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Wickham, as is his wont, has the door open before Colin even has the opportunity to knock.
“Where is my mother?” he asks the butler without preamble.
“In the green-and-cream drawing room.”
“Ah,” he says. “I take it she’s not alone, then.”
“I’m afraid not, sir,” Wickham answers (un)apologetically. “She is taking tea with several of your siblings. And your sisters-in-law.”
He rather hoped she would be in her office, but it is nearly tea time. Of course, he knows she’ll be happy – nay, ecstatic – about what he has to say, but he would’ve preferred not to have an audience. “Who is here, exactly?”
“The shorter list is who is not.” Wickham does not elaborate, reminding him yet again how secure the butler is in his position.
“Well, then, over which of my siblings’ absences must I weep?”
Wickham raises one supercilious brow. “Naturally, you will recall that your sister Francesca has returned to Scotland and your brother Gregory is not in town.”
“Naturally,” he echoes affably, knowing what pleasure Wickham derives from annoying him. He derives equal pleasure from denying Wickham the pleasure of his annoyance whenever possible.
“And Her Grace did not visit today,” Wickham concludes, crisp and slow, eyes knowing, just after Colin has determined the conversation is over and has begun to step away.
Typical. He merely nods.
Even so, it’s quite the full house. Nothing to be done about it, though.
—
“You’ll never guess what I’ve got to tell you, Mother,” he says jauntily as soon as he’s kissed her cheek, even before sitting down. “You’ll be very pleased.”
“I doubt it merits such drama,” Eloise says archly.
“Unless it’s marriage,” Hyacinth adds, “and it surely isn’t that.”
He barely resists the urge to smirk. His youngest sister could not have given him a better opening if she’d tried. “Wellllllll,” he says slowly, drawing out the word as he takes a seat and helps himself to a sandwich. “That’s where you’re wrong,” he tells her just before taking a large bite, enjoying the identical looks of shock on every face in the room. In particular, it’s all but impossible to surprise Anthony, so he really is quite pleased with himself.
Not nearly as pleased as he is with the day’s developments, but nearly as pleased as he is with the sandwich. He’s always been very partial to smoked salmon.
Eloise, who had just taken a sip of tea, coughs, barely managing not to spew her beverage at Sophie, whose misfortune it is to be seated across from her. “I beg your pardon?”
“Marriage? You?” Hyacinth finally sputters. It’s the first time he’s seen her at a loss for words since she learned to speak.
“Me,” he says grandly before helping himself to seconds.
“And?” Kate demands impatiently when he is mid-bite.
He swallows, blinking. “And? I say, I thought that rather startling enough an announcement.”
Kate clears her throat irritably. “Obviously, I meant ‘and whom are you planning to marry.’”
“Ah, yes, of course,” he says agreeably. “It’s Penelope.” It’s the most ridiculous thing, how even just saying her name makes him want to smile.
“Featherington?” Sophie ventures after a beat. This is Sophie, who’s as well-meaning a person as has ever lived, but –
“Oh, how wonderful!” his mother exclaims, finally breaking her silence. “How lovely. Oh, Colin, I could not be more pleased.”
He is suddenly so irritated that he barely registers his mother’s delight. “Of course, Penelope Featherington,” he all but growls. “How many other Penelopes do you know?”
Poor Sophie looks rather flustered. “I –”
Kate jumps into the breach. “It’s only that it took you long enough. If you were going to marry her, one would’ve thought you’d have done it already. You’ve known her forever.”
“They’re quite right, you know,” his mother agrees. “I did tell you years ago that she would be an excellent match for you.” She throws him a half-scolding look. “You are really very fortunate that she did not marry elsewhere.”
He gives her a sheepish smile. “I know.”
She sighs happily. “However belated, I really, truly could not be more delighted by your choice. I could not wish for better for you, or our family.”
At that, he rather regrets not holding off until Penelope could join him; she deserved to hear for herself how thrilled his mother is to have her join the family. Penelope will never openly admit it, of course, but she prefers his mother even to her own.
