Bridgerton Collection Volume 1 (Bridgertons)

by Julia Quinn

  Rosamund and Posy took their cues from Araminta and treated Sophie with hostility and disdain, although Posy’s heart clearly wasn’t into torture and cruelty in the way Rosamund’s was. Rosamund liked nothing better than to pinch and twist the skin on the back of Sophie’s hand when Miss Timmons wasn’t looking. Sophie never said anything; she rather doubted that Miss Timmons would have the courage to reprimand Rosamund (who would surely run to Araminta with a false tale), and if anyone noticed that Sophie’s hands were perpetually black-and-blue, no one ever said so.

  Posy showed her the occasional kindness, although more often than not she just sighed, and said, “My mummy says I’m not to be nice to you.”

  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.

  Everyone was quite shocked. The earl was only forty years old. Who could have known that his heart would give out at such a young age? No one was more stunned than Araminta, who had been trying quite desperately since her wedding night to conceive the all-important heir.

  “I might be with child!” she hastened to tell the earl’s solicitors. “You can’t give the title over to some distant cousin. I could very well be with child.”

  But she wasn’t with child, and when the earl’s will was read one month later (the solicitors had wanted to be sure to give the countess enough time to know for sure if she was pregnant) Araminta was forced to sit next to the new earl, a rather dissolute young man who was more often drunk than not.

  Most of the earl’s wishes were standard fare. He left bequests to loyal servants. He settled funds on Rosamund, Posy, and even Sophie, ensuring that all three girls would have respectable dowries.

  And then the solicitor reached Araminta’s name.

  To my wife, Araminta Gunningworth, Countess of Penwood, I leave a yearly income of two thousand pounds—

  “That’s all?” Araminta cried out.

  —unless she agrees to shelter and care for my ward, Miss Sophia Maria Beckett, until the latter reaches the age of twenty, in which case her yearly income shall be trebled to six thousand pounds.

  “I don’t want her,” Araminta whispered.

  “You don’t have to take her,” the solicitor reminded her. “You can—”

  “Live on a measly two thousand a year?” she snapped. “I don’t think so.”

  The solicitor, who lived on considerably less than two thousand a year, said nothing.

  The new earl, who’d been drinking steadily throughout the meeting, just shrugged.

  Araminta stood.

  “What is your decision?” the solicitor asked.

  “I’ll take her,” she said in a low voice.

  “Shall I find the girl and tell her?”

  Araminta shook her head. “I’ll tell her myself.”

  But when Araminta found Sophie, she left out a few important facts . . .

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  This year’s most sought-after invitation must surely be that of the Bridgerton masquerade ball, to be held Monday next. Indeed, one cannot take two steps without being forced to listen to some society mama speculating on who will attend, and perhaps more importantly, who will wear what.

  Neither of the aforementioned topics, however, are nearly as interesting as that of the two unmarried Bridgerton brothers, Benedict and Colin. (Before anyone points out that there is a third unmarried Bridgerton brother, let This Author assure you that she is fully aware of the existence of Gregory Bridgerton. He is, however, fourteen years of age, and therefore not pertinent to this particular column, which concerns, as This Author’s columns often do, that most sacred of sports: husband-hunting.)

  Although the Misters Bridgerton are just that—merely Misters—they are still considered two of the prime catches of the season. It is a well-known fact that both are possessed of respectable fortunes, and it does not require perfect sight to know that they also possess, as do all eight of the Bridgerton offspring, the Bridgerton good looks.

  Will some fortunate young lady use the mystery of a masquerade night to snare one of the eligible bachelors?

  This Author isn’t even going to attempt to speculate.

  LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 31 MAY 1815

  “Sophie! Sophieeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”

  As screeches went, it was enough to shatter glass. Or at least an eardrum.

  “Coming, Rosamund! I’m coming!” Sophie hitched up the hem of her coarse woolen skirts and hurried up the stairs, slipping on the fourth step and only just barely managing to grab the bannister before landing on her bottom. She should have remembered that the stairs would be slick; she’d helped the downstairs maid wax them just that morning.

