The Bridgertons: Happily Ever After

by Julia Quinn

  She had a point there, loath as Colin was to admit it. In his mind, this had all played out with Eloise somehow being aware that she was the only person who didn’t know the secret of Lady Whistledown’s identity.

  Which was ridiculous to be sure, but still, a satisfying daydream.

  “Hmmmm,” he said.

  Penelope looked at him suspiciously. “What are you thinking?”

  “Are you certain we cannot tell her on her wedding day?”

  “Colin . . .”

  “Because if we don’t, she’s sure to find out from someone, and it doesn’t seem fair that we not be present to see her face.”

  “Colin, no.”

  “After all you’ve been through, wouldn’t you say you deserve to see her reaction?”

  “No,” Penelope said slowly. “No. No, I wouldn’t.”

  “Oh, you sell yourself too cheaply, my darling,” he said, smiling benevolently at her. “And besides that, think of Eloise.”

  “I fail to see what else it is I have been doing all morning.”

  He shook his head. “She would be devastated. Hearing the awful truth from a complete stranger.”

  “It’s not awful,” Penelope shot back, “and how do you know it would be a stranger?”

  “We’ve sworn my entire family to secrecy. Who else does she know out in this godforsaken county?”

  “I rather like Gloucestershire,” Penelope said, her teeth now charmingly clenched. “I find it delightful.”

  “Yes,” he said equably, taking in her furrowed brow, pinched mouth, and narrowed eyes. “You look delighted.”

  “Weren’t you the one who insisted we keep her in the dark for as long as humanly possible?”

  “Humanly possible being the phrase of note,” Colin replied. “This human”—he gestured rather unnecessarily to himself—“finding it quite impossible to maintain his silence.”

  “I can’t believe you’ve changed your mind.”

  He shrugged. “Isn’t it a man’s prerogative?”

  At that her lips parted, and Colin found himself wishing he’d found a corner as private as it was quiet, because she was practically begging to be kissed, whether she knew it or not.

  But he was a patient man, and they did still have that comfortable room reserved at the inn, and there was still much mischief to be made right here at the wedding. “Oh, Penelope,” he said huskily, leaning in more than was proper, even with one’s wife, “don’t you want to have some fun?”

  She flushed scarlet. “Not here.”

  He laughed aloud at that.

  “I wasn’t talking about that,” she muttered.

  “Neither was I, as a matter of fact,” he returned, completely unable to keep the humor off his face, “but I am pleased that it comes to mind so readily.” He pretended to glance about the room. “When do you think it would be polite to leave?”

  “Definitely not yet.”

  He pretended to ponder. “Mmmm, yes, you’re probably correct at that. Pity. But”—at that he pretended to brighten—“it does leave us time to make mischief.”

  Again, she was speechless. He liked that. “Shall we?” he murmured.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”

  “We need to work on this,” he said, giving his head a shake. “I’m not sure you fully understand the mechanics of a yes-or-no question.”

  “I think you should sit down,” she said, her eyes now taking on that glint of cautious exhaustion usually reserved for small children.

  Or adult fools.

  “And then,” she continued, “I think you should remain in your seat.”

  “Indefinitely?”

  “Yes.”

  Just to torture her, he sat. And then—

  “Nooooo, I think I’d rather make mischief.”

  Back to his feet he was, and striding off to find Eloise before Penelope could even attempt to lunge for him.

  “Colin, don’t!” she called out, her voice echoing off the walls of the reception room. She managed to yell—of course—at the precise moment when every other wedding guest paused to take a breath.

  A roomful of Bridgertons. What were the odds?

  Penelope jammed a smile on her face as she watched two dozen heads swivel in her direction. “Nothing about it,” she said, her voice coming out strangled and chirpy. “So sorry to disturb.”

  And apparently Colin’s family was well used to his embarking on something requiring the rejoinder “Colin, don’t!” because they all resumed their conversations with barely another glance in her direction.

  Except Hyacinth.

  “Oh, blast,” Penelope muttered under her breath, and she raced forward.

