once and then pretended not to admire.
“You should come riding with us,” Hyacinth told Simon.
Simon lifted his brows. “Should I?”
“Yes. Daphne can show you.”
Daphne’s cheeks coloured. “Hyacinth.”
“What? She can.”
“I am sure His Grace has better things to do.”
“Simon,” he said.
Daphne blinked. “Sorry?”
“My name is Simon.”
“Oh.” Her smile was small but real. “Simon.”
It sounded different when she said it.
Edmund cleared his throat in a way that was not remotely subtle.
Violet suddenly became very interested in the flowers.
Anthony looked between Simon and Daphne and frowned.
Colin, who had never met a silence he did not want to fill, said, “Excellent. Now that we have established names and horses, can we eat?”
Lunch at Bridgerton House was not a meal so much as an athletic event.
Simon found himself seated between Edmund and Daphne, which he suspected was not an accident. Violet Bridgerton had the innocent expression of a woman who had arranged the entire table with military precision and would deny it under oath.
Food passed in every direction. Conversations overlapped. Gregory knocked over a water glass. Hyacinth asked Simon if dukes had to bow to Queen Charlotte or if Queen Charlotte bowed to dukes, which made Eloise choke on a potato.
“Queen Charlotte bows to no one,” Edmund said.
“As is her right,” Violet added.
“As is no one’s right,” Eloise said. “Monarchy is inherited inequality wearing diamonds.”
“You still want to attend the garden party,” Colin said.
“I want to observe it.”
“You bought shoes.”
“For observation.”
Penelope, seated beside Eloise, smiled into her glass.
Simon noticed her because she noticed everything else. She was quiet, but not absent. Her eyes moved from face to face, catching expressions, storing them. She laughed softly at Colin, listened carefully to Eloise, and shrank slightly whenever her mother spoke too loudly from the far end of the table.
Portia Featherington was telling Violet that Felicity had “always been admired by the right sort of people,” while Felicity and Hyacinth whispered together with the intense seriousness of girls planning either a performance or a crime.
Archibald Featherington praised the wine twice, and Edmund pretended not to notice as Violet quietly signalled that no one should refill his glass.
It was all very domestic.
Very loud.
Very dangerous.
Simon had spent years building a life around exits. He knew how to leave a room before anyone expected tenderness from him. He knew how to end conversations. He knew how to keep women at a distance, men at arm’s length, and family as a word other people used.
The Bridgertons made distance difficult.
Daphne turned to him as Colin began describing a custard tart with the emotion most men reserved for first love.
“Are you staying in London long?” she asked.
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
She blinked.
Simon forced himself to soften it. “I had not planned to.”
“But Lady Danbury has other ideas?”
He looked at her, surprised.
Daphne smiled. “She usually does.”
“You know her well?”
“Everyone knows Lady Danbury. Some of us are simply more frightened than others.”
“Are you frightened?”
“Of Lady Danbury?” Daphne looked across the table, where the elderly woman had just arrived late, struck Gregory lightly with her cane for not standing quickly enough, kissed Violet’s cheek, and told Edmund he looked tired but still presentable.
Daphne turned back to Simon. “Reasonably.”
Simon laughed under his breath.
Daphne’s smile widened, pleased by it.
It was inconvenient, that smile.
Across the table, Anthony watched them with narrowing eyes.
Edmund leaned towards Simon and said quietly, “Do not mind Anthony. He was born suspicious and has only refined the skill.”
“I heard that,” Anthony said.
“You were meant to,” Edmund replied.
Lady Danbury took her seat as if the chair had been waiting its entire life for the honour.
“Simon,” she said. “You came.”
“You threatened me.”
“I encouraged you.”
“You said you would inform three newspapers I had returned and was seeking a wife.”
Hyacinth gasped with delight.
Violet murmured, “Agatha.”
Lady Danbury lifted her chin. “It worked.”
Simon took a sip of water and decided there was not enough wine in London.
Daphne looked down, trying not to laugh.
He saw her shoulders shake.
“Something amusing?” he asked.
“No.”
“You are a poor liar.”