  Skidding to a halt in the doorway to Rosamund’s bedroom and still catching her breath, Sophie said, “Yes?”

  “My tea is cold.”

  What Sophie wanted to say was, “It was warm when I brought it an hour ago, you lazy fiend.”

  What she did say was, “I’ll get you another pot.”

  Rosamund sniffed. “See that you do.”

  Sophie stretched her lips into what the nearly blind might call a smile and picked up the tea service. “Shall I leave the biscuits?” she asked.

  Rosamund gave her pretty head a shake. “I want fresh ones.”

  Shoulders slightly stooped from the weight of the overloaded tea service, Sophie exited the room, careful not to start grumbling until she’d safely reached the hall. Rosamund was forever ordering tea, then not bothering to drink it until an hour passed. By then, of course, it was cold, so she had to order a fresh pot.

  Which meant Sophie was forever running up and down the stairs, up and down, up and down. Sometimes it seemed that was all she did with her life.

  Up and down, up and down.

  And of course the mending, the pressing, the hairdressing, the shoe polishing, the darning, the bedmaking . . .

  “Sophie!”

  Sophie turned around to see Posy heading toward her.

  “Sophie, I’ve been meaning to ask you, do you think this color is becoming on me?”

  Sophie assessed Posy’s mermaid costume. The cut wasn’t quite right for Posy, who had never lost all of her baby fat, but the color did indeed bring out the best in her complexion. “It is a lovely shade of green,” Sophie replied quite honestly. “It makes your cheeks very rosy.”

  “Oh, good. I’m so glad you like it. You do have such a knack for picking out my clothing.” Posy smiled as she reached out and plucked a sugared biscuit from the tray. “Mother has been an absolute bear all week about the masquerade ball, and I know I shall never hear the end of it if I do not look my best. Or”—Posy’s face twisted into a grimace—“if she thinks I do not look my best. She is determined that one of us snare one of the remaining Bridgerton brothers, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “And to make matters worse, that Whistledown woman has been writing about them again. It only”—Posy finished chewing and paused while she swallowed—“whets her appetite.”

  “Was the column very good this morning?” Sophie asked, shifting the tray to rest on her hip. “I haven’t had a chance to read it yet.”

  “Oh, the usual stuff,” Posy said with a wave of her hand. “Really, it can be quite humdrum, you know.”

  Sophie tried to smile and failed. She’d like nothing more than to live a day of Posy’s humdrum life. Well, perhaps she wouldn’t want Araminta for a mother, but she wouldn’t mind a life of parties, routs, and musicales.

  “Let’s see,” Posy mused. “There was a review of Lady Worth’s recent ball, a bit about Viscount Guelph, who seems rather smitten with some girl from Scotland, and then a longish piece on the upcoming Bridgerton masquerade.”

  Sophie sighed. She’d bee
n reading about the upcoming masquerade for weeks, and even though she was nothing but a lady’s maid (and occasionally a housemaid as well, whenever Araminta decided she wasn’t working hard enough) she couldn’t help but wish that she could attend the ball.

  “I for one will be thrilled if that Guelph viscount gets himself engaged,” Posy remarked, reaching for another biscuit. “It will mean one fewer bachelor for Mother to go on and on about as a potential husband. It’s not as if I have any hope of attracting his attention anyway.” She took a bite of the biscuit; it crunched loudly in her mouth. “I do hope Lady Whistledown is right about him.”

  “She probably is,” Sophie answered. She had been reading Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers since it had debuted in 1813, and the gossip columnist was almost always correct when it came to matters of the Marriage Mart.

  Not, of course, that Sophie had ever had the chance to see the Marriage Mart for herself. But if one read Whistledown often enough, one could almost feel a part of London Society without actually attending any balls.

  In fact, reading Whistledown was really Sophie’s one true enjoyable pastime. She’d already read all of the novels in the library, and as neither Araminta, Rosamund, nor Posy was particularly enamored of reading, Sophie couldn’t look forward to a new book entering the house.