  But Hyacinth was quick. “What’s going on?” she asked, falling into stride beside Penelope with remarkable agility.

  “Nothing,” Penelope replied, because the last thing she wanted was Hyacinth adding to the disaster.

  “He’s going to tell her, isn’t he?” Hyacinth persisted, let out an “Euf ” and an “Excuse me,” when she pushed past one of her brothers.

  “No,” Penelope said firmly, darting around Daphne’s children, “he’s not.”

  “He is.”

  Penelope actually stopped for a moment and turned. “Do any of you ever listen to anyone?”

  “Not me,” Hyacinth said cheerfully.

  Penelope shook her head and moved forward, Hyacinth hot on her heels. When she reached Colin, he was standing next to the newlyweds and had his arms linked through Eloise’s and was smiling down at her as if he had never once considered:

  a.Teaching her to swim by tossing her in a lake.

  b.Cutting off three inches of her hair while she slept.

  or

  c.Tying her to a tree so that she did not follow him to a local public inn.

  Which of course he had, all three of them, and two he’d actually done. (Even Colin wouldn’t have dared something so permanent as a shearing.)

  “Eloise,” Penelope said, somewhat breathless from trying to shake off Hyacinth.

  “Penelope.” But Eloise’s voice sounded curious. Which did not surprise Penelope; Eloise was no fool, and she was well aware that her brother’s normal modes of behavior did not include beatific smiles in her direction.

  “Eloise,” Hyacinth said, for no reason Penelope could deduce.

  “Hyacinth.”

  Penelope turned to her husband. “Colin.”

  He looked amused. “Penelope. Hyacinth.”

  Hyacinth grinned. “Colin.” And then: “Sir Phillip.”

  “Ladies.” Sir Phillip, it seemed, favored brevity.

  “Stop!” Eloise burst out. “What is going on?”

  “A recitation of our Christian names, apparently,” Hyacinth said.

  “Penelope has something to say to you,” Colin said.

  “I don’t.”

  “She does.”

  “I do,” Penelope said, thinking quickly. She rushed forward, taking Eloise’s hands in her own. “Congratulations. I’m so happy for you.”

  “That’s what you needed to say?” Eloise asked.

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  And from Hyacinth: “I am enjoying myself immensely.”

  “Er, it’s very kind of you to say so,” Sir Phillip said, looking a bit perplexed at her sudden need to compliment the host. Penelope closed her eyes for a brief moment and let out a weary sigh; she was going to need to take the poor man aside and instruct him on the finer points of marrying into the Bridgerton family.

  And because she did know her new relations so well, and she knew that there was no way she was going to avoid revealing her secret, she turned to Eloise and said, “Might I have a moment alone?”

  “With me?”

  It was enough to make Penelope wish to strangle someone. Anyone. “Yes,” she said patiently, “with you.”

  “And me,” Colin put in.

  “And me,” Hyacinth added.

  “Not you,” Pene
lope said, not bothering to look at her.

  “But still me,” Colin added, looping his free arm through Penelope’s.

  “Can this wait?” Sir Phillip asked politely. “This is her wedding day, and I expect that she does not wish to miss it.”

  “I know,” Penelope said wearily. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s all right,” Eloise said, breaking free of Colin’s grasp and turning to her new husband. She murmured a few words to him that Penelope could not hear, then said, “There is a small salon just through that door. Shall we?”

  She led the way, which suited Penelope because it gave her time to say to Colin, “You will say nothing.”

  He surprised her by nodding, and then, maintaining his silence, he held open the door for her as she entered the room behind Eloise.

  “This won’t take long,” Penelope said apologetically. “At least, I hope it won’t.”

  Eloise said nothing, just looked at her with an expression that was, Penelope had just enough presence of mind to notice, uncharacteristically serene.

  Marriage must agree with her, Penelope thought, because the Eloise she knew would have been chomping at the bit at such a moment. A big secret, a mystery to be revealed—Eloise loved that sort of thing.

  But she was just standing there, calmly waiting, a light smile touching her features. Penelope looked to Colin in confusion, but he was apparently taking her instructions to heart, and his mouth was clamped firmly shut.