(Not that that’s particularly surprising. Who wouldn’t?)
But he suspected Mother would somehow guess – however shocking the idea of him finally settling down is – if Penelope arrived with him again. He wanted to retain the element of surprise; though it was decidedly less distasteful than Portia Featherington contriving to twist the whole thing around so that she had somehow orchestrated the match herself, he did not want his own mother gloating – even if only to herself – about her matchmaking prowess either. It had nothing to do with their meddlesome mothers (much as he loves his own), nothing to do with anyone but the two of them.
And it’s a moot point anyway. Lady Featherington had clapped her hands together and said naturally, we have much to discuss as soon as she recovered what, in her case, passed for composure. In the interest of mutual preservation, he responded that he had a prior engagement. He knew there would have been no way of extricating Penelope from her mother’s clutches just then without Lady Featherington inviting herself along to Number Five, as she surely had much to discuss with his mother, too.
And he most certainly did not wish Portia Featherington to accompany him anywhere, ever, but especially not then.
In fact, it is a testament to his extraordinary restraint that he did not inform her that he would cheerfully strangle her if he had to spend another moment in her godawful presence just then.
It’s a good thing he likes Penelope so well or he’d already be regretting his decision to marry her, insofar as it also means taking her mother on as a relation. But Penelope is worth it and he's quite sure that “for better and for worse” covers withstanding an irritating (even an exceptionally irritating) mother-in-law and not murdering her.
(Or, at the very least, being appropriately apologetic and comforting to one’s wife if one ultimately succumbs to one’s homicidal impulses toward one’s mother-in-law.)
“I am confident I speak for all us when I say I join in your mother’s sentiments entirely,” Kate says, before her expression turns teasing. “Though perhaps Sophie and I ought to be jealous that we have been so thoroughly displaced in her affections.”
Mother waves a dismissive hand. “Pish and tosh. You know I adore you both. It’s only that it’s such a wonderful surprise. I had quite given up on the possibility, only to have him suddenly come to his senses all these years later.”
“Yes, it’s easily the best idea you’ve ever had, brother,” Benedict adds, but with a look of warning.
He has been a bit of an ass, hasn’t he? “My apologies for being so short,” he says contritely to his sisters-in-law, even as they wave it off. “I was unfortunately reminded of my conversation with Lady Featherington earlier, which tested my patience as perhaps nothing in my life has ever done.”
“Surely Portia didn’t refuse your offer?” his mother asks incredulously.
“Of course not,” Hyacinth declares. “She’s an idiot, but she’s not mad.”
“Hyacinth,” Mother scolds exasperatedly.
“Well, it’s true,” Hyacinth says unrepentantly. “You scold me for saying it, but you do not dispute it.”
“No, it wasn’t that.” He shakes his head in remembered disbelief. “Despite the fact that I arrived with Penelope and made it abundantly clear that I required her presence in the room, somehow Lady Featherington managed to conclude that I wanted Felicity.” He rolls his eyes. “Felicity, for heavens’ sake. She’s practically an infant. It would be like marrying Hyacinth.”
“Er, except for the incest,” Kate says practically.
Hyacinth snorts. “And you wouldn’t suit. Not to mention she’s already practically engaged.”
“Precisely.”
Eloise looks extremely annoyed, which he appreciates, and finally speaks up after her uncharacteristically long silence. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t surprise me in the slightest. Lady Featherington doesn’t appreciate Penelope nearly as much as she deserves.”
He nods, taking satisfaction in the disapproving looks all around as his family contemplates Portia Featherington’s many sins against his future wife – from Anthony and Kate’s matching scowls to his mother’s pursed lips. At least his family has the right of it.
“It’s really an excellent thing she is joining our family, then. We already appreciate her,” Sophie assures him.
“Indeed,” Anthony agrees, a world in that single word.
He knew that, but it’s still quite nice to hear them say it. “I’m very glad you do,” he says with a particularly warm smile to Sophie. He still feels rather badly about being so snappish.