“That is rude.”
“It is accurate.”
She looked at him then, and for one strange second the noise of the table seemed to slip away. Her eyes were clear, amused, and more direct than he expected. Daphne Bridgerton, he realised, was not merely pretty. Pretty was simple. Pretty could be ignored if one tried hard enough.
She was alive.
That was much worse.
Lady Danbury’s cane struck the floor. “Daphne, my dear, Queen Charlotte mentioned you yesterday.”
The table quieted in stages.
Daphne straightened. “She did?”
“She did. She has seen your sketch for the charity fashion exhibition.”
Violet’s smile trembled with pride.
Edmund placed a steadying hand over Daphne’s, where it rested beside her plate.
“What did she say?” Daphne asked.
Lady Danbury looked pleased with herself. “She said you may be worth watching.”
Hyacinth whispered, “That means she likes you.”
Eloise whispered back, “That means she is watching her.”
“That is what I said earlier.”
Daphne’s fingers tightened under Edmund’s hand.
Simon saw it.
So did Edmund.
“She will do wonderfully,” Violet said.
“Of course she will,” Portia declared. “A Bridgerton girl has every advantage.”
The sentence landed oddly.
Penelope’s gaze dropped to her plate.
Daphne heard it too. Her expression changed, just a little.
Simon knew that look. The discomfort of being praised for advantages one had not asked for and could not deny.
He found himself speaking before he could think better of it.
“Advantage does not design a dress.”
The table looked at him.
Daphne turned.
Simon kept his eyes on Portia because looking at Daphne suddenly felt unwise. “Nor does it survive Queen Charlotte’s opinion.”
Lady Danbury’s mouth curved.
Edmund looked deeply entertained.
Portia blinked. “No, of course. I only meant—”
“I am sure,” Simon said.
Daphne’s voice was soft beside him. “Thank you.”
He looked at her then.
Bad idea.
“Only the truth,” he said.
By the time the Featheringtons left, Gregory had been banned from touching the football until Tuesday, Hyacinth and Felicity had written the first three scenes of a play in which Hyacinth appeared to be both heroine and queen, Colin had convinced Penelope to try something called a cronut, Eloise had argued with Edmund about constitutional monarchy for nineteen minutes, and Simon had stayed far longer than Lady Danbury’s demanded two hours.
He told himself it was because Edmund had asked about his estate.
Then because Violet had insisted on tea.
Then because Lady Danbury had blocked the drawing room door with her cane and said leaving too early was vulgar.
All lies had limits.
The truth was standing by the window in a blue dress, looking out at the square as the late-afternoon sun turned the glass gold.
Daphne had escaped the noise for a moment.
Simon understood that instinct too well.
He approached slowly enough for her to notice.
“Do you need rescuing?” he asked.
She looked over her shoulder. “From my own family?”
“It seemed possible.”
“Always.”
He stood beside her, leaving a careful distance.
Outside, London continued as if nothing important had shifted. Cars moved past the railings. A cyclist swore at a taxi. Someone walked a tiny dog wearing a yellow raincoat despite there being no rain.
“Do you really dislike London?” Daphne asked.
“I dislike what London expects.”
“That sounds like something Eloise would say.”
“I am not sure whether to be offended.”
“You should not be. Eloise is usually right, though she makes it very difficult to tell her so.”
Simon smiled. “And what does London expect of you?”
Daphne looked back out of the window. “Everything and nothing. It expects me to be charming, but not too clever. Pretty, but not vain. Ambitious, but not threatening. Grateful, but not smug. Accomplished, but still available.”
The words came out lightly, but Simon heard the bruise beneath them.
“And are you?”
“Available?”
“Any of it.”
She glanced at him. “I don’t know yet.”
It was the most honest answer anyone had given him all day.
From the hallway came Edmund’s voice, warm and firm. “Hyacinth, if that costume involves my good curtains, stop immediately.”
Daphne laughed.
Simon felt the sound somewhere in his chest.
“Your father is very loved,” he said.
Her face softened. “Yes.”
“You are fortunate.”