  “Eloise,” Penelope began.

  Eloise smiled. A bit. Just at the corners, as if she wanted to smile more. “Yes?”

  Penelope cleared her throat. “Eloise,” she said again, “there is something I must tell you.”

  “Really?”

  Penelope’s eyes narrowed. Surely the moment did not call for sarcasm. She took a breath, tamping down the urge to fire off an equally dry rejoinder, and said, “I did not wish to tell you on your wedding day”—at this she speared her husband with a glare—“but it seems I have no choice.”

  Eloise blinked a few times, but other than that, her placid demeanor did not change.

  “I can think of no other way to say it,” Penelope plodded on, feeling positively sick, “but while you were gone . . . That is to say, the night you left, as a matter of fact . . .”

  Eloise leaned forward. The movement was slight, but Penelope caught it, and for a moment she thought— Well, she didn’t think anything clearly, certainly nothing that she could have expressed in a proper sentence. But she did get a feeling of unease—a different sort of unease than the one she was already feeling. It was a suspicious sort of unease, and—

  “I am Whistledown,” she blurted out, because if she waited any longer she thought her brain might explode.

  And Eloise said, “I know.”

  Penelope sat down on the nearest solid object, which happened to be a table. “You know.”

  Eloise shrugged. “I know.”

  “How?”

  “Hyacinth told me.”

  “What?” This from Colin, looking fit to be tied. Or perhaps more accurately, fit to tie Hyacinth.

  “I’m sure she’s at the door,” Eloise murmured, with a nod. “In case you want to—”

  But Colin was one step ahead of her, wrenching open the door to the small salon. Sure enough, Hyacinth tumbled in.

  “Hyacinth!” Penelope said disapprovingly.

  “Oh, please,” Hyacinth retorted, smoothing her skirts. “You didn’t think I wouldn’t eavesdrop, did you? You know me better than that.”

  “I’m going to wring your neck,” Colin ground out. “We had an agreement.”

  Hyacinth shrugged. “I don’t really need twenty pounds, as it happens.”

  “I already gave you ten.”

  “I know,” Hyacinth said with a cheerful smile.

  “Hyacinth!” Eloise exclaimed.

  “Which isn’t to say,” Hyacinth continued modestly, “that I don’t want the other ten.”

  “She told me last night,” Eloise explained, her eyes narrowing dangerously, “but only after informing me that she knew who Lady Whistledown was, and in fact the whole of society knew, but that the knowledge would cost me twenty-five pounds.”

  “Did it not occur to you,” Penelope asked, “that if the whole of society knew, that you could simply have asked someone else?”

  “The whole of society wasn’t in my bedchamber at two in the morning,” Eloise snapped.

  “I am thinking of buying a hat,” Hyacinth mused. “Or maybe a pony.”

  Eloise shot her a nasty look, then turned to Penelope. “Are you really Whistledown?”

  “I am,” Penelope admitted. “Or rather—” She looked over at Colin, not exactly certain why she was doing so except that she loved him so much, and he knew her so well, and when he saw her helpless little wobbly smile, he would smile in return, no matter how irate he was with Hyacinth.

  And he did. Somehow, amidst everything, he knew what she needed. He always did.

  Penelope turned back to Eloise. “I was,” she amended. “No longer. I’ve retired.”

  But of course Eloise already knew that. Lady W’s letter of retirement had circulated long before Eloise had left town.

  “For good,” Penelope added. “People have asked, but I shan’t be induced to pick up my quill again.” She paused, thinking of the scribblings she’d embarked upon at home. “At least not as Whistledown.” She looked at Eloise, who had sat down next to her on the table. Her face was somewhat blank, and she hadn’t said anything in ages—well, ages for Eloise, at least.

  Penelope tried to smile. “I am thinking of writing a novel, actually.”

  Still nothing from Eloise, although she was blinking quite rapidly, and her brow was scrunched up as if she were thinking quite hard.