“I will admit to some surprise that you said nothing of your plans,” Anthony says a touch too mildly. “Had you informed me beforehand, I would have offered you your choice of ring from the family collection.”
He shrugs. “It was rather sudden.”
His eldest brother gives him his best I am the head of the family look. “So sudden you couldn’t take a moment to tell me first?”
Somehow, I decided to propose after a blistering scolding over her reckless disregard for her own safety and reputation turned into a very enjoyable – and very compromising – interlude in my carriage while taking the long way home doesn’t seem like an answer fit for the ladies’ ears. Nor one he would wish to give even to his brothers were they alone, truth be told. Some things should remain private.
Instead, he nods briskly. “Once one makes a decision, there’s no time like the present, don’t you think?”
“I suppose,” Anthony concedes doubtfully.
“I thought you wanted me to marry –”
“I did – I do –” Anthony clears his throat irritably. “And she is an excellent choice. Stop trying to twist my words.”
“And,” he says more surely, “more importantly, I don’t think she’d like any of those, anyway.”
Eloise, of all people, who usually so enjoys watching her siblings squirm, rescues him. “She wouldn’t. They’re all so fussy and heavy –”
“You’ve said so yourself,” Kate points out to Anthony, who scowls at her. She gives him a magnificently bland smile in response.
“– And she’d prefer something simple. She has elegant tastes.” Unlike her mother. “What did you get instead?” Eloise asks, nosy as ever.
He still can’t quite believe Eloise isn’t – He shakes his head. “Nothing yet.”
Eloise gapes at him.
“Colin,” his mother sighs. “After all these years, what was a bit longer to secure an engagement ring?”
Hyacinth frowns, as do his sisters-in-law – both of whom, if he recalls correctly (and he does), did not receive betrothal rings until after they’d agreed to marry his brothers. They’ve no right to judge.
“As I said,” he grinds out through gritted teeth, “it was sudden. I was too impatient to wait any longer.” They needn’t know he’d waited less than a moment between having the idea and executing it.
“You’d already waited years,” his mother persists. “To think, the grandchildren I could have!” She sighs again, this time with enough drama for the stage. She’s bloody well enjoying this. “They’d have been darling, I’m sure,” she says wistfully, hand to her heart.
“You’d think she had none, the way she talks,” Kate mutters. “And as if she won’t have scads more.”
Sophie coughs not-quite-discreetly.
“Nevertheless, she won’t give you a moment’s peace until she gets what she wants, so best hop to it,” Anthony advises pragmatically, clapping him rather hard on the back.
Their mother doesn’t bother to deny it.
“I expect it won’t be a long engagement, will it?” It’s not really a question. It’s rarely ever a question with Anthony. An uncharacteristically gently-phrased command, more like.
“Seeing as you are so impatient,” Kate chimes in, her over-serious tone at odds with the smirky look on her face.
The remark elicits an appreciative nod from her husband.
“Not if I have my way,” he answers, tone brooking no argument – not, he’s sure, that anyone whose opinion he might actually take under advisement is inclined to contradict him.
But for some reason, he feels the need to make it very clear that he knows his own mind and is making his own choices, not swayed by anybody else.
His mother nods approvingly. “Yes, quite sensible of you, dear. Neither of you is getting any younger, so you might as well get a move on after all these –”
“Years,” everyone else finishes, the eyerolls nearly audible.
“But you can’t rush,” his mother continues firmly. “That would be unseemly and we wouldn’t want there to be –” She shudders delicately. “Talk.”
“Speaking of years,” Benedict cuts in blandly. Too blandly.
The skin on the back of his neck prickles. Oh no.
“I’m surprised she accepted. Especially without a ring. I’d call it a miracle, even,” Benedict continues thoughtfully.
“Why don’t you alert the Church, then?” Colin retorts, unable to help himself.
Benedict smirks broadly. “Perhaps I will. It’s really most astounding.”
Sophie gives her husband a dubious look. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
He nods graciously at his now-favorite sister-in-law before turning back to his brother. “Your wife is a woman of impeccable wisdom and sense. You would do well to listen to her more often.”