  But Whistledown was great fun. No one actually knew the columnist’s true identity. When the single-sheet newspaper had debuted two years earlier, speculation had been rampant. Even now, whenever Lady Whistledown reported a particularly juicy bit of gossip, people starting talking and guessing anew, wondering who on earth was able to report with such speed and accuracy.

  And for Sophie, Whistledown was a tantalizing glimpse into the world that might have been hers, had her parents actually made their union legal. She would have been an earl’s daughter, not an earl’s bastard; her name Gunningworth instead of Beckett.

  Just once, she’d like to be the one stepping into the coach and attending the ball.

  Instead, she was the one dressing others for their nights on the town, cinching Posy’s corset or dressing Rosamund’s hair or polishing a pair of Araminta’s shoes.

  But she could not—or at least should not—complain. She might have to serve as maid to Araminta and her daughters, but at least she had a home. Which was more than most girls in her position had.

  When her father had died, he’d left her nothing. Well, nothing but a roof over her head. His will had ensured that she could not be turned out until she was twenty. There was no way that Araminta would forfeit four thousand pounds a year by giving Sophie the boot.

  But that four thousand pounds was Araminta’s, not Sophie’s, and Sophie hadn’t ever seen a penny of it. Gone were the fine clothes she’d used to wear, replaced by the coarse wool of the servants. And she ate what the rest of the maids ate—whatever Araminta, Rosamund, and Posy chose to leave behind.

  Sophie’s twentieth birthday, however, had come and gone almost a year earlier, and here she was, still living at Penwood House, still waiting on Araminta hand and foot. For some unknown reason—probably because she didn’t want to train (or pay) a new maid—Araminta had allowed Sophie to remain in her household.

  And Sophie had stayed. If Araminta was the devil she knew, then the rest of the world was the devil she didn’t. And Sophie had no idea which would be worse.

  “Isn’t that tray getting heavy?”

  Sophie blinked her way out of her reverie and focused on Posy, who was reaching for the last biscuit on the tray. Drat. She’d been hoping to snitch it for herself. “Yes,” she murmured. “Yes, it is quite. I should really be getting to the kitchen with it.”

  Posy smiled. “I won’t keep you any longer, but when you’re done with that, could you press my pink gown? I’m going to wear it tonight. Oh, and I suppose the matching shoes should be readied as well. I got a bit of dirt on them last time I wore them, and you know how Mother is about shoes. Never mind that you can’t even see them under my skirt. She’ll notice the tiniest speck of dirt the instant I lift my hem to climb a step.”

  Sophie nodded, mentally adding Posy’s requests to her daily list of chores.

  “I’ll see you later, then!” Biting down on that last biscuit, Posy turned and disappeared into her bedchamber.

  And Sophie trudged down to the kitchen.

  A few days later, Sophie was on her knees, pins clamped between her teeth as she made last-minute alterations on Araminta’s masquerade costume. The Queen Elizabeth gown had, of course, been delivered from the dressmaker as a perfect fit, but Araminta insisted that it was now a quarter inch too large in the waist.

  “How is that?” Sophie asked, speaking through her teeth so the pins wouldn’t fall.

  “Too tight.”

  Sophie adjusted a few pins. “What about that?”

  “Too loose.”

  Sophie pulled out a pin and stuck it back in precisely the same spot. “There. How does that feel?”

  Araminta twisted this way and that, then finally declared, “It’ll do.”

  Sophie smiled to herself as she stood to help Araminta out of the gown.

  “I’ll need it done in an hour if we’re to get to the ball on time,” Araminta said.

  “Of course,” Sophie murmured. She’d found it easiest just to say “of course” on a regular basis in conversations with Araminta.

  “This ball is very important,” Araminta said sharply. “Rosamund must make an advantageous match this year. The new earl—” She shuddered with distaste; she still considered the new earl an interloper, never mind that he was the old earl’s closest living male relative. “Well, he has told me that this is the last year we may use Penwood House in London. The nerve of the man. I am the dowager countess, after all, and Rosamund and Posy are the earl’s daughters.”