  And so Penelope took one of her hands and said the one thing she was really feeling. “I’m sorry, Eloise.”

  Eloise had been staring rather blankly at an end table, but at that, she turned, her eyes finding Penelope’s. “You’re sorry?” she echoed, and she sounded dubious, as if sorry couldn’t possibly be the correct emotion, or at least, not enough of it.

  Penelope’s heart sank. “I’m so sorry,” she said again. “I should have told you. I should have—”

  “Are you mad?” Eloise asked, finally seeming to snap to attention. “Of course you should not have told me. I could never have kept this a secret.”

  Penelope thought it rather remarkable of her to admit it.

  “I am so proud of you,” Eloise continued. “Forget the writing for a moment—I cannot even fathom the logistics of it all, and someday—when it is not my wedding day—I shall insist upon hearing every last detail.”

  “You were surprised, then?” Penelope murmured.

  Eloise gave her a rather dry look. “To put it mildly.”

  “I had to get her a chair,” Hyacinth supplied.

  “I was already sitting down,” Eloise ground out.

  Hyacinth waved her hand in the air. “Nevertheless.”

  “Ignore her,” Eloise said, focusing firmly on Penelope. “Truly, I cannot begin to tell you how impressed I am—now that I’ve got over the shock, that is.”

  “Really?” It hadn’t occurred to Penelope until that very moment just how much she’d wished for Eloise’s approval.

  “Keeping us all in the dark for so long,” Eloise said, shaking her head with slow admiration. “From me. From her.” She jabbed a finger in Hyacinth’s direction. “It’s really very well-done of you.” At that she leaned forward and enveloped Penelope in a warm hug.

  “You’re not angry with me?”

  Eloise moved back and opened her mouth, and Penelope could see that she’d been about to say, “No,” probably to be followed by “Of course not.”

  But the words remained in Eloise’s mouth, and she just sat there, looking slightly thoughtful and surprised until she finally said . . . “No.”

  Penelope felt her brows lift. “Are you certain?
” Because Eloise didn’t sound certain. She didn’t much sound like Eloise, to be honest.

  “It would be different if I were still in London,” Eloise said quietly, “with nothing else to do. But this—” She glanced around the room, gesturing rather vaguely toward the window. “Here. It’s just not the same. It’s a different life,” she said quietly. “I’m a different person. A little bit, at least.”

  “Lady Crane,” Penelope reminded her.

  Eloise smiled. “Good of you to remind me of that, Mrs. Bridgerton.”

  Penelope almost laughed. “Can you believe it?”

  “Of you, or me?” Eloise asked.

  “Both.”

  Colin, who had been keeping a respectful distance—one hand firmly clamped around Hyacinth’s arm to keep her at a respectful distance—stepped forward. “We should probably return,” he said quietly. He held out his hand, and helped first Penelope, then Eloise, to her feet. “You,” he said, leaning forward to kiss his sister on the cheek, “should certainly return.”

  Eloise smiled wistfully, the blushing bride once again, and nodded. With one last squeeze of Penelope’s hands, she brushed past Hyacinth (rolling her eyes as she did so) and made her way back to her wedding party.

  Penelope watched her go, linking her arm in Colin’s and leaned gently into him. They both stood there in contented silence, idly watching the now empty doorway, listening to the sounds of the party wafting through the air.

  “Do you think it would be polite if we left?” he murmured.

  “Probably not.”

  “Do you think Eloise would mind?”

  Penelope shook her head.

  Colin’s arms tightened around her, and she felt his lips gently brush her ear. “Let’s go,” he said.

  She did not argue.

  On the twenty-fifth of May, in the year 1824, precisely one day after the wedding of Eloise Bridgerton to Sir Phillip Crane, three missives were delivered to the room of Mr. and Mrs. Colin Bridgerton, guests at the Rose and Bramble Inn, near Tetbury, Gloucestershire. They arrived together; all were from Romney Hall.

  “Which shall we open first?” Penelope asked, spreading them before her on the bed.

  Colin yanked off the shirt he’d donned to answer the knock. “I defer to your good judgment as always.”