Sophie acknowledges the compliment with a sly – perhaps even smirky – smile (his sisters-in-law are feeling uncommonly smirky today, aren’t they?) and an equally gracious nod.
Benedict doesn’t dispute it, can’t without insulting his wife, he thinks triumphantly with a smirk of his own that causes Benedict to narrow his eyes irritably.
“With all respect to Penelope – of whom I am very fond, I’ll remind you all,” Kate cuts in, “and every hope that Colin won’t get a big head about it, he’s thought to be quite eligible and she was considered decidedly on the shelf. It would’ve been foolish of her not to accept and she’s certainly not foolish.”
“I hope that’s not the only reason she did,” he says dryly.
Kate doesn’t dignify his comment with a reply. “Her good sense is one of the things I like best about her, you know. She’s really quite clever,” she continues approvingly. “Thank goodness you’re not bringing a stupid woman into the family. I couldn’t have borne it.”
“Heaven forfend,” Eloise agrees with feeling.
“He wouldn’t.” Hyacinth sounds oddly ominous as she says it.
“I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you think so highly of my judgment.”
Hyacinth snorts. “Oh, don’t flatter yourself. It’s simply that we’d scare an idiot away before you actually made it to the altar.”
The other women – even Mother – barely consider the comment before nodding emphatically.
“Would an idiot have the good sense to be scared?” Anthony ponders aloud, eyes narrowing in thought.
“Thankfully, a question with which we need no longer concern ourselves, unless Gregory takes it into his head to wed a fool,” Eloise points out.
“There is also Hyacinth, not to mention Francesca now intending to remarry,” Anthony reminds her, looking positively exhausted at the mere thought.
Hyacinth gives him a mortally affronted look.
Eloise scoffs. “As if you need to worry about them. They’ll not suffer fools.”
Anthony raises a brow. “Nor would you, I suppose?”
Eloise makes an uncharacteristically inarticulate noise.
“Don’t you dare scare Penelope away,” he warns Hyacinth, only half-jokingly.
“No need to worry,” she assures him too innocently. “We like her –”
“You know I could not wish for a better sister, save the ones I already have,” Eloise interrupts, utterly serious, upon recovering her voice.
He nods, smiling faintly. He certainly wasn’t thinking of his sister when he proposed, but it will be an excellent thing for Eloise to have her best friend become family – and for Penelope, of course. For all that Eloise can try his patience, she is a good sister to him and a far better sister to Penelope than her own.
Well, with the exception of Felicity, who is the only one of his future relations he will not shudder to claim, even if he holds her in some suspicion; she is such good friends with Hyacinth that he would be an idiot not to. Nevertheless, he is glad Penelope has one ally in her otherwise ridiculous family.
“And I like her,” Hyacinth reiterates more lightly.
“That’s almost worse,” he retorts. Entirely un-seriously, of course. He could never marry a woman his family didn’t like or respect.
“Also, Mother would kill us,” Hyacinth adds, smirking. “She’s waited so patiently.”
He has to work quite hard to stifle a snigger.
“Sarcasm does not become you, Hyacinth Bridgerton,” their mother scolds.
The half-hearted scolding does nothing to wipe away his sister’s smirk. “Please note that you said that, Mother, not I.”
Benedict’s tapping his fingers against the arm of his chair, his own patience obviously wearing thin. He clears his throat loudly, so loudly that everyone else falls silent.
“Do shut up,” he orders in what he knows is a fruitless attempt to silence his brother before the words even leave his mouth.
“Hmm.” Benedict strokes his chin, pretending to consider the demand. “No. No, I don’t think I will.”
He groans. “Oh, for the love of –”
Benedict interrupts him before he can forget himself entirely and blaspheme before the ladies of the family, directing his next words to Anthony. “Do you want to tell it or should I?”
“Oh, no, go right ahead,” Anthony says expansively, leaning back in his chair, the look of anticipation in his eyes at odds with his relaxed posture.