  Stepdaughters, Sophie silently corrected.

  “We have every right to use Penwood House for the season. What he plans to do with the house, I’ll never know.”

  “Perhaps he wishes to attend the season and look for a wife,” Sophie suggested. “He’ll be wanting an heir, I’m sure.”

  Araminta scowled. “If Rosamund doesn’t marry into money, I don’t know what we’ll do. It is so difficult to find a proper house to rent. And so expensive as well.”

  Sophie forbore to point out that at least Araminta didn’t have to pay for a lady’s maid. In fact, until Sophie had turned twenty, she’d received four thousand pounds per year, just for having a lady’s maid.

  Araminta snapped her fingers. “Don’t forget that Rosamund will need her hair powdered.”

  Rosamund was attending dressed as Marie Antoinette. Sophie had asked if she was planning to put a ring of faux blood around her neck. Rosamund had not been amused.

  Araminta pulled on her dressing gown, cinching the sash with swift, tight movements. “And Posy—” Her nose wrinkled. “Well, Posy will need your help in some manner or other, I’m sure.”

  “I’m always glad to help Posy,” Sophie replied.

  Araminta narrowed her eyes as she tried to figure out if Sophie was being insolent. “Just see that you do,” she finally said, her syllables clipped. She stalked off to the washroom.

  Sophie saluted as the door closed behind her.

  “Ah, there you are, Sophie,” Rosamund said as she bustled into the room. “I need your help immediately.”

  “I’m afraid it’ll have to wait until—”

  “I said immediately!” Rosamund snapped.

  Sophie squared her shoulders and gave Rosamund a steely look. “Your mother wants me to alter her gown.”

  “Just pull the pins out and tell her you pulled it in. She’ll never notice the difference.”

  Sophie had been considering the very same thing, and she groaned. If she did as Rosamund asked, Rosamund would tattle on her the very next day, and then Araminta would rant and rage for a week. Now she would definitely have to do the alteration.

  “What do you need, Rosamund?”

&nb
sp; “There is a tear at the hem of my costume. I have no idea how it happened.”

  “Perhaps when you tried it on—”

  “Don’t be impertinent!”

  Sophie clamped her mouth shut. It was far more difficult to take orders from Rosamund than from Araminta, probably because they’d once been equals, sharing the same schoolroom and governess.

  “It must be repaired immediately,” Rosamund said with an affected sniff.

  Sophie sighed. “Just bring it in. I’ll do it right after I finish with your mother’s. I promise you’ll have it in plenty of time.”

  “I won’t be late for this ball,” Rosamund warned. “If I am, I shall have your head on a platter.”

  “You won’t be late,” Sophie promised.

  Rosamund made a rather huffy sound, then hurried out the door to retrieve her costume.

  “Ooof!”

  Sophie looked up to see Rosamund crashing into Posy, who was barreling through the door.

  “Watch where you’re going, Posy!” Rosamund snapped.

  “You could watch where you’re going, too,” Posy pointed out.

  “I was watching. It’s impossible to get out of your way, you big oaf.”

  Posy’s cheeks stained red, and she stepped aside.

  “Did you need something, Posy?” Sophie asked, as soon as Rosamund had disappeared.

  Posy nodded. “Could you set aside a little extra time to dress my hair tonight? I found some green ribbons that look a little like seaweed.”

  Sophie let out a long breath. The dark green ribbons weren’t likely to show up very well against Posy’s dark hair, but she didn’t have the heart to point that out. “I’ll try, Posy, but I have to mend Rosamund’s dress and alter your mother’s.”

  “Oh.” Posy looked crestfallen. It nearly broke Sophie’s heart. Posy was the only person who was even halfway nice to her in Araminta’s household, save for the servants. “Don’t worry,” she assured her. “I’ll make sure your hair is lovely no matter how much time we have.”