“I know.”
There was no defensiveness in it. No shallow agreement. She knew. She truly knew.
Simon looked away.
Daphne noticed, because apparently all Bridgertons were cursed with perception when he least wanted it.
“You knew him before, didn’t you?” she asked. “Papa.”
“Yes.”
“At school?”
“Partly.”
“He helped you?”
Simon’s jaw tightened.
“You don’t have to answer,” Daphne said quickly.
He believed her. That was the strange thing. She was not fishing, not performing sympathy. She had asked because she cared and withdrawn because she respected the boundary.
It made him want to answer, which annoyed him.
“Your father was kind,” Simon said at last. “At a time when very few people were.”
Daphne’s gaze moved towards the hallway, where Edmund was now listening to Hyacinth explain why curtains were essential to art.
“Papa does that,” she said. “He makes people feel safe.”
Simon watched Edmund scoop Hyacinth up when she tried to dart past him and listened to her shriek with laughter.
Safe.
What a dangerous word.
Daphne turned back to him. “You should come on Friday.”
“To Queen Charlotte’s garden party?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
She smiled. “That was quick.”
“I have survived by avoiding events where people discuss marriage, money, and bloodlines over tiny sandwiches.”
“You have not lived until Queen Charlotte has judged you over a cucumber canapé.”
“I am content with that loss.”
Daphne’s smile became mischievous. “Lady Danbury will make you come.”
“Lady Danbury is not all-powerful.”
From across the room, Lady Danbury called, “I heard that.”
Simon closed his eyes.
Daphne laughed properly then, bright and unguarded, and Simon knew with absolute certainty that London had become much more dangerous than it had been that morning.
That evening, after the house had quieted and the younger children had been sent upstairs with varying degrees of success, Edmund and Violet sat together in the drawing room.
The remains of the day surrounded them. A ribbon on the floor. A forgotten notebook. A programme from Hyacinth’s ballet class. One of Gregory’s shin pads under a chair. Daphne’s blue dress hanging carefully over the back of a sofa because Violet wanted to check the hem once more before Friday.
Edmund sat with one ankle crossed over the other, reading glasses low on his nose.
Violet leaned against him, tired but content.
“Well?” she asked.
“Well what?”
“Do not pretend.”
Edmund turned a page in the paper. “I never pretend.”
“You were watching Simon and Daphne all afternoon.”
“I watch everyone. I am a father. It is my occupation.”
“Edmund.”
He lowered the paper.
Violet looked at him, waiting.
He sighed. “He is not ready.”
“For Daphne?”
“For anything that asks him to stay.”
Violet’s expression softened. “And Daphne?”
“She is eighteen,” Edmund said. “Bright, romantic, talented, nervous, and far more tender than she lets on.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only answer I have.”
Violet rested her head against his shoulder. “You like him.”
“I have always liked him.”
“He looked at her.”
“Yes.”
“She looked back.”
“Yes.”
Violet was quiet for a moment.
Then she said, “We cannot protect them from everything.”
Edmund looked towards the family photographs on the mantelpiece. Anthony at university, pretending not to be proud. Benedict covered in paint at seventeen. Colin grinning with a backpack in Rome. Daphne on a horse at Aubrey Hall. Eloise holding a protest sign Violet had confiscated ten minutes later. Francesca at a piano, small and serious. Gregory muddy after a match. Hyacinth asleep on Edmund’s chest as a baby.
“No,” he said. “But we can stand close enough that they know where home is.”
Violet took his hand.
Outside, London glittered.
Somewhere across the city, phones buzzed with the latest society rumours. In Mayfair dining rooms, women spoke of Queen Charlotte’s garden party. In newspaper offices, editors argued over headlines. In bedrooms, private clubs, and group chats, people whispered about who had returned, who had been seen, who might fall in love, and who might be ruined before summer ended.
And in a small room not far away, a young woman with red hair sat at her desk, opened her laptop, and began to write.
This author has learned that the Duke of Hastings has returned to London.
How long he intends to remain is unclear.
But this author suspects his stay may be far more interesting than he planned.