Bloody traitor.
“Clearly you’ll enjoy yourself far more than I would. Knowing that we were right is enough for me.”
How uncharacteristically restrained of him.
“It was obvious we would be. The gentleman did protest too much,” Benedict taunts.
“No, you weren’t,” he can’t help but counter. It was such an excruciatingly embarrassing incident that the particulars are etched into his mind despite how little he likes to recall them.
“You are marrying her. Surely you haven’t forgotten already. You’re not so ancient as that,” Anthony drawls.
The women all look terribly interested now.
He barely resists the urge to cross his arms. Far too petulant for a grown man and at least one of them has to act his proper age. One would think Anthony, nearly forty, would but alas. “I haven’t forgotten. You said we’d be married within the year. Benedict said two. Several years ago. Therefore, neither of you was right. You were, in fact, both wrong.”
Everyone ignores him and turns expectantly to Benedict.
He considers rising and departing, but he knows he cannot escape forever. He sighs to himself, resigned to his fate. Far be it from a Bridgerton to waste the opportunity to tease and torment another Bridgerton before yet other Bridgertons.
At least Benedict has enough sense to bring it up now and not in front of Penelope. Thank God he’s not an utterly tactless boor.
Of course, Penelope will be a Bridgerton soon, too.
Nice thought, that.
“Let me take you all back seven years,” Benedict begins grandly. “Our scene is set in 1817, shortly before Sophie and I married.”
“So, you were off by at least five years,” he mutters.
Benedict pointedly takes no notice of his words. “Mother was being most . . . assiduous,” he continues, choosing quite possibly the least insulting adjective available to describe their mother’s matchmaking harangues, “in her attempts to impress upon our dear brother the marvels of the married state and the attributes of the eligible misses on her latest list.”
“When was she not?” Eloise asks in a loud aside their mother visibly pretends not to hear.
“Apparently, Penelope was her favorite on the list and so a constant topic of conversation –”
“I am very fond of her –”
“Colin was rather out of sorts, nay, a bear about it –”
He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t bother to dispute the characterization. He knows Benedict will only be more annoying if he betrays his annoyance any further.
“– when subjected to a little light-hearted teasing on the subject when I ran into him and Anthony one day. Outside this very house,” Benedict adds dramatically in a way that reminds him decidedly of himself – only Hyacinth comes close to matching him in weaving a well-told tale – and so is all the more annoying. “The end result of which was –” Benedict’s whole face changes, somehow, before he sticks his nose in the air and – in a fair imitation of him in quite the most embarrassing moment of his life, Colin must admit – declares, “‘I am certainly not going to marry Penelope Featherington!’ . . . just as she was exiting the house, just in time to hear every word.” In a split second, Benedict stops abruptly, opens his mouth, then closes it once more.
Of course, Colin wonders just what restrained Benedict from what he was about to say next and what, in fact, he’d been about to say next, since he’s already said too bloody much.
It is unexpectedly unfortunate, since in the next moment everyone reacts to the last words out of Benedict’s mouth in the most dramatic of fashions.
“Colin Bridgerton!” his mother all but shrieks in horror. “How could you?!”
He barely evades a punch to the arm from Eloise, who, glaring at him, actually shrieks, “I vow I could kill you!”
“But then Mother would not see me married,” he points out reasonably, hands held up in front of himself placatingly. He values his health, after all. “She has already waited so long. And surely my fiancée will also prefer me to remain amongst the living after all these years.”
“Wretched, undeserving fool,” Kate mutters not quite under her breath.
“I cannot believe you. For heaven’s sake, I raised you better than that,” Mother huffs. “You should be on your knees thanking your maker that poor Penelope has nevertheless agreed to marry you.”
Sophie shakes her head. “You really should, you know.”
Hyacinth sighs dramatically. “She certainly deserves better.”
It was horrible of him, he knows. He’s always felt terrible about it, to the point he can hardly bear to think of it – has, in fact, made an effort over the years not to remember it, as he considers it one of the most awful moments of his life. But the family lambasting is really becoming quite exhausting. “It was seven years ago!”
“One doesn’t forget something like that, I assure you,” his mother says darkly.
Kate nods emphatically. “One most certainly does not.”
“You most certainly do not,” Anthony says fondly to his wife, the oddest combination of affection and sarcasm in his voice. “Ten years and you’ve still not forgotten Whistledown called you a singed daffodil.”
He tries not to wince at the mention of Whistledown, hoping his family doesn’t notice. It doesn’t bear thinking about just yet. He’s not going to let that not-so-small issue intrude on his happiness, at least not for as long as he can help it.
“Saying my dress made me look like a singed daffodil,” Kate corrects, remarkably indignantly for someone who so often says you can’t consider yourself arrived until you’ve been insulted by Whistledown, whom she has also been known to praise as very astute.
He wonders absently how she would react if she ever learned the gossip columnist’s true identity, but good Lord – “Penelope was the one insulted and she’s been far more gracious than you lot, you know.”
Kate gives him a scathing look. “As everyone’s been telling you, you are far luckier than you deserve. You should be kissing her feet in abject gratitude.”
“I’d rather kiss her other places, you know,” he quips. A mistake, because then he really thinks about those other places, though even her feet would be quite –
Kate rolls her eyes. “Men.”
“Ugh,” Eloise shudders. “I did not need to hear that.”
Hyacinth wrinkles her nose. “Nor I.”
“Eh,” Mother says with a shrug. “I would like more grandchildren.”
He groans. “Mother!”
“Well, it’s true,” she says unrepentantly. “I would.”
Children are, for once, another nice thought.
Well, he’s always been fond of his nieces and nephews, but it’s children of his own of whom he thinks, now that he knows who their mother will be. Penelope will be an excellent mother.
And he expects to enjoy the making of those children a great deal.
He hates to admit it, but Benedict is right. (Fortunately, Benedict is so rarely right.) Marrying Penelope is easily the best idea he’s ever had.
“Don’t look at me,” Kate warns his mother in a voice far firmer than she uses with her children or her corgi.
Eloise sniffs, “Any reasonable person would think the ten you already possess –”
Benedict clears his throat gruffly.
“Which will soon be eleven,” Eloise continues, rolling her eyes, “would be enough.”
“I still can’t believe Whistledown figured it out so quickly,” Benedict huffs.
He winces, again.
Oddly, Sophie’s smile widens at Benedict’s grousing.
“She enjoys being in Whistledown.” Benedict shakes his head, even as his look to Sophie is all fondness. “No accounting for taste.”
Oh, he can hardly let that pass. “None whatsoever,” he agrees over-earnestly.
Benedict eyes him suspiciously.
“She married you, didn’t she?”
Sophie doesn’t quite manage to stifle a laugh. Anthony, Kate, and their sisters don’t even try.
“You’re lucky Mother’s here –”
“Oh, don’t stop on my account, dear,” Mother interrupts cheerfully.
He gives her an indignant look. “Et tu, Mother?”
“– Just be sure you don’t injure him past the point of marriageability.”
“So long as he can still stand up before the bishop, then?” Benedict asks.
“And produce a few grandchildren,” she stipulates.
“Mother.”
She gives her most elegant shrug. “I have waited an exceedingly long time –”
“Years,” Hyacinth coughs indiscreetly into her teacup.
“– For this moment and I will not be denied my due.”
“Sometimes I really do think she’s a Bridgerton,” Kate muses. “Whistledown, I mean.”
Well, she will be –
“Kate,” Mother scolds, now sounding a breath away from the vapors.
Kate shrugs. “Your daughters are all clever enough to pull it off. As are you.”
Mother shakes her head, not entirely mollified by the compliment, while Eloise and Hyacinth preen, never mind that Hyacinth is far too young to be involved; she was only ten when Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers first took London by storm.
Benedict mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “chopped liver.”
He rolls his eyes. Besides the fact that Benedict and Sophie have been rusticating blissfully for years, Benedict is too dreamy and distractable for the task even if they were in town more often. He’d miss half the best gossip just because he can’t be bothered to listen, too wrapped up in either his wife or his woolgathering or, failing that, his art, and forget the rest before he had a chance to write any of it down.
“If she’s a Bridgerton, she’s getting disinherited,” Anthony growls, eying their sisters warningly. “Just as soon as I wring her neck.”
“Oh, hush, Anthony,” Mother says firmly, confounding them all. “Let me enjoy this. News of a new grandchild and the first wedding in the family in six years, all in the same fortnight. It could not get any better.” Then she casts a look at her unmarried daughters. “Unless –”
“Of course,” Hyacinth interrupts impatiently before Mother can get another word in edgewise. “But I must know, Mother,” she continues in that particular tone of hers that puts any reasonable person on highest alert, “how you would rank the recent announcements.”
“Hyacinth,” Mother scolds. “I could not possibly –”
“Oh, surely it must be Colin’s,” Sophie interrupts slyly, clearly not the least bit offended.
“I’m sure you’re right,” Kate agrees. “She was beginning to despair of getting him married off, after all.”
Benedict nods, smirking. “Ancient as he is.”
Anthony smirks at him, too.
“I am younger than both of you,” he reminds his older brothers petulantly, with a rather childish huff for a man of his (thirty-three) years.
“True,” Anthony concedes, “but we were both quite settled at your age.”
He can’t argue that point, much as it pains him not to offer a rejoinder. They’d already been married men with sons in the nursery.
“Do invite Penelope to dinner,” his mother orders abruptly.
They’re meant to have an informal family dinner tonight, aren’t they? He sighs, mentally preparing himself for the addition of Daphne and Simon to the self-satisfied family chorus, Daphne insufferably smug and Simon insufferably adoring. They’ve been married nearly a decade but are still sickeningly besotted with one another.
And the children. Good Lord, the children. Daphne’s girls will be overwhelmingly excited about the whole thing. They’ve been desperate for a family wedding since the last took place so long ago that even the eldest of his nieces barely recalls it.
He adores them, he truly (really truly) does, but he already feels exhausted at the mere thought of all that girlish enthusiasm.
“Only if you lot promise to behave,” he insists as he rises to take his leave.
Kate scoffs, eying Anthony, Benedict, Eloise, and finally Hyacinth before waving a hand at herself and throwing an incredulous look at Sophie and his mother. “Behave? This family? Are you mad?”
Sophie laughs brightly. “You’d think he’d joined yesterday.”
“I have never before wished I were a foundling, but today I am beginning to rethink that position,” he declares ominously before exiting the room.
“Don’t forget about dinner!” his mother calls blithely after him, impervious to his bluster.
—
Dinner will be followed by a drink at his club, he promises himself as he descends the steps of Number Five. Perhaps two. No doubt he’ll need it. And even if he doesn’t, Francesca’s sudden departure for Scotland suggests it’s high time he had another chat with Kilmartin, the stubborn fool.
The Lord knows his siblings and their future spouses can never be relied upon to get themselves settled. Hopeless, the lot of them, making unnecessary dramas of the simplest matters. He hasn’t the faintest idea what they’d do if left to their own devices.
Once he’s seen his own marriage through, he decides, quickening his step as Penelope’s house comes into view, he’ll see to Eloise’s future. She does need a husband, loath though she is to admit it. And then there are Hyacinth and Gregory to worry about, though Gregory’s young yet . . .
To think Anthony believes himself solely responsible for their family’s individual and collective happiness. Ha!
He loves his family – truly he does – but, God help him, they can be exhausting.
As he reaches for the knocker, nearly yanking it off in an eagerness he’s still not quite prepared to examine, engaged or not, he concludes that Penelope must be mad in the head to have accepted his proposal.
And he is very glad for that, he thinks, grinning as he all but pushes past the butler to see her beaming up at him, thoroughly pleased to see him again so soon.
Very glad, indeed.