by Julia Quinn
Kate and Edwina nodded and murmured promises to that effect as Mary gathered her embroidery and left the room. As soon as she was gone, Edwina turned to Kate and asked, “Have you decided what you’re going to wear tonight?”
“The green gauze, I think. I should wear white, I know, but I fear it does not suit me.”
“If you don’t wear white,” Edwina said loyally, “then neither shall I. I shall wear my blue muslin.”
Kate nodded her approval as she glanced back at the newspaper in her hand, trying to balance Newton, who had flipped over onto his back and was angling to have his belly rubbed. “Just last week Mr. Berbrooke said you are an angel in blue. On account of it matching your eyes so well.”
Edwina blinked in surprise. “Mr. Berbrooke said that? To you?”
Kate looked back up. “Of course. All of your beaux try to pass on their compliments through me.”
“They do? Whyever?”
Kate smiled slowly and indulgently. “Well, now, Edwina, it might have something to do with the time you announced to the entire audience at the Smythe-Smith musicale that you could never marry without your sister’s approval.”
Edwina’s cheeks turned just the slightest bit pink. “It wasn’t the entire audience,” she mumbled.
“It might as well have been. The news traveled faster than fire on rooftops. I wasn’t even in the room at the time and it only took two minutes for me to hear about it.”
Edwina crossed her arms and let out a “Hmmph” that made her sound rather like her older sister. “Well, it’s true, and I don’t care who knows it. I know I’m expected to make a grand and brilliant match, but I don’t have to marry someone who will ill treat me. Anyone with the fortitude to actually impress you would have to be up to snuff.”
“Am I so difficult to impress, then?”
The two sisters looked at each other, then answered in unison, “Yes.”
But as Kate laughed along with Edwina, a niggling sense of guilt rose within her. All three Sheffields knew that it would be Edwina who would snag a nobleman or marry into a fortune. It would be Edwina who would ensure that her family would not have to live out their lives in genteel poverty. Edwina was a beauty, while Kate was…
Kate was Kate.
Kate didn’t mind. Edwina’s beauty was simply a fact of life. There were certain truths Kate had long since come to accept. Kate would never learn to waltz without trying to take the lead; she’d always be afraid of electrical storms, no matter how often she told herself she was being silly; and no matter what she wore, no matter how she dressed her hair or pinched her cheeks, she’d never be as pretty as Edwina.
Besides, Kate wasn’t certain that she’d like all the attention Edwina received. Nor, she was coming to realize, would she relish the responsibility of having to marry well to provide for her mother and sister.
“Edwina,” Kate said softly, her eyes growing serious, “you don’t have to marry anyone you don’t like. You know that.”
Edwina nodded, suddenly looking as if she might cry.
“If you decide there isn’t a single gentleman in London who is good enough for you, then so be it. We shall simply go back to Somerset and enjoy our own company. There’s no one I like better, anyway.”
“Nor I,” Edwina whispered.
“And if you do find a man who sweeps you off your feet, then Mary and I shall be delighted. You should not worry about leaving us, either. We shall get on fine with each other for company.”
“You might find someone to marry as well,” Edwina pointed out.
Kate felt her lips twist into a small smile. “I might,” she allowed, knowing that it probably wasn’t true. She didn’t want to remain a spinster her entire life, but she doubted she would find a husband here in London. “Perhaps one of your lovesick suitors will turn to me once he realizes you are unattainable,” she teased.
Edwina swatted her with a pillow. “Don’t be silly.”
“But I’m not!” Kate protested. And she wasn’t. Quite frankly, this seemed to her the most likely avenue by which she might actually find a husband in town.
“Do you know what sort of man I’d like to marry?” Edwina asked, her eyes turning dreamy.
Kate shook her head.
“A scholar.”
“A scholar?”
“A scholar,” Edwina said firmly.
Kate cleared her throat. “I’m not certain you’ll find many of those in town for the season.”
“I know.” Edwina let out a little sigh. “But the truth is—and you know this even if I am not supposed to let on in public—I’m really rather bookish. I’d much rather spend my day in a library than gadding about in Hyde Park. I think I should enjoy life with a man who enjoyed scholarly pursuits as well.”
“Right. Hmmm…” Kate’s mind worked frantically. Edwina wasn’t likely to find a scholar back in Somerset, either. “You know, Edwina, it might be difficult to find you a true scholar outside the university towns. You might have to settle for a man who likes to read and learn as you do.”
“That would be all right,” Edwina said happily. “I’d be quite content with an amateur scholar.”
Kate breathed a sigh of relief. Surely they could find someone in London who liked to read.
“And do you know what?” Edwina added. “You truly cannot tell a book by its cover. All sorts of people are amateur scholars. Why, even that Viscount Bridgerton Lady Whistledown keeps talking about might be a scholar at heart.”
“Bite your tongue, Edwina. You are not to have anything to do with Viscount Bridgerton. Everyone knows he is the worst sort of rake. In fact, he’s the worst rake, period. In all London. In the entire country!”
“I know, I was just using him as an example. Besides, he’s not likely to choose a bride this year, anyway. Lady Whistledown said so, and you yourself said that she is almost always right.”
Kate patted her sister on the arm. “Don’t worry. We will find you a suitable husband. But not—not not not not not Viscount Bridgerton!”
At that very moment, the subject of their discussion was relaxing at White’s with two of his three younger brothers, enjoying a late afternoon drink.
Anthony Bridgerton leaned back in his leather chair, regarded his scotch with a thoughtful expression as he swirled it about, and then announced, “I’m thinking about getting married.”
Benedict Bridgerton, who had been indulging in a habit his mother detested—tipping his chair drunkenly on the back two legs—fell over.
Colin Bridgerton started to choke.
Luckily for Colin, Benedict regained his seat with enough time to smack him soundly on the back, sending a green olive sailing across the table.
It narrowly missed Anthony’s ear.
Anthony let the indignity pass without comment. He was all too aware that his sudden declaration had come as a bit of a surprise.
Well, perhaps more than a bit. “Complete,” “total,” and “utter” were words that came to mind.
Anthony knew that he did not fit the image of a man who had settling down on his mind. He’d spent the last decade as the worst sort of rake, taking pleasure where he may. For as he well knew, life was short and certainly meant to be enjoyed. Oh, he’d had a certain code of honor. He never dallied with well-bred young women. Anyone who might have any right to demand marriage was strictly off-limits.
With four younger sisters of his own, Anthony had a healthy degree of respect for the good reputations of gently bred women. He’d already nearly fought a duel for one of his sisters, all over a slight to her honor. And as for the other three…he freely admitted that he broke out in a cold sweat at the mere thought of their getting involved with a man who bore a reputation like his.
No, he certainly wasn’t about to despoil some other gentleman’s younger sister.
But as for the other sort of women—the widows and actresses who knew what they wanted and what they were getting into—he’d enjoyed their company and enjoyed it well. Since the
day he left Oxford and headed west to London, he’d not been without a mistress.
Sometimes, he thought wryly, he’d not been without two.
He’d ridden in nearly every horse race society had to offer, he’d boxed at Gentleman Jackson’s, and he’d won more card games than he could count. (He’d lost a few, too, but he disregarded those.) He’d spent the decade of his twenties in a mindful pursuit of pleasure, tempered only by his overwhelming sense of responsibility to his family.
Edmund Bridgerton’s death had been both sudden and unexpected; he’d not had a chance to make any final requests of his eldest son before he perished. But if he had, Anthony was certain that he would have asked him to care for his mother and siblings with the same diligence and affection Edmund had displayed.
And so in between Anthony’s rounds of parties and horse races, he’d sent his brothers to Eton and Oxford, gone to a mind-numbing number of piano recitals given by his sisters (no easy feat; three out of four of them were tone deaf), and kept a close and watchful eye on the family finances. With seven brothers and sisters, he saw it as his duty to make sure there was enough money to secure all of their futures.
As he grew closer to thirty, he’d realized that he was spending more and more time tending to his heritage and family and less and less in his old pursuit of decadence and pleasure. And he’d realized that he liked it that way. He still kept a mistress, but never more than one at a time, and he discovered that he no longer felt the need to enter every horse race or stay late at a party just to win that last hand of cards.
His reputation, of course, stayed with him. He didn’t mind that, actually. There were certain benefits to being thought England’s most reprehensible rake. He was nearly universally feared, for example.
That was always a good thing.
But now it was time for marriage. He ought to settle down, have a son. He had a title to pass on, after all. He did feel a rather sharp twinge of regret—and perhaps a touch of guilt as well—over the fact that it was unlikely that he’d live to see his son into adulthood. But what could he do? He was the firstborn Bridgerton of a firstborn Bridgerton of a firstborn Bridgerton eight times over. He had a dynastic responsibility to be fruitful and multiply.
Besides, he took some comfort in knowing that he’d leave three able and caring brothers behind. They’d see to it that his son was brought up with the love and honor that every Bridgerton enjoyed. His sisters would coddle the boy, and his mother might spoil him…
Anthony actually smiled a bit as he thought of his large and often boisterous family. His son would not need a father to be well loved.
And whatever children he sired—well, they probably wouldn’t remember him after he was gone. They’d be young, unformed. It had not escaped Anthony’s notice that of all the Bridgerton children, he, the eldest, was the one most deeply affected by their father’s death.
Anthony downed another sip of his scotch and straightened his shoulders, pushing such unpleasant ruminations from his mind. He needed to focus on the matter at hand, namely, the pursuit of a wife.
Being a discerning and somewhat organized man, he’d made a mental list of requirements for the position. First, she ought to be reasonably attractive. She needn’t be a raving beauty (although that would be nice), but if he was going to have to bed her, he figured a bit of attraction ought to make the job more pleasant.
Second, she couldn’t be stupid. This, Anthony mused, might be the most difficult of his requirements to fill. He was not universally impressed by the mental prowess of London debutantes. The last time he’d made the mistake of engaging a young chit fresh out of the schoolroom in conversation, she’d been unable to discuss anything other than food (she’d had a plate of strawberries in her hand at the time) and the weather (and she hadn’t even gotten that right; when Anthony had asked if she thought the weather was going to turn inclement, she’d replied, “I’m sure I don’t know. I’ve never been to Clement.”)
He might be able to avoid conversation with a wife who was less than brilliant, but he did not want stupid children.
Third—and this was the most important—she couldn’t be anyone with whom he might actually fall in love.
Under no circumstances would this rule be broken.
He wasn’t a complete cynic; he knew that true love existed. Anyone who’d ever been in the same room with his parents knew that true love existed.
But love was a complication he wished to avoid. He had no desire for his life to be visited by that particular miracle.
And since Anthony was used to getting what he wanted, he had no doubt that he would find an attractive, intelligent woman with whom he would never fall in love. And what was the problem with that? Chances were he wouldn’t have found the love of his life even if he had been looking for her. Most men didn’t.
“Good God, Anthony, what has you frowning so? Not that olive. I saw it clearly and it didn’t even touch you.”
Benedict’s voice broke him out of his reverie, and Anthony blinked a few times before answering, “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
He hadn’t, of course, shared his thoughts about his own mortality with anyone else, even his brothers. It was not the sort of thing one wanted to advertise. Hell, if someone had come up to him and said the same thing, he probably would have laughed him right out the door.
But no one else could understand the depth of the bond he’d felt with his father. And no one could possibly understand the way Anthony felt it in his bones, how he simply knew that he could not live longer than his father had done. Edmund had been everything to him. He’d always aspired to be as great a man as his father, knowing that that was unlikely, yet trying all the same. To actually achieve more than Edmund had—in any way—that was nothing short of impossible.
Anthony’s father was, quite simply, the greatest man he’d ever known, possibly the greatest man who’d ever lived. To think that he might be more than that seemed conceited in the extreme.
Something had happened to him the night his father had died, when he’d remained in his parents’ bedroom with the body, just sitting there for hours, watching his father and trying desperately to remember every moment they’d shared. It would be so easy to forget the little things—how Edmund would squeeze Anthony’s upper arm when he needed encouragement. Or how he could recite from memory Balthazar’s entire “Sigh No More” song from Much Ado About Nothing, not because he thought it particularly meaningful but just because he liked it.
And when Anthony finally emerged from the room, the first streaks of dawn pinking the sky, he somehow knew that his days were numbered, and numbered in the same way Edmund’s had been.
“Spit it out,” Benedict said, breaking into his thoughts once again. “I won’t offer you a penny for your thoughts, since I know they can’t possibly be worth that much, but what are you thinking about?”
Anthony suddenly sat up straighter, determined to force his attention back to the matter at hand. After all, he had a bride to choose, and that was surely serious business. “Who is considered the diamond of this season?” he asked.
His brothers paused for a moment to think on this, and then Colin said, “Edwina Sheffield. Surely you’ve seen her. Rather petite, with blond hair and blue eyes. You can usually spot her by the sheeplike crowd of lovesick suitors following her about.”
Anthony ignored his brother’s attempts at sarcastic humor. “Has she a brain?”
Colin blinked, as if the question of a woman with a brain were one that had never occurred to him. “Yes, I rather think she does. I once heard her discussing mythology with Middlethorpe, and it sounded as if she had the right of it.”
“Good,” Anthony said, letting his glass of scotch hit the table with a thunk. “Then I’ll marry her.”
Chapter 2
At the Hartside ball Wednesday night, Viscount Bridgerton was seen dancing with more than one eligible young lady. This behavior can only be termed “startling” as Bridgerton normally avoids proper young
misses with a perseverance that would be impressive were it not so utterly frustrating to all marriage-minded Mamas.
Can it be that the viscount read This Author’s most recent column and, in that perverse manner all males of the species seem to endorse, decided to prove This Author wrong?
It may seem that This Author is ascribing to herself far more importance than She actually wields, but men have certainly made decisions based on far, far less.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 22 APRIL 1814
By eleven o’clock that evening, all of Kate’s fears had been realized.
Anthony Bridgerton had asked Edwina to dance.
Even worse, Edwina had accepted.
Even worse, Mary was gazing at the couple as if she’d like to reserve a church that minute.
“Will you stop that?” Kate hissed, poking her stepmother in the ribs.
“Stop what?”
“Looking at them like that!”
Mary blinked. “Like what?”
“Like you’re planning the wedding breakfast.”
“Oh.” Mary’s cheeks turned pink. A guilty sort of pink.
“Mary!”
“Well, I might have been,” Mary admitted. “And what’s wrong with that, I might ask? He’d be a superb catch for Edwina.”
“Were you listening this afternoon in the drawing room? It’s bad enough that Edwina has any number of rakes and rogues sniffing about her. You cannot imagine the amount of time it has taken me to sort the good suitors from the bad. But Bridgerton!” Kate shuddered. “He’s quite possibly the worst rake in all London. You cannot want her to marry a man like him.”
“Don’t you presume to tell me what I can and cannot do, Katharine Grace Sheffield,” Mary said sharply, stiffening her spine until she’d straightened to her full height—which was still a full head shorter than Kate. “I am still your mother. Well, your stepmother. And that counts for something.”
Kate immediately felt like a worm. Mary was all she’d ever known as a mother, and she’d never, not even once, made Kate feel any less her daughter than Edwina was. She’d tucked Kate into bed at night, told her stories, kissed her, hugged her, helped her through the awkward years between childhood and adulthood. The only thing she had not done was ask Kate to call her “Mother